A New Sergeant

The rain was cold, and persistent in its efforts to touch what bare skin there was to be had. Standing shoulder to shoulder in formation, the men grumbled to themselves in low tones. The ground at their feet was becoming mud, clinging to their brogans and spattered in places on trousers and leathers. They had marched for most of the day, and all anyone wanted to do was to relieve themselves of their gear and find a dry place to close their eyes for a bit. But such delights still had to wait, for before they were dismissed they would have to be counted and given any assignments which might yet be needed of them. They would be spared largely this day, as they had marched to join a division encamped here at this fork in two mud flows masquerading as roads. There would be no details, simply assignments to tents, roll call and then finally--dismissal. The individual company officers began to dismiss their men, and in no time at all the battalion had vanished from sight. Scurrying like field mice trying to escape a sudden shower when caught in an open field, men darted here and there to vanish into their assigned tents. With a grunt, and the sound of bayonet and leathers dropped into a heap, William Potter sank into the straw and sighed. He had been one of the first men in, and gone to the rear of the long A-frame tend to make room for those who would arrive yet still somehow was kicked twice. “Don’t mind me, clumsy!” He croaked with his face turned into his outstretched arm. A body collapsed beside him, and an equally tired sounding voice spoke while trying to stifle a yawn.

“I won’t, don’t fret yourself! I’m well past minding and beyond into oblivious.”

Potter smiled, even though he was so tired that even smiling was an effort. “I should have known it would be your big feet, Haimer. Still excited to be a soldier then?”

“I might not be able to feel my legs for all the marching we just did--and I might be wet through, muddy and tired--what was the question again?” Several men chuckled. The Amsel brothers added their gear to that which had been cast indignantly down, and quietly bantered in German to one another. The rain continued to fall gently outside; the water droplets beating a calming tattoo upon the canvas over their heads as exhaustion won at last.
Potters eyes shot open, the blast of the bugle and rolling rattle of the drums making him groan. Suddenly awake, he became suddenly aware that mosquitoes had spent their time converging upon his ankles in the night leaving them itchy. He must have moved just enough to expose himself in the night, and the blood-thirsty little vermin had made the most of it. The drummers started into another long roll.

“Someone, for the sake of decency,” grumbled Sullivan “kill those musicians!”

“I’d do it” said one the Amsel brothers from under his blanket, “but sen I wut ‘ave to get up!” The musicians finally finished their melodious morning torture, but the work was done.  Slowly, grudgingly, soldiers sat up and began the slow return to being men once more. Lumps of slumber stretched arms, bellowed yawns and rubbed tired eyes. The Amsels--as always--were first out of the door which allowed momentary shafts of early golden sunshine into the canvas cave. Eyes snapped shut; curses were uttered, as this further indignity was done to the still drowsy soldiers. Potter crawled over Connelly, who lay back in frustration at having broken a shoe lace, and out into the morning air. The camp was stirring, men wandering about in night caps and unsung bracers cradling coffee as they might a loved one--perhaps even more tenderly. The Amsel brothers, farmers who dealt better with the early hours than most, had their small fire crackling and promised coffee was not far on the horizon.

“I have to say, I don’t think much of the hours you farmer boys keep.” said Potter stretching once more and grunting satisfaction with the issue of a loud ‘pop’ from his back. He was a clerk by trade, working in the office of a masonry quarry back home. He had grown up in the city of Boston, and come west for adventure and a chance to escape his father’s vision for his sons’ future. Potter had really never known the ‘early to bed, early to rise’ life of a farmer--and though such a profession was honorable--they could keep it! Leo Amsel chuckled and nodded to Potter for his cup, filling it with a black-brown sludge that passed for coffee. Martin Amsel added a log to the fire and shook his head.

“You town people”, Martin’s gentle German accent clipped the edge of his words as he spoke, “you think this is early? For us, this is sleeping in!” His brother Leo said something in German and the pair laughed, smiling with broad and sun stained faces. Connelly exited the tent cursing his brogans and the quality of the Quarter-Masters acquisitions. His orange hair caught the morning sunshine, and Potter smiled.

“Hey, Connelly, your ‘Mick’ hair is a-fire. Want me to put you out with this coffee?” Connelly feigned the laughter the others broke into with a sarcastic smile, and shoved his cup towards the Amsels for coffee. Sullivan appeared next, followed by the ever eager Haimer--who alone amongst the group was dressed and fully buttoned. Potter smiled and the Amsels saluted, to which Haimer good-naturedly laughed.

“That’s fine, you all can loaf about like good-for-nothings--but I plan to go home knowing I did my duty and earned my glories!”

“I think the general has put us in our place!” said Connelly with a smirk.

