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.

At the foot of Gibraltar

The engravings they did for the papers and periodicals telling of the actions in the war had it wrong. He looked up into the hazy sky -  blue interrupted by long drifting clouds of smoke, the mud and filth of what was left of an enemy rifle pit, and cursed artistic sensibilities. He remembered the engravings all too well; the way they showed the pomp and bravery of battle. Men standing with the quality of stones, unbending. Even if wounded they were whole men, looking more like they lay resting as the action went on without them. Never writhing with the agony of their wounds -- begging for water, for help, and for their mothers. They were wrong; even the best attempt by the artists for Harper’s fell short. Private George Hastings wiped blood and grime from his face, and shivered in the cold wet around him. A shell, maybe a two pound mortar from its whine, burst over somewhere beyond him and pelted the earth with bits of shrapnel which splashed into a puddle nearby. A man suddenly dropped hard into the pit next to him, and Hastings swung his musket about only to stop himself when he recognized the dirty face.

“I about shot you Franklin, you damnable fool!”

“My lucky day then!” responded the disheveled solider with a flash of a grin.

Hastings shook his head and tried to climb up a bit on the wall of the pit to escape the wet. He looked over at Franklin and gestured with a jerk of his thumb.

“How’s it going up top?”

“About the same, the push stalled so they halted the line. We have this and the short trench at the top -- didn’t get no-wheres near the decent entrenchments. Johnny is still taking shots at anyone they see fool enough to poke his person up. They don’t want us to have them further barricades, that is right clear.”

The siege of Vicksburg had been going on for what seemed like forever to Hasting’s mind, though it had only been three days since their initial assault of the 19th. It would seem that this more coordinated attack had not quite resulted in the gains hoped for either -- though perhaps it was too early to say. With a whispering sound, the wind changed, and a terrible odor began to settle around them. The men called it “the stink”, a combination of the marshy lands closer to the town and the stench of the dead. Hastings reminded himself that a sergeant had assured him it was only several dead mules stuck out between their lines and rebel entrenchments, but that didn’t cease to fire his anxieties that it was actually the scent of rotting soldier’s bodies. They never showed that in the papers, did they? Or the horrible twisting a wounded man would do on a battlefield, tearing his own clothes asunder trying to find where he was hit. He had seen bodies of men after an engagement that had rendered themselves nearly naked from such behavior. Franklin was looking at him intently, so finally Hastings looked back.

“What you lookin’ at?”

“Side of your head is all bloody -- you alright?”

Hastings reached his hand up one side of his head and then the other, his palm coming back red. He remembered the blood -- the taste of it as he breathed in; the sudden shock made his gorge rise, and he threw up. Franklin scrambled over, offering his canteen when the heaving of his stomach finally ceased and he straightened up.

“Lord Hastings! You alright? Want me to get you to the hospital?” Franklin asked eagerly, laying his hand upon his back. Hastings took a swallow from the offered canteen, trying to get the taste of bile from his mouth. He gargled a moment, before spitting loudly.

“It aint my blood.”

Franklin took back his canteen as Hastings handed it back, watching as the man fought another wave of nausea for a moment that kept him from explaining further. When Hastings seemed to have recovered, he said in a quick stunted voice, “Greg Alexander caught a shell fragment when we first rose up, took his head off and he just dropped.”  He said no more, but pulled a grimy handkerchief from his pocket and started to wipe the remains of Alexander from his hair and cheek. Franklin did not press him further, understanding fully the sudden silence. Instead, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a slightly cleaner handkerchief and passed it over to Hastings.

“Hell of thing.” 

Hasting looked up. “What?”

“All of this. Poor Alexander catching a shell on his first dance.”

Hastings nodded, but said nothing. Alexander had been a recent arrival, replacing one of the men lost the previous year. He had not yet seen any real action, because his duties had restricted him to labor details -- until this morning’s push on the rebel works. His number had simply been drawn, and the orderly rotation of duty had placed him into the line beside Hastings. He had likely not even known what hit him, since the shell stuck some fifty paces before their line just as the order was given to rise up. Hastings felt himself queasy, and tried to shut out the visceral memory of the warm red spray and the sudden drop of what had been Alexander moments before. Franklin was staring at him, but looked away when Hastings caught his eye.

“Hell of thing, not what I expected,” said Hastings suddenly, resuming his attempt at wiping away the gore. Franklin quietly poured a little water from his canteen on the handkerchiefs in his hand, and Hastings resumed his grooming. Mud had caked in flakes in Franklin’s beard, which he scratched at, freeing a fine dust into the air.

“What did you expect? Tea parties and brass bands?” smiled his companion quietly.

