Post Lincoln

The troopers had been excited, eager to move out and investigate the reports of possible contact with the enemy. They had moved out in good order, a palpable sense of purpose humming from the cavalrymen and their mounts. Connelly had only scorn for them, but Potter found a reluctant admiration which made him feel slightly traitorous. The troopers had been gone for nearly an hour, and though everyone tried to simply go about their duties, the anticipation began to manifest itself all the same. A dedicated picket line was established to screen the post (Sergeant Hedley had grumbled with amazement that this had not been done previously, but only with the advent of potential contact. “Leave it to a Lieutenant to build the fence for the chickens only after seeing the fox in the yard!”) along the axis of the contacts location. Potter looked along the line to Sullivan, kneeling a short distance from him behind piled brambles and fallen timber.

“Comfortable over there?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Fairly. Yourself?”

Potter nodded and leaned his musket against a nearby tree, taking up his canteen and gently tipping back a slow sip. Sullivan coughed and spat, wiping his face in his sleeve.

“So do you think them fancy horse-boys will find trouble?” asked Sullivan gesturing out before them.

“I fear it is likely so.”

“Ya, well--” responded Sullivan with a grin, “you’d say that! You bein’ one of them what saw them dust clouds.”


“You don’t think we ought to be sure of any contact or possible sign of the enemy?”

Sullivan shook his head. “I didn’t say that now--what I mean is I don’t think it’ll amount to much is all. It‘s been a day now, hasn‘t it? Seems a long while if it were somethin‘ truly serious.”

“I suppose it’s possible--still it does seem that every time we are sure it’s nothing--” said Potter laying a finger beside his nose, “--it proves to be something!” As if on cue, there came a challenge from somewhere to the right of them along the picket which was answered in proper fashion. Sullivan and Potter sat silently, straining their senses to hear any carrying conversation. They caught little but the faint creak of saddle and dull clink of accoutrements. “They are moving at a good pace.” said Potter, breaking the silence in hushed tones.

“When don’t they though?” quipped Sullivan with a smirk. Both men jumped when Sergeant Hedley’s voice sounded close by in a harsh whisper. “Will you both please lower your voices and kindly attend to your duty!” he said as he materialized from underbrush without a sound. The sergeant moved to Sullivan’s position and beckoned to Potter to join them. Sullivan was clearly a bit overawed by the sudden appearance of the sergeant, and whispered, ”Are you part Indian or something?”  The sergeant settled his musket in the crook of his arm and considered Sullivan a moment before shaking his head. As Potter joined them, Sullivan muttered more to himself than anyone, “well, you certain sure are quiet!”, and said no more. Hedley frowned, having heard all the same.

“Yes, and you gentlemen need to work on being so--I assume you do understand the purpose of being on the picket line? Stay alert now, both of you--no more noise.” Both men nodded sheepishly, and Hedley seemed satisfied. “I came to inform you both that you’ll be relieved in an hour--alright then?” They assented and the sergeant turned and vanished down along the line, soon lost from sight amongst the foliage.

“He’s something, isn’t he?” whistled Sullivan, taking position. Potter only nodded and returned to his spot, wondering what news the troopers had to report. They hadn’t long to wait for their answer as it turned out; the news spread quickly and was eagerly reported when their relief arrived. Rebel cavalry was encamped five miles from their position along the east road (known locally as the West Falls Spoke), and clearly probing forward of something organized. There was no sign of infantry as yet, but word had it that the troopers felt the signs were clear enough to suggest some body of the enemy was moving this way.

“I wonder how many it will be” asked one of the men in the gathered group waiting in line for their rations. Potter and Sullivan stood together quietly, Haimer a little way ahead of them looking eagerly for his share of the overcooked offering.  “No sense to drawing it out--” said Sullivan with a grin as they watched Haimer wander off with his food, “--you were right about them rebels being close by.”

Potter shrugged. “I wish I hadn’t been!”

“Maybe them buggers won’t come by this route?”

“NO Sir!” Interjected someone from the back of the line who had clearly overhead them, “we ‘aint never been that lucky!”  “Lucky?” added someone else, “Why, let them bastards come! We’ll lick’em good!” This was met with a cheer, though Potter couldn’t help but notice that some of the voices were half-hearted. Corporal Brooks called for quiet, and the group returned to the business of their meal. Potter wondered if this might not be the last good rest and meal they would have for a bit--if indeed the enemy was coming.