“No question,” added Potter “I feel humble.”

Leo Amsel snorted and laughed. “Now I have seen all things, if William Potter is humble!” Everyone laughed, and the call sounded for mess from up the hill near headquarters. Gathering themselves together, they went to eat as the musicians played; the melody of ‘Peas on a trencher” drifting with the morning breeze.

It was in roll call that morning that they first heard his name, being a new minted sergeant to fill the gap left within their company thanks to a nasty bout of dysentery which had sent several men home. There were just the 8o or so of them when company A had first come south, but that was months ago and since then they had gained other companies. It had been hard enough to know every man when it had just been their company, now Potter regularly saw men he did not know. As such, it was with some interest that he studied this man that was to replace the sergeant they had lost, as he was handed the stripes of his new rank before the assembled company. This new man was of moderate height, with a broad jaw and steely eyes which seemed to take in everything at once. Potter thought that this one looked like the serious type, and though he knew that there were two squads which would gaining a man beyond his own, he found himself dreading that this man might join them. His bunch, third squad of second platoon, weren’t the hellions that everyone knew second squad of first platoon to be, but that didn’t mean that they wanted a taskmaster overseeing them. The sergeant who had been lost from Potter’s squad had been a laid back sort, willing to help his squad avoid both trouble and work. Sullivan must have been thinking along the same line as Potter, for he turned and whispered--”Fingers crossed we don’t get Hedley!” Potter nodded, and the company was dismissed to their details. Shaking his head as the squad gathered about, Sullivan scowled.

“We get assigned to Hedley, and our simple life in the Army is over.” Connelly nodded, but Haimer shook his head.

“I don’t know. If he is one to get us into the scrap I’d be happy to have him.” This comment was met with hisses and other rude commentary, but some of the other members of the squad quietly agreed. Peter Crusoe reminded them of the wood detail they were supposed to be doing, and everyone grudgingly drifted away. They reported to the quarter-masters shed to draw their tools en masse, only to find the cause of their worries awaiting them, leaning against the wheel of a nearby wagon with his arms crossed. Sergeant Hedley looked them over with those musket lead eyes of his and smirked. For a moment third squad and he stood looking one another over, before Hedley finally spoke.

“I was gonna apologize for my bein’ late to join you all on the detail--you know, seein’ as I only just was assigned as your replacement sergeant--but imagine my surprise when I arrived to discover you lot hadn’t even reported yet!” Hedley uncrossed his arms and stepped before them, hands planted on his waist. No one said a word, the only sound being their collected breathing. Suddenly the sergeant smiled, and spoke to the gathered squad in a gentle tone. “But, we have all only just been thrown together, and no doubt you men are used to the ways of your old sergeant. So, let’s start on an even furrow together boys, shall we? Come along, let’s draw our kit.” Sergeant Hedley gestured towards the quarter-master’s shed, and like men led to execution they went as bidden. It would be the quietest work detail they could recall in the entirety of their time in the Army, and the start of a pair of weeks time which would push them all to their breaking point.

*****

Early morning sunlight suddenly flooded their tent, and from within came a series of oaths and groans. The Amsel brothers simply rolled out with the good natured acceptance of farmers, but the others resisted. At least until they heard sergeant Hedley’s paternal chiding at making the musicians responsible for their waking.
    “Now come along boys, you’re not children needing mother to rouse you for chores no more! Rise up, like soldiers ought, and men!” He said, followed by the start of the first snap of the drums as the musicians began to play their morning duty. Haimer rolled out well accounted for, and was greeted with a--”Well done!”The sergeant’s voice rang out. The others might have tried their luck at remaining abed had Hedley’s tone not become noticeably sharper. ”I have three now of this tent; I wonder how long I shall have to wait for the rest?” One by one the group tumbled out into the morning air, sergeant Hedley grinning ear to ear as each of the grumbling men emerged. He lined them up with the rest of the squad and proceeded to pace to and fro before them. After a moment, Hedley halted and faced them.

“Good morning. I knew that it will take you boys a little time to become accustomed to my way of doing things, and I plan to be patient. That doesn’t mean you may do as you like or expect to have the better of me. I have been informed that our platoon is to be detached to a forward outpost, and that we march out shortly. My suggestion then, get yourselves settled quickly. I expect you all to be ready when called for.”

Potter frowned at these words, grumbling internally at the Army and their new ‘spit and polish’ sergeant. Sergeant Hedley dismissed them and departed, leaving behind a handful of grousing soldiers.

“What a piece of work he is!” Spat Connelly kicking the dust with his brogan.

“He’s new, but he is right to tell us to move along. Martin und I are going to morning mess.” Commented Leo Amsel, pulling on his fatigue blouse and following after his brother. Haimer simply smiled and started after the brothers saying--”I like him!”