“Do you ever feel that we are like poor Pandora, in that old Greek tale? We’ve seen, and now nothing can ever be what it used to be?”  Hastings stopped washing, and looked hard at Franklin. The other man smiled to himself and shook his head.

“I never read it, but I think I understand what you are getting at. We’ve seen some things, and I reckon there will be more before we finish this thing. Myself, I try not to worry about tomorrow. I figures right now we got all we can handle in the here and now; lets get through that first.”

A shadow came into their vision, and a commanding voice called down to them. “What the hell is this? You men, on your feet and get into the line up here!”

The pair rose and sauntered up the rise, past Sergeant Stephenson who frowned as Hastings passed him. “There’s blood on you, Private, are you wounded?”

“Not mine, Sergeant.”

“Then get your asses forward, lousy bummers!”

*****

He was greeted with the warm, back-handed type of brotherly love which one became accustomed to in the army; a shock perhaps for those who had grown up with nothing but sisters, but Hastings had four younger brothers so he was quite used to it. 

“About time you decided to come forward -- been playing poker in one of the quartermaster’s bomb-proofs?” said Peter Anderson, his blue eyes twinkling with good natured mischief.

“Naw, struck up a love interest he has! Which mule in the train is it, Hasty?” laughed Patrick Killmartin, blowing smoke from his stubby pipe and grinning. The assembled group laughed, and Hastings took a place in the trench upon a ramshackle old nail keg next to some scattered rough hewn boards. Augustus Knapp, retying the cord to his canteen stopper, looked up with a sudden frown and made Hastings turn his head by pushing gently on his chin.

“I don’t see any cuts, not your blood?” he said in the rich baritone which calmed the laughter and elicited some looks of concern from the others.

“No, Alexander was next to me in line when we charged earlier.”

“First go,” added Franklin, warming his hands under his arms, “Shell caught him straight off on his first action. Poor luck if ever there was an example.”

There was a moment of silence -- several deep expletives that wives and mothers would never have approved of -- and then Knapp (unofficial father and older brother to this mess) set about helping Hastings to get cleaned up. Sergeant Hilton rounded the turn in the trench, nodding to the gathered men.

“Keep your wits about you boys; they might try to take this ditch of theirs back again. No sleeping now -- rest up but stay alert.”

As if to punctuate the point, a musket shot soared high over their heads with a hissing whine, making the sergeant curse as he continued along. Knapp peeked up over the lip of the trench, shook his head and sat back down.

“Just trying their luck, but we’ll see them in time anyway, I’m sure.”

Killmartin shook his head.

“Not likely whilst they got that side of the short creek and them works to be safe in! Open yer eyes Gus! Would ye want to leave a cozy spot like that?”

Knapp, whom some affectionately called ‘Gus’, smiled and nodded.

“I suppose not. Still, that’s 2nd Texas over there, and those boys have a way all their own.” This brought general agreement, seeing as they had all run into these boys previously and knew to be wary. As the adrenaline of the morning rush began to ebb away, it became clear that there was no counterattack. From the rebel works, the sounds of spades and pick-axes hard at work drifted to their ears -- the massive attack of May 22nd had only determined the garrison’s intentions to hold out. Word went around to improve their own positions as best they could, and that rations would be brought forward for the men to have in the trenches. There was precious little they could do in any serious way for fortifying their section of trench until the pioneers broke out the spades and real work would commence. For the time being, they piled the cast off planks along the edge of the trench -- saving the most broken for a small fire they built into a hollowed out depression in the earthen wall. Here in short order they had their coffee boiler over the small but productive flames, preparing the truest staple of the fighting man -- coffee. Knapp doled out the steaming liquid in turn, filling each mans cup before finally taking his own. Killmartin raised his dented tin cup in salute to his pards, and sipped loudly. Anderson smirked and watched Killmartin for his response to the coffee.

“Wha’? Wha’ ye staring at, ye blue eyed rascal?” said Killmartin after a moment.

“With all that noise you made drinking it, I thought it prudent to wait for your reaction!”

Anderson laughed, and then ducked as Killmartin threw a clod of earth at his friend playfully. The entire mess erupted in merriment, with Killmartin stealing Anderson’s coffee with a declaration that “he didn’t deserve it”. Knapp made him gave it back, but it was done with smiles and laughter. Hastings sat back feeling better with each warm drought of Knapp’s coffee; the strong, rich and slightly chewy in places liquid bolstering his nerves. He realized with some alarm that the death of Alexander had pushed him to breaking, but thankfully the moment seemed to have passed. It was Hasting’s most secret fear, to be proved a coward before his friends. He looked at the others, wondering if they had ever felt such things. These were good men, all of them brave and willing to do their duty. He sipped his coffee and smiled at Franklin, who patted his shoulder.