*****

By late afternoon there was no doubt that a significant force of the enemy was moving in their direction, as further forays in reconnaissance by the cavalry had found. The report set off a flurry of preparation at the post, both in the improvement of defenses as well as the dispatch of mounted couriers to the posts to their North--South--and back to headquarters. “Word has it that it’s infantry supported by cavalry,” said Billings as he tossed a spade full of dirt from one of the hill side entrenchments. Another man added he had heard it was dismounted cavalry, and another a full division of those Hell-mad Texans. “Either way, we’re in for a heap of trouble!” shot out a man down the line.

Joe Dodge spat, and dug his spade deep. “We only have to hold ‘em--and then only a few hours. What with the hill an’ all, we should be able to stack ‘em up the whole damn day!”

“It’s three hours,” spoke up Sergeant Hedley as he appeared amongst them, “for the courier to ride gentlemen. The report has then to be read; considered and discussed--assuming it goes straight to the General and isn’t waylaid by his staff for some reason. If they choose to move immediately, it will take at least an hour to outfit and assemble a portion of the army--longer if they decide to move en masse.” The sergeant had them in thrall and he knew it, wandering amongst their works with a look of fire in his eyes. “You all marched from headquarters to this post--” he looked around hard into their eyes then before going on, “--and know the distance to be traversed. We mustn’t fool ourselves gentlemen; this day will prove taxing and dire for us. We shall have to reach into ourselves and take hold of this ground with the tenacity of a man protecting his own, and deny our enemy victory! We must make the eventual arrival of our comrades a blessing to the rebel! Make him delight in an excuse to run from here and save his own skin, for the rebel officers will push them to sweep us away with equal determination to our desire to refuse them!” Hedley stood, looking from man to man, and for the first time Potter saw the true genius of their new sergeant. “So gentlemen,” he began again, “I say that whether our army arrives in a matter of hours or days doesn’t matter a fig! We can hold, and we will show those rebels the error of daring to test our mettle!”

A cheer went up from the assembled men, and a feeling of esprit de corps that few had known since their first days as soldiers overcame them. Haimer smiled broadly at him, and Potter slapped him on the back as Sergeant Hedley chided them playfully for halting in their work. Potter watched Hedley wander from their group as spades dug into the earth with renewed energy. He hardly could believe how powerful the sergeant’s words had been--nor how he could feel so hopeful given that all that Hedley has really done was confirm just how dire their situation truly was. There was no fighting the mood of those about him however, and soon he allowed himself to be caught up in it as he resumed his work. They had only just completed the improvements they had been assigned when the alarm was raised by the lookouts--and what remained of their cavalry troopers proceeded out at a canter to reconnoiter and skirmish. The enemy was approaching without question now, but only the officers knew their composition and surmised intent. There was concern of where the enemy would choose to engage, but the men took some heart in the fact that the officers seemed satisfied that their arrangements should prove enough to hold their position. All told, there were 40 of their platoon, divided between the defenses near the base of the hill and those further up towards the observation post. The remaining troopers (of those not scouting or sent as messengers) were deployed to the furtherest flanks of the hill so as to have some advance warning if the enemy should decide to move in such direction. Most agreed they likely would, and if so their options to respond became more problematic. For that matter, thought Potter checking that the cap remained sure on the nipple of his musket, the whole situation was far from ideal--they had the more defensible position to be sure, but surely the enemy would come in strength. Standing with Haimer and Connelly in the upper defenses, he realized that the time for such thoughts had passed. They were stuck now, and would do what they must to live through the day. He gazed out into the early evening horizon, and was struck how odd it seemed that such a beautiful sky could accompany what would likely prove a hard and even terrible event to come. There was no conversation amongst the men, only the sound of the occasional whispering wind and the leather-against-metal rustlings of militaria. Eyes were opened wide and senses stretched in listening and seeking signs of the approach of what was to come. Haimer opened the flap of his cartridge box for the third time in as many minutes, checking the status of his ammunition. “You’re gonna wear out the leather, boy,” groused Connelly, poking Haimer in  the side.

“Nothing wrong with being certain about it!” countered Haimer with a grit of his teeth. Corporal Brooks came wandering over, his footfalls crunching in the drying earth so recently turned over from the diggings.