Connelly and Sullivan shook their heads, but followed after with Potter in their wake.

*****

It was becoming one of those typical humid, hot days that accompanied the start of the campaign season, the second here in the south for Company A. The rain of the previous day only served to fuel the muggy, heavy air and Potter found himself wondering that anyone would willingly choose to reside in such a climate. Moving along in route step, the platoon moved along a slightly sunken road which was lined by long rows of tilled earth. The Amsel brothers were discussing these fields quietly in German, the farmer in them grasping at the familiar and comforting. Potter often wondered at these men, and why they had joined this fight. They had left behind farms to become soldiers, leaving behind the land for which they had endured the hardships of ocean crossing and immigration to a country which was not always so welcoming to foreigners. “I hope we get into some good scraps!” said Haimer, a bounce to his step and smile on his face. George Cox--who was next to Haimer in rank--rolled his eyes and snorted divisively.

“You and your war-mongery! Why would you crave dodging shot and ball anyway?”

Before Haimer could answer, Connelly spat--”Because he spent the first weeks we came down in hospital, and missed the opening scraps! Old Haimer here feels left out, don’t ye Johnny?” Several men chuckled, and Haimer blushed but said nothing. Sergeant Hedley appeared along side of them and called for quiet. Shortly thereafter the call came for the platoon to resume common step, and the sound of their footfalls became a solid organized cadence. As they crested a short hill, the burned remains of what had been a barn and small house came into view. The platoon marched even with the remains of the house and there left the road to make their way past the ruined homestead towards a round hill upon which stood the outpost. It wasn’t much to look at, really just a few shelter tents set atop the hill surrounded by improvised fortification in the form of piled logs and split rails. Still, the view from the hill was commanding and its location well chosen. They hadn’t gone much further when they were stopped by a pair of sentries who appeared as if from nowhere by popping up from the underbrush and stood in their way. The lieutenant conferred with the men shortly before the column proceeded forward again, the sentries smiling and waving to the ranks as they passed.

“Welcome boys to Post Lincoln!” said one of the sentries with shaggy blonde hair and a scruffy beard.

“Post Lincoln, huh? Split rails and all?” answered Connelly laughing gesturing up towards the hill. Sergeant Hedley shouted for quiet in the ranks, ending the friendly exchange. Potter nodded to the shaggy sentry as they passed, who returned a wave before he and his companion resumed their concealed places of watch in the underbrush.

An hour later, and the platoon had been given space for quartering in the shade of a nearby orchard. It proved to be a very comfortable space, though one had to watch for the occasional falling apple. Word spread quickly as to the expectations of the platoon--nothing for the time being beyond rest and orders to keep any cook fires under control and under cover--which the men were only to happy oblige. They would be replacing the 2nd platoon of one of the Iowa units in their brigade, whose men assured them that they had landed one of the easiest duties ever. Settling down in the long grass with a sigh, Sullivan unlaced his brogans and stripped his patched socks with a smile.

“For a change, not bad! No rocks under foot here, quiet and even apples at hand anytime we want them--well a few worth eating still anyway.” The Amsel brothers sat speaking in low tones, backs against the trunk of a nearby tree. They looked up, but then returned to their conversation.

Connelly took a drink from his canteen and nodded. “Yep, this here is a fine spot. Fella’ from the Iowan bunch told me they aint seen nothing of trouble the whole two weeks they been here. Most of them lads think this forward post must be just for ‘in case’, and the push the rest of the Army will be making will to the East more.”

“We’ll still have to be wary” interjected Haimer, who alone sat with his musket still in his hands.

“No one is saying we wont--” retorted Connelly “--but I’m betting them Iowans are right, and we’ll have an easy duty. Them boys say they are almost sorry to go, what between the quest and the bathing in the little pond other side of the hill.”

“It is not right.” said Leo Amsel suddenly.

“What’s not?” asked Potter.

“Vhere are zee people that work zis land? Vhere ist the farmer who tend zee’s trees we camp under now?” asked Leo, looking about. Martin looked at the others and then to his brother. Sullivan shrugged.

“The house was burned out, so I imagine they left.”

“Ya, zay leave. But who vas it burned zat house?” asked Leo, his eyes glittering in the low firelight. No one knew the answer to this question of course, so there was a moment of pause before Martin whispered loudly close to his brother.

 “Bruder, ist es nicht wert, dise Mühe--”, but Leo stood and shook his head.