Franklin watched his friend, still a bit worried for how he was faring. It had not been a coincidence that he had found Hastings that morning, for he had gone looking for him after Knapp had noted he was missing in line. Franklin had been three men to the left when Alexander had met his awful demise, and could understand how that might have worried Hasting’s nerve a touch. Anyone would be unnerved by the blood of a friend spraying like morning dew across ones face -- and Franklin didn’t want to meet any man who could experience such and not be moved. Hastings still didn’t look good, but at least he was trying to look okay -- that was a start. Franklin glanced up into the late May sky, and thought of home. He missed the little brook which bubbled through the lower pasture of their farm, where he had hunted crayfish with his brother as a boy. He had spent hours doing watercolors of the trees and wildflowers along the banks, pursuits which delighted his Mother and perturbed his Father. Franklin planned to pursue a study of naturalism when this insanity came to an end, and follow in the foot steps of his hero -- J. James Audubon. He watched as a snowy egret appeared in the sky overhead, heading towards the marshy lands a little north of their trench. He marveled at the grace and majesty of the bird, only to be drawn back sharply to the here and now as the bird began a panicked jerking pattern in the sky. Musket fire from the rebel side was seeking to take down the egret, and Franklin felt sudden rage.

“NO! What in blazes are they doing!” shouted Franklin, startling his companions as he crept over to the edge of the breastworks still watching the path of the bird in the sky. The others looked up, seeing the egret only for a moment before a musket shot found its mark and the bird spiraled end of end behind the enemy lines.

“They’re getting hungry over there,” nodded Knapp taking a sip of his coffee, “The blockade of the river and railroad is having an affect.”

Anderson chimed in. “I hear they are eating dogs and cats in the town.”

“Where’d ye hear that?” laughed Killmartin.

“Sergeant Hilton told me.”

“Oh! Sergeant Hilton is it?  Warmin’ his toast was ye, over tea with yer good chum Hilton when he told ya?”

The men laughed, but Anderson wasn’t to be put off. “As a matter of fact, my bog-trotting friend, the good sergeant remarked on it regarding the prisoners we took in this mornings push forward. He said they spoke of great deprivation amongst the civilian population, and that some of them have taken to living in caves below the bluffs to escape the enfilade of our artillery.”

Knapp nodded sagely, and spoke up, “It’s true boys. Between the Navy and us here, those poor people are bottled up tight. I imagine that egret will be fine fair compared to what them town’s people have left.”

Franklin frowned, but couldn’t quite bring himself to condemn if the rebels were as bad off as it was said. It was the War. A force that pushed men to cut short the lives of others and to starve until even the graceful perfection of nature couldn’t survive the resulting appetite. He cursed the destructiveness of war, and resumed his place beside Hastings.

*****

When the rations were brought forward, their arrival was both welcomed and jeered. While it was nice to be in possession of a hearty portion of salt beef, rice, desiccated vegetables and warm Army bread, the quantity made it clear that they would not be relieved that night. Knapp laid out the gathered portions together on a rubber blanket and with Hasting’s help began cutting the beef into stew-sized bits with their Barlow knives. Hastings was glad for the busy work, finding that sitting and waiting left his mind to wander too much. They emptied most of Knapp’s canteen into the tin boiler and added the salt beef to soak.

“With any luck, we ought to have a good broth after this beef soaks for a bit,” commented Knapp with a smile before passing his empty canteen to Killmartin.

“You’d think with havin’ been ‘ere this long we might have got hot eats from the cooks at least!” grumbled Killmartin as he took the canteen and began collecting other’s that needed refilling. They had drawn straws to see who would get stuck with the water detail, and though Killmartin lost he didn’t really mind as it gave him a chance to stretch his legs.

“Probably put the cooks to digging another one of those hair-brained canals, like they had us do when we first got here,” said Anderson with a smirk.

“Well whatever the reason, don’ go eatin’ it all in me absence, ye scalawags!” Killmartin called over his shoulder as he started off down the trench.

*****

Canteens slung every-which way over his lanky frame, Killmartin whistled ‘wild rover’ under his breath as he made his way along the line. He was greeted by those he knew, and picked up two more canteens as he made his way through the men of his own company. He stopped briefly to watch a glorious hand of cards, savored the scent of the efforts of other messes preparing their gathering rations. He smiled as dirty faces turned towards him and wished him well on his way, or simply watched him pass. As he passed the last of the men of his own company, to pass through a trench filled with familiar, yet unknown faces, it occurred to him that this wasn’t unlike those grand family gatherings he remembered as a boy back in Wicklow. He recalled all the joy and smiles, the old women setting to kiss his pudgy five year old cheeks as they claimed to be this aunt or cousin. You might feel the family bond, but that didn’t mean you yielded easy to the demands of affection! He realized he felt this way looking at these men, some with the brass ‘5’ upon their caps just like him.