“What is all the commotion over here?” shot Brooks, with a shake of his musket. Connelly and Haimer answered as one that it was nothing, and then were silent. The corporal seemed satisfied with this, and being a kind man at heart only shook his head and wandered back down the line. “Blasted waiting--” grumbled Connelly after moment, pulling his forage cap from his head and running a hand through his matted ginger hair. “I can stand most all the trials I’ve done found here in this soldier’s life, but waiting I can rare abide!” Potter nodded his agreement and looked to Haimer. The younger man was a little pale, but his eyes were defiant. He’s scared, thought Potter, but by God if he’ll admit to it. Potter knew that he too was scared; he always was before action. Every man dealt with this fear (Sullivan called it “before the dance creepers”) in his own way. Some refused it wholly, even if their body showed the signs. Some might take  mysteriously and fervently to religion--even so far as to form spontaneous bible groups which sometimes gave into loud protestations of God’s greatness. In itself this wasn’t a bad thing, but it could be discouraging later to the truly faithful when it was many of these same men who worked the hardest at accomplishing sin as soon as the danger passed. When they first had come South, one occasionally saw men that fully broke with their fear of battle--but such reactions were rare now. Potter looked about him at those who were closest, taking in the silent watchful stillness which the majority of men portrayed in these moments. He felt for the small folded letter he always kept in the breast pocket of his coat; words home and a request to whomever might find his body should the worst happen. Most soldiers made some sort of allowance that way, even if they didn’t like to talk about it much. Billings was looking at an ambrotype of his wife and children, something Potter had seen him do many times before. He made a silent prayer that it would not be the last time he witnessed this, for either of them. Suddenly there came a shout, and then the echoing crack of musketry from the first line just among the tree line below.

“They’re coming boys!” shouted the lieutenant from the observation post above them, dropping his field glasses from his eyes. Every man readied himself along the trench as gunfire and a wail of Southern voices joined together below as the battle of Post Lincoln began.

*****

Sand kicked up in violent sprays as bullets flashed into the entrenchment walls between them, one ball showering splinters into the right side of Leo Amsel’s face when it struck a log he was crouching behind. He grunted more in surprise than pain, and reached for his face as his brother Martin shot a rebel charging towards them through the head. Though chaos reigned about them, order held on by its fingernails amongst them--men loading and firing as fast as they could. Sergeant Dayton, wounded through the shoulder but still running up and down the line to bolster spirits, called a cease fire and slowly the sound faded. An acrid, clinging haze hung low before them amongst the trees and brambles; moans of the of the wounded and dying punctuating the sudden stillness with the momentary retreat of the enemy. “By GOD!” said the wounded sergeant as he passed where Martin was helping Leo pull splinters from his cheek, “What a charge! Infantry too, and determined to make ground. Boys, if this next charge is better supported, be ready to fall back to the upper line. Make sure you lend assistance to those that are wounded--By God we’ll leave no one behind to be captured here!”  There we many assents along the line, and in general the wounds sustained so far were slight--but every man knew they had been lucky.

“Determined, he says?” commented Sullivan tying a handkerchief tight over a flesh wound to his hand that bled as though it was much worse, “murderous I would call it!”