“Have you forgotten vat it was like back home, Martin? Not worse zee trouble? Warum machst du krieg gegen die Bauren? Dies is nicht warum ich soldat bin!” With that, Leo stormed away from the group leaving confusion amongst those who hadn’t understood much of what had been said. Potter looked at Martin who was standing with his back to them, watching his brother Leo vanish into the growing dusk.

“What was that about?” Spat Sullivan. Martin shook his head and turned back to them with a frown. “He ist tired, and vee miss our land und home. Seeing things remind us of home, und life back in Baden. Leo does not like turning farmers from zee land. This place make him unhappy.”

Connelly nodded, with some understanding. Haimer frowned and rocked in place. “I guess I can understand that, but still if those people were the enemy--”

“Ya,” interrupted Martin with a sad smile, “so ist with war. We know zis, but Leo don’t like very much.” He turned and followed after his brother. Those who were left behind were quiet then, each man left to his own thoughts. Sullivan, who had only recently retrieved an apple for himself, studied it a moment before leaving it at the base of the nearest tree.

*****

Potter had drawn duty as an observer on the hill, and watched as the short column of Iowans marched back the way his platoon had come from only two days before. The morning sun seemed reluctant to wash over these men, making them look sort of grey as they moved along the road. They were a funny bunch those Iowans, and easily fleeced at cards. As he watched them recede into the distance, Potter began to feel the solitude of this place. Looking about for a moment, he was struck with the absolute beauty and stillness that one soaked in here. It was tempting, he thought for a moment, to imagine that there was no war--no armies. How could such awful things exist in the same space as the tranquility and quiet of this place? But they his gaze fell upon the burned skeleton of what was once someone’s home, and that dream ceased to fool him. He looked again at the column marching back towards the main body of the army, and resumed his duty. They were one of four forward posts placed along the line of advance for the army. Post Lincoln was six hours march and three hours hard ride from head-quarters; but only roughly two hours from the posts situated to the North and South of them. While he knew they would likely see no mischief, it still felt somewhat exposed here. The thought of being relatively close between two outposts helped somewhat--that and the steadfastness of the Iowans promise that they would find this their “easiest duty ever”. Of course maybe that was part of the problem, Potter knew he had become fairly cynical--nothing ever went so easy for them. The column of Iowans slowly melted into the distance, and from the direction of the farmyard came the sound of a horse whinnying. They weren’t wholly alone here, Potter reminded himself. There was a detached troop of cavalry as well. Those fellows, from Michigan, had been here since Post Lincoln had been established and served a dual purpose. While a portion of their number scouted forward for a day or two at a time, those that remained behind served as message riders should to post need to contact headquarters or one of the other observation posts. Word was that a telegraph line would likely be strung up to take the place of the cavalry soon, but only if the army stayed where it was. All indication suggested that a move was coming any day, so for now the cavalry sufficed. Of course, Potter chuckled, in the Army one learned to accept that “any day now” could mean a time frame from 15 minutes to 6 months. He wondered for a moment about the troopers, and what sort of men they might be. They kept to themselves, the Iowans suggested it was because they where stuck up and thought themselves too good to associate with the infantry. It was so easy to just make assumptions like that--a temptation easily succumbed too. Potter realized with chagrin that even their new sergeant fell into this category--still the men could be excused for that! So far, Hedley hadn’t been too bad, though he very definitely had a different way of doing things. Even now he was running the rest of the squad not assigned to a duty through drill. The Devil take drill! The sergeant said it would keep them sharp, and that a soldier who allowed his mind to dull quickly came to a bad end. Potter rather thought that a bad end was more random than that, and that if your time was up there was little one could do to avoid it.

They day on the hill passed slowly. He watched birds fly away over the horizon, and wondered briefly if ever any of them flew to places he knew--what it would be like to be so free to move through the air. As the afternoon shadows began to lengthen about him, his mental wanderings were suddenly interrupted.

“Hey, Potter! Come here a moment!” called Timothy Borland from across the hilltop drawing him over to see what was up. The curly haired Borland looked up at him, and then pointed out to the horizon where a narrow gap appeared in the tree line. Potter looked; straining his eyes to take in whatever it was that was being pointed out. The area around the gap looked hazy, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he was supposed to be looking at. “I see a haze on the horizon, is that dust or humidity?” asked Potter after a moment.

“I think it’s dust, it looks like it to me anyway. Either way, if you look it’s only there--so if it is humidity it’s very concentrated.” Borland scratched his ear and looked back out to the horizon.

“I suppose we ought to report it, huh?” offered Potter who was startled by the voice of Sergeant Hilton from behind him.