Cousins, family to be sure -- but not blood brothers, he thought. Killmartin no longer had family of birth, but he had the brothers his company had given him.

He was very suddenly broken from his thoughts by an explosion to his right along the breastwork, which rained dirt heavily. All sound but a high pitched whine filled his ears, and then muffled shouting as he realized that he was down on his hands and knees in the trench. Smoke curled over him, but the grogginess in his head vanished instantly when several men fired over him, sending tiny sparks over his right ear. The sharp bite made him sit up, and now he could see what had happened. The lines around him were pouring fire into a ragged mass of butternut and pale blue which was stumbling towards them. The air hummed with lead, but the enemy pushed onward. Killmartin shook dirt from his shoulder, and brought his dusty musket up to take aim. He sighted along the barrel, sizing up a sergeant as he charged with his bayonet leveled. The attack didn’t appear to be along the whole of their front, and even now it seemed to be faltering in places. Killmartin squeezed the trigger, aiming at the man who was rushing pell-mell for him. With sudden alarm, he heard the hammer drop and snap loudly without firing. The enemy closed, bayonet points gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Killmartin swung his musket up, realizing with terror that the percussion cap had fallen from the nipple. He started working to prime, forcing himself to focus and ignore the bayonet of the Texan as he charged.

The cap slipped from place once, and then twice before he finally got it into place.

The bayonet lowered angle, and now Killmartin could see the eyes of his enemy -- the determination and fear within them.

The hammer clicked louder than he had ever heard it as Killmartin drew it to full cock and brought the musket to his shoulder.

The Texan screamed wildly as bayonets clanged and bodies collided in the trench around them. Killmartin squeezed the trigger as his enemy reached him, only to have his shot go wild as he was kicked by the flailing legs of men fighting beside him. His shot went wide, and the lunging Texan’s bayonet tore through the under part of his sleeve missing his flesh. Killmartin brought his musket about and struck the man in the back with the butt of the weapon, but the blow was weak because his own bayonet became tangled in the many canteen straps slung over his body. The pair of them stumbled backwards into the dirt, a mass of violence. Still tangled, the Texan might have gotten the better of him had not a pair of soldiers hauled the enemy sergeant from trying his best to strangle Killmartin. The chaos subsided around them as he sat gasping for breath, men tending to the wounded and roughly dragging wounded enemy prisoners into the safety of their own trench. As he got to his feet, a captain appeared from the rear yelling so that he was red in the face.

“What the hell was that? Who gave the order to fire?!”

The dazed men in the trench looked to one another, before a corporal spoke up.

“Captain, Sir, no one gave the order, Sir -- we were attacked and fired in return.”

The captain slapped his hand against his side, lifted his sword in the other hand and went back the way he had come. Killmartin looked to the corporal and frowned.

“What was that about then?”

The corporal shook his head and smiled. “That? That, brother, was a Turkish Admiral -- aint you never seen one before?”

*****

Receiving their canteens, Killmartin was in his element as he was assailed for his tale of the crazed charge from one point in the enemy line. He told again and again -- in increasingly elaborate versions -- of his mad bayonet duel and near miss with an exploding shell. The day was approaching dusk and the Pioneers were busy in the canebreaks, swamps, and lowlands in the rear of the lines. For a change, their mess lucked out and missed inclusion in the 150 man detail constructing gabions and fascines night and day for the siege works. There was talk of a major preparation underway for a sap to be dug, but where and when was unknown. Sitting with their blankets over their shoulders against the sometimes cool night of late May, Hastings and the others of his mess sat watchful. They spoke in hushed tones, counted as the stars began to appear in the darkening sky. As he listened to Killmartin telling Franklin yet once more of his miraculous escape and how he had fought off four men single handed, Hastings felt something deep within him stir. Looking at these men, he knew they would be here for him, and he must be for them. His close brush with cowardice still haunted him, but he would learn to live with it. Franklin shot a look of agony at him as Killmartin went on, and Hastings chuckled. In the distance, the Gibraltar of the Mississippi was dark. Somewhere from the lines facing the Federal Army, a fiddle played a tune Hastings remembered his brother once singing as they worked in the fields. How strange, he thought, to be so far from family, and those he loved. If they saw him now, would they know him? Would he still know them? He looked into the growing stars of the night sky, thinking of home as he sat at the foot of Gibraltar.