“Ya, they are hard fellows--”added Leo Amsel, the right side of his face a red, blotchy bloody mess, “Hard fellows!” A shout went up and the enemy appeared again, firing as they came. The sergeant was hit three more times before his limp body fell forward over the trench wall; the air humming and churning with lead. The call to retreat was raised by someone, but all had become confusion. The air choked at their throats, so thick was the smoke of musketry, as burning embers smoldered in the detritus of the forest floor and swirling vortexes rippled before their  vision with the passing of meteoric musket lead. Sullivan felt everything was moving very slowly, all but his heart which pounded in his chest with a mad drive to escape, and run. Voices combined around him; the screaming battle cry of the enemy mingled with cries of agony and calls to fall back. The lines intermixed, as bodies collided and Federal blue and Rebel grey and butternut fell in heaps together or thrashed and rolled in combative embrace. As he scrambled he felt that his feet failed to make purchase, sliding under him in sand to finally trip and send him sprawling. Someone stamped hard on his hand, forcing him to release his rifle while the sharp point of a bayonet stuck into his shoulder. Sullivan froze, a young demanding voice calling out to him. “Roll over an’ give up! I gots you, an’ don’t you try nuthin’!” He rolled over, looking up into a dirty scruffy face dressed in dark brown and grey--when suddenly a shot rang out. His triumphant captor’s face turned to a grimace as he spat blood and fell backward--to be replaced by the haggard looking Amsel brothers who scooped him up as bullets whizzed loudly past them and thumped into earth ahead of them. They had Sullivan up quickly between them, Martin loosing his cap in the process of retrieving their rescued friend’s musket by the sling as they scrambled with obvious desperation ahead of the advancing enemy up the hill. It felt to Sullivan that they would be taken by an enemy bullet at any moment, a primal sense of urgency to flee and not look back filling him with every step. Before he knew it, they were within sight of their own lines and met by watchful, grim men who gathered them into the trenches. Volleys erupted along their lines into the few unlucky pursuing enemy who came into view, halting any further advance smartly. Slowly the shooting came to a halt as the enemy retreated from view amongst the trees below, leaving behind the sad scene of a few dead and wounded amid the scrubby short grasses between the lines. Leo Amsel was busy still picking splinters from his face with the help of his brother when Potter and Connelly appeared beside them.

“God almighty Ansel, are ye alright?” exclaimed Connelly kneeling down beside the wounded man. Finally having removed most of the splinters, Leo nodded and held a clean handkerchief to his face which his brother had given him. Martin grinned.

“At last, I will be the better looking brother, eh?” Leo gave a sardonic half smile and Potter chuckled.

Sullivan, who had been hunched nearby against the trench wall, sat up and looked about. “How many--” he said clearing his throat, “--that is where are the others? How many made it back?”

“Eight in all,” answered Sergeant Hedley approaching along the trench line. “You three and five others. My hope is that most of the others are captives or even wounded--but they may be lost.” A silence settled over them, during which Sullivan rose and retrieved his musket from where Martin had left it. He brushed dirt from the lock and hammer, before turning to the sergeant.

“Sergeant Dayton is dead, and there be a lot of Sesech down there.” Hedley nodded and looked out to the horizon a moment.

He cleared his throat and nodded again. “Alright, look to your positions--check your boxes and count up. Sullivan, come with me.” For a moment the others watched them proceed up the hill to the Lieutenant before they resumed positions and began to check their ammunition.

“Sullivan ist right”, said Leo he reloaded his musket, “vas bad, unt Sullivan came close to danger.”  Potter closed his box, and rechecked the percussion cap on his musket. Martin Amsel settled into a spot beside them in the trench, and Potter noted that where the seam of his coat pushed out there was a ragged tear--a bullet had torn through the wool and only narrowly missed his shoulder. Martin cocked his eyebrows when it was pointed out to him, but laughed it off with the “could have but didn’t” attitude they all seemed to grow into as their enlistment went on. Leo’s raw face was beginning to bruise, as he discarded the no longer white handkerchief.

Potter sighed and sighted down his musket. “Before this is day is over, I’m afraid Sullivan won’t have been the only one close to danger.”
*****

The lieutenant thanked Sullivan for his report on the events in the lower defenses, and gave orders to the assembled sergeants. Ammunition was brought forward to the trenches, the crates stacked within reach of the tense defenders. A steady watchfulness hung over the men, and few spoke. Time passed slowly, and nothing was seen of the enemy. The tense, hyperawareness translated to cramped fingers, grinding teeth and hushed curses. Haimer growled to himself as he sighted along the length of his weapon.

Connelly looked over. “Ye see some-tin?”  “Nothing--why don’t they come?!” Haimer spat and frowned. Connelly moved to lay a hand on Haimer’s shoulder only to have his friend slip out from underneath his touch and shove him away. The pair stared at one another for a moment in steely silence before both men resumed their watch. Connelly sighed and shook his head, looking at Billings down the line. “The waitin’ is the hardest part,” someone along the line commented. Haimer scowled. He knew he was scared, and that made him feel both furious as well as ashamed. He was about to apologize to Connelly when a shout rang out from the observation post above, visibly affecting the men as though they had been slapped--and every one lowered themselves as best they could in the trench as they pulled muskets tighter into their shoulders. Potter, crouching in his place along the line, glanced to his left at Martin Amsel. “Did you hear clearly what they said?”