“Something afoot gentlemen?” Sergeant Hilton stood with his arms crossed, looking passively at them with an air of boredom. Borland pointed out to where the hazy point was on the horizon, now drifted a bit from where it had originally been. Sergeant Hilton squinted and produced a short telescope, scanning briefly before lowering the lens and frowning. “Good eyes boys. Keep an eye out that way, and if you see anything report it immediately.” Hilton turned and was gone, as the other men near by gathered close. Peter Crusoe spat, wiped his mouth and shook his head.

“I dunno, what do you suppose it is? Sesch? Or just some dirt farmer with a cart on the road?”

“I think it’s neither. It’s nothing.” said another man.

“And if it aint nothing?” challenged Borland. No one seemed to want to answer that question, and silence overtook them. For the rest of his duty on the hill, Potter felt a gnawing unease in both himself and the others about him. No one openly admitted it of course, but the carefree ‘easy duty’ feel of the outpost had evaporated--for the first time they were fully aware of just how alone they were. He found himself envying the freedom of the birds.

The Amsel brothers, freed at last from drill in the late afternoon, decided out of a perverse curiosity to poke about what was left of the farmhouse. They remembered the farms they had seen like this in their youth, in those turbulent years back home. The work of reprisals against farmers who had joined movements to give more self-determination to the common people. It was hard to relate how they felt being here with all they had seen and experienced back home; how could you explain such things to those who have never lived through such events? Becoming American, the Amsels were learning, was a process which depended greatly upon the people with whom you associated with--and even then the chances were you would find yourself faced with reminders that you had come from somewhere else.

“I’m sorry brother--for my behavior before.” said Leo in the language of their fathers. Martin smiled at his brother and patted his shoulder.

“You remember Leo--I do too--that’s all it is. No need to be sorry.” Answered Martin in German, a warmth in his words which English did not yet fully convey for him. Leo smiled in return, and the pair picked their way about the farm yard with the appraising eye of men of the land. In the end, they made a sort of peace with those ghosts which tugged at them. Corporal Brooks called to them, telling them everyone was being called to roll call--that business was “afoot”--and so the two brothers made their way back to camp, a little more soldiers than they were farmers.

Continues in “Post Lincoln”…

At the Crossroads

The road home had been long, and his feet and legs ached. It was fatigue which had forced him to surrender briefly and found him seated on the lumpy but soft green moss which clung to the exposed roots of an old Burr oak. He flexed his toes in his worn, graying brogans--wanting nothing more than to kick off his shoes and socks but knowing from experience that doing so would just make it all the harder to put them back on again. His companion, frowning and looking at him between eager glances over his shoulder towards the road ahead, sighed. Looking up, Private Jack Witt waved at his impatient friend Abel Burke dismissively.

“Go on then if you can’t wait on me. I’ll catch you up down the way.”

Burke shook his head and relented, collapsing in a series of groans beside him. “Naw, I never left you or you me in all we been through--I’m not about to set to such things now.”

Witt smiled; he knew Burke would not leave him. “I can’t figure how we made all those accumulated miles at march, and now I find my legs and feet complaining.”

Burke chuckled. “You were younger then.”

“Well you’re sittin’ right here with me!” shot back Witt.

“I was younger too,” responded Burke with a smile. His friend nodded and gave him a playful shove.

“True; you’ve not aged well either!” Both men laughed; Burke laying back to rest his head on his folded arms, Will massaging his leg with a grimace. They sat for awhile there beside the road, under the spreading oak and a blue sky which seemed fully unaware of the doings and events of humanity below. Witt looked at his friend, and wondered if their families would recognize them for the idealistic young men who had gone to fight. Burke sat up, reached under him and cursed as he tossed away an acorn.

“How do you think it is going to be when we get home?” asked Burke suddenly, turning his sunken brown eyes on him. Witt considered him in return briefly.

“I don’t know I guess, to be honest. This is the longest I ever was away; further-est I ever traveled,” said Witt, looking along the road into the distance. Burke nodded but said nothing in return. “I’m eager to be home though, that I do know--”

“Be out of this uniform and never eat no desiccated greens again!” interrupted Burke at last with a smile.

Witt brushed some invisible blemish from his sleeve, smiling. “I will keep this old sack coat though--even with the patches, it’s been one of the sturdiest garments I’ve owned.”

“Yes, sturdy despite the patches!”

Witt smiled, and shoved Burke gently. Overhead a flock of geese passed overhead, honking loudly as they moved through the blue sky. The sound drew both men’s eyes, both of them quiet for a moment. “There was a time” commented Witt quietly, “when I would have been eager to sight on that flight of geese. I don’t know that I ever want to shoot at so much as a target ever again.” Burke considered the geese, and nodded.

“I could. Roast geese sounds pretty fair right this moment. Speaking of which, let’s get on already! I’m hungry and that roadhouse we heard of last farm back is waiting on us.” Burke stood and helped his friend to his feet with a funny clank of items in the sack he carried with him. They carried little, at least by comparison to what they had come to be accustomed to in the army. Canteens and old tattered haversacks hung comfortably after miles of experience, and each slung a simple sackcloth bag drawn at the top by strings. They resumed their ambling march along the road, whilst the geese vanished into the blue horizon.


*****

It took them the majority of an afternoon to arrive, but the roadhouse had rejuvenated as promised. The couple that ran the place had welcomed them with open arms, being unabashedly warm on account of their being soldiers returned from the war. The couple were both graying, their faces showing the wear of life in the years which had passed. Seated in the ordinary but comfortable dining room, stuffing themselves with ‘home cooking’ which was eagerly offered by the mothering presence of the owner’s wife, Witt and Burke felt more content than they had in some time. Witt found strange joy in the presence of a table cloth, as well as the differing sound of the china plate when he pushed his food about with the wonderfully ordinary fork and spoon. The smell of the napkin pressed to their faces, food brought hot to a table as they simply sat and awaited its serving.

“We were all so excited when Father saw you along the road!” chirped the owner’s wife as she flitted about her guests, occasionally refilling portions before the first bites had even been taken.

“Mother, let these boys eat now--they’re tired--settle yerself,” interjected her husband at last with a kind, but solid tone. The woman sat with an exclamation of --“Oh, Father!”--but smiled warmly at her guests. Witt dug his spoon into another heaping of potatoes with turnips and ham, nodding to the couple.

“We’re very appreciative of the welcome and the food. It’s the best we’ve had in a long while!” The old man bowed his head, a smile peeking through his scruffy grey beard. His wife was beaming and looked to her more sedate spouse.

“Isn’t it wonderful Father!” she said rising up from her seat, kissing her husband on the cheek before continuing on towards the kitchen. “It won’t be long before John will be home again! I must see to the pies!”

When she had gone, her husband slumped ever so slightly in his chair, his gaze on the dancing flame of a candlestick. Burke looked at the bearded man, his appearance suddenly taking on an age or weight of care not noted before. “Are you alright sir?” said Burke, looking sat Witt and back to the old man. Opposite them, the man smiled but sadly, and nodded.

“Yes boys, I’m alright. You mustn’t bother for the misses, I’m afraid she is a little forgetful these days. Our son--John--was a soldier too, but he was killed two years ago. I almost had her convinced, but with so many of your boys along the road now, she has her hopes up.”

“Maybe--we’d better be off departing then--”started Witt before the old man stood and laid a hand on his shoulder. His face was sad, but his eyes shone with warmth which touched the young soldier deeply.

“No, no boys--I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome, just explaining Mother. Speaking of which, I had best check on her. Can you boys settle yourselves?” He started towards the doorway to the kitchen as a soft weeping began to be discernable beyond. “Just up the stairs boys, on the right to your room.” The old man vanished through the doorway, and the crying became louder until they heard clearly the old woman saying between sobs--“Where’s my John? Why couldn’t it have been my boy!?” After a moment of sitting uncomfortably silent, the pair climbed the stairs to their room--but even then they could hear the owner’s wife crying and saying the name of her fallen son.

*****

They left early, leaving a note of thanks on the dining room table along with more than what had been agreed upon for the nights lodging and fare. The sun was low on the horizon, rising in a glorious rippled yellow-red-orange and casting shadows which were like defiant puddles of the past night. They did not talk about the grief of the old woman--even though Witt was filled with a desire to do so--as Burke seemed so determined to be of a sunny disposition that what had passed remained unspoken. Indeed, Witt began to take notice that his friend seemed in better spirits on the road and in the open then when they availed themselves of accommodations. Maybe it was simply being used to the outdoor life--having lived that way for nearly 3 years in the Army--but as far as for himself, Witt couldn’t wait to come across the next comfortable little inn, roadhouse or welcoming farmer. The winding road lay like a brown-grey smudge through the late June landscape of Southern Minnesota, and both men reveled in the forgotten textures and scents which overwhelmed their senses. They talked about their time away, and the adventures they had had. They spoke of the best camp they could recall and the worst: the last days in Mobile, Alabama in garrison.

“I’ll never forget what it was like to hear of the President’s murder,” said Witt solemnly, “and then with a short time afterwards to be told we were being mustered out of the Army! It was hard to know how to feel.”

Burke nodded. “I am still not always certain of that, to be honest.” Witt laughed, hardly hearing what his friend had said. “Why you made me get off that lovely fast train north at Albert Lea, I’ll never fathom! Lord knows we’ve plenty enough miles under our belts on roads like this one to last our lives!”

Burke smiled and shoved his friend gently. “Nothing but complaining! Just like at Vicksburg, and the march to De Russey--moan, moan! Like I was dragging along some winsome girl or paper collar dandy!” They laughed together, and wandered along, coming at last to a road post which bore for the first time a reference to home. Witt rushed forward to the rickety sign and touched it with the reverence of a religious pilgrim; turning back to his friend with shining eyes.  “Next town from home! Do you realize how close now?! Ho, merciful Providence, I really didn’t know just how bad I have longed for home until now!”

Burke nodded, and smiled looking ahead. “I’m tired, looks like a farm up ahead--should we stop in and see what hospitality we find?” He started on, leaving Witt still gazing upon the sign as he had been. For a moment, Witt felt a strange anger with his friend. Burke had hardly noticed the sign and what it meant about their journey home--had only looked on to something else, back to the road. Wasn’t he excited and eager to be home? Did he not have a wife, parents, and children to return to? But then the confusion and anger subsided when he realized it was late, they likely had only four hours of light left and the farm did look inviting. Besides, there had been a time when all Burke could do was pine for home. Hadn’t he driven everyone mad over just that, the winter before? Burke stopped and looked back at him, waiting a moment before continuing forward. Witt followed after, but for the first time he found himself truly wondering in Burke wanted to go home.

*****
The farmer and his wife were happy to share what food they had--simple though it was--but leery of allowing a pair of rough strangers into the house. From the doorway, wife peering out from behind her husband, the farmer offered the barn. It was rustic, but the barn would suffice well enough and once they settled into the hay both men were very happy. With their gum blankets spread beneath them, the pair lay back into the springy mound and stared into the rafters above. A small glazed window at the eaves shown the evening light through a swirling cloud of dust, further disturbed when a tiny bird flashed through the space. Burke sighed loudly. “This is the life, huh?” “I guess,” responded Witt as memories of his own barn swirled in his thoughts--closer now then it had been in three years. He mumbled something further, but a need to be home drowned out his thoughts. He sat up, hardly able to stand sitting still any longer.

“I cannot wait to be of the road tomorrow,” Witt said with his head in his hands, “This place reminds me too much of home.” Burke grunted, and shook his head. “It’s a barn Witt--they tend to look similar!”

Witt shot his friend a scathing glace. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m tired of hearing you whine about home, is all! I’ve had my fill of it, and you’ve made me sick to hear it!” responded Burke rolling away to face the opposite wall. For awhile Witt just stared at the back of his friends head, dumbfounded by the outburst of anger his friend had displayed and doing his best to control the rage he felt himself. Finally, his stomach in knots, Witt lay back with a grunt of dismissal and closed his eyes. Inwardly he wished his loved ones a good night as he had thousands of times since leaving home--and promised that they would reunite soon.

The sun sank below the gentle hills, and amber rays cast the world in colors of freshly brewed tea and old faded parchment. In the sky, the first stars pushed their way into view long before it was fully dark. Friends sat longer into the evening on their porches and around the table, feeling that after years of pestilence and suffering--surely the time for abundance and joy must be upon them. From the eaves of the barn, tiny bats took to the sky in their nightly hunt for a meal, never sparing a moments thought for the two men that slept quietly below them.

Witt awoke with a start, shortly after the moon had risen large and bright over the hills--Burke was shaking him hard by the arms and hissing in an angry whisper. “Witt, you worthless fool! Where are they!? I heard them, they’re coming!” His friend appeared more like some grey ghost than the man he had known as Burke; Witt simply shook his head in response.

“What? Where is what? Whose coming?! Let go of me!” Burke let go, but where he’d grabbed Witt’s arms continued to sting. “The muskets you damned idiot!” spat Burke, his teeth flashing in the darkness. Witt sat up, and came to his feet, still rubbing his arms and gaining a little distance from his friend who sat where he was looking around. After a moment, Witt frowned.

“We turned them in, Abel, if you recall. We don’t have them anymore.” He said, watching as Burke ceased his search, and seemed to grow smaller somehow as he looked at him. “The war is over Abel.” His words hung in the semi-darkness, and all was still but for their breathing. After a moment or two, the shadow that was Burke lay back down without a further word. Witt simply stood as he was a moment, before returning to his spot in the hay. He was fully awake, and lay on his side watching the form of his friend with a mixture of worry and alarm. Burke had always been like a brother to him, but this man seemed a stranger--as though the Abel Burke he had known had been covertly replaced by someone else.

“I wish--”said Burke softly in the dim, “--I wish I had my musket. I shouldn’t have turned it in.”

“They didn’t give us a choice, as I recall.” said Witt quietly.

A moment of silence passed before Burke spoke again, in a whispering tone. “I don’t feel--” There was a long hesitation before at last he continued, “--that is, I don’t feel quiet right--you understand, safe, without my musket.” Witt could understand to some extent, yet was privately was pleased to no longer carry a weapon. As a soldier he had kept and used his musket, be he had never loved it as some men did. “The war ended Abel; I think we’re safe enough.”

“Just so used to it being there--” He answered swiftly, before continuing more quietly. “--I dreamed we were back in it, Jack.”

“Considering all we have done and been through, I think that is likely to happen.”

“I woke, and I suppose the dream left me feeling it all over again. Sorry for waking you that way--I just woke thinking we were in it, and couldn’t find my musket.”  Witt looked at the form of this man he had lived, risked death, and seen it plenty with for 3 years and hardly knew where to begin to comfort him.

“I understand.” It was all he could think of, and though he did know what it was to wake from a dream you knew was more memory than nightmare, he felt lost to help his friend. “Go back to sleep now, it’s late.” There was no answer to his words, but soon Burke’s breathing slowed and calmed as he returned to sleep. For Witt, it would prove harder to settle--and he lay listening to the mice in the rafters for a long while until at last he too fell asleep.

*****

A loud rapping sound from somewhere in the farmyard woke him, and when Jack Witt turned to call his friend and offer a good morning he discovered he was alone. At first he though that Burke had simply risen to answer the call of nature and wandered out, until he realized that his gum and bag were gone as well. Witt stumbled through a side door and was greeted by the farmer and his wife who were working to repair their kitchen garden fence. “Good morning! We thought you might sleep away the day--nothing like your friend who was up with the cockerel!” said the farmer, setting aside his wooden mallet. The sun had risen well into the sky--the night’s disturbances had left him to sleep late. Witt found his voice at last and looked about. “My companion--do you know where he is?” The farmer leaned on the fence, and crooked his thumb towards the road.

“Left earlier--said he was eager to get on.”

“Didn’t he say anything?” said Witt with a frown, “leave me a message or some word?” In answer the farmer simply shook his head, looked him over once and resumed his work. Witt felt lost, unsure of what to next or how to proceed. The events of the previous night had convinced him that Burke was not acting as himself, but he hadn’t expected him to simply vanish. He went back and gathered his things from the barn, and decided he must try to catch Burke. Witt rushed out, thanking the farmer for their hospitality and bounding along towards the road. He made good time on the road that led both home and to his missing friend, walking with feet accustomed to hard marches now--aware of competing desires growing within him with every step. When at last he came to a fork in the road he stopped, breathing hard and taking a long pull from his battered old canteen. He eyed a worn signpost which designated the road home to his right, and the road which led away to his left. Somewhere from the farm just visible among the plowed hills away to the right, came the sound of music and joyous celebration. It drifted on the breeze a moment and was gone; leaving yearning for family--home--and that ache for the life he had left behind. Songbirds chirped from the branches, and flitted encouragingly into the tall grasses at the edge of farm land. Witt tore himself from the vision of home, and looked left. In the distance, walking with a comfortable gait away from him, was Burke. Witt called out to him once, twice--but Burke did not slow or look back. From somewhere beyond the road Burke traveled, a locomotive steam whistle wailed--a wild and lonely sound which seemed to sing of opportunities and adventure all at the same time. Burke turned his head towards the whistle, and Witt took a chance that this time he might be heard if he called out. But Burke seemed beyond hearing him, and Witt found he had no desire to follow after anymore. He knew that Abel had been a brave man, a good friend and a valiant soldier--but sometimes none of that mattered. He had been taken with what veterans called “The Soldiers Heart”; wounds which changed lives but could not easily be seen or treated. Abel Burke had come to the crossroads in his journey, and he had chosen that road which his heart had bidden. Jack Witt understood, yet his heart called him home. He bid a silent farewell to his friend and turned to his road, following the call which he felt so strongly. He promised himself that he would tell of his friend; a man that had stuck by him through every hellish test--and whose heart refused to forget being a soldier.

Of Pork Barrels and Smoked Yanks

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cartwright sniffed deeply and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?! How is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

Bollum crossed his arms and smiled.

“Aint gonna tell me, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t you have no sisters?”

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

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

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

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

“I cannot abide that man!” he growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes Sir?”

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

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

“Some slum, Sir.”

“Slum?” the eyes brows knitted together.

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

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

“To the Chaplin, Sir.”

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

“Slum, Sir.”

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

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

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

“Slum, Sir, just as I told you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Slum, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

The Fall of Gibraltar

June 19th, 1863

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

“Thank you for seeing me, General Grant.”

The bearded man chewed his cigar and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That would be good, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

July 6, 1863

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