“Nein, do you think zay are coming at last?”  There was a pause, but neither knew the answer. The wind blew gently, and the grasses which clumped about the body of an enemy soldier down the hill bent slightly. Leo Amsel grunted, and poked Potter as he gestured down the line of their trench. With surprise, they saw that the men were slowly and tentatively coming to their feet. Along the rise of the trench behind them, Sergeant Hedley was walking in their direction, calling out to the men as he did. He had Sullivan in tow behind him, and was motioning for the men to rise. Were they surrendering?

The wind blew back their way, and suddenly Hedleys voice was clear. “Rise up boys! Up lads, the rebels have decided our hill isn’t worth the effort, they moved off to the North!” Haimer stood stiffly, the days events suddenly heavy weights in his joints. The line was being ordered to form as skirmishers and he forced himself to step up over the lip of the trench before the others. Connelly joined him, smiling as he fell in beside him.

“All that--”growled Billings as he kicked the dirt savagely, “and them bastards still didn’t try us!”

“Not yet, anyhow--so far!” said someone as they fell into line.

“Tell that to them what was below, in them trenches yonder,” said Connelly, hooking a thumb down the hill. Fallen rebels were still visible in the grasses below where they stood. Sergeant Hedley called for quiet, and when the remaining men in the trenches had assembled they fixed bayonets. What were they doing now? Not marching down the hill, surely. What if the rebels returned when they were near the first line of trenches? Or what if they were not gone at all, but only hiding? How did the officers even know the rebels were gone to begin with? All of this swarmed through Potter’s head, though he surmised he was not alone in such thoughts. They were returned then once more to the trench to wait while the sergeant went back to the observation post.

“What’s this all about then?” asked Henry.

Billings spat into the dirt at his feet, and sat on the lip of the trench. “Going to make us march down there I think. Damn stuffed shirt officers.”

“Quiet you two--” interjected Haimer with an aggressiveness that surprised Potter, “--let’s see what’s up before you start making pronouncements!” The younger man’s comment had the desired effect, and silence settled over them. Of course within each man questions and worries raged, partnered with fatigue which had begun at last to truly settle in after the long day. They were left to wait, tense and edgy for nearly an hour before the sergeants came back down the hill and formed them up. They were marched slowly down the hill, passing the grisly reminders of the earlier fight with bayonets at the ready. Potter looked back once, watching the slowly receeding safety of the hill and the observers at the top watching their progress in return. They slowed as  one, the line of men tense and alert as the sight met them. Sergeant Hedley moved forward, stepping over the fallen and approached the form of Dayton. Hedley stepped over, and gently rolled Dayton back, cradling the fallen man in his arms before hoisting him up over his shoulder. Other started forward now, some to stand watchful as others gathered up their dead and even finding one or two still clinging to life though wounded.

Haimer stood looking around him, hard faced and defiant until something caught his attention. “Did you hear that?” asked Haimer, but Potter had not and told him so. Stepping into the trench, Haimer came across a badly injured and pitiful looking rebel. For a while he simply stared down at the man, who wore a different uniform from his and was his enemy. This man had helped to wound and kill many of those he saw after a fashion as his own brothers--yet something else occurred to him then as well. Suddenly Haimer drew his canteen, and knelt beside the whimpering rebel. The man was dying, that was very clear, and he took the water with a sputtering cough on lips which were painted with bright blood. The rebel’s eyes sought Haimer’s, and his raspy voice was barely audible. He drew closer, and the rebel spoke in his ear some last secret before he was gone. Haimer drew back, and stood for a moment over his fallen enemy, who had somehow ceased to be hated in his eyes; and even ceased to be truly an enemy. For the first time, Haimer realized that this was a man--he had been a son, possibly a brother or husband and even a father. He was a soldier, just as Haimer himself was.

Potter stepped over at last, and looked down on the dead rebel before laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asked. Haimer looked at him, and nodded.

“I’m a soldier now, Potter,” Haimer said with a half smile, “But I think my eagerness is at an end.” From above, the lookout cheered, calling down the hill to Sergeant Hedely that the relief was approaching. At the front of the column of cavalry which preceded the main body, the guidon flapped merrily in the breeze. The horses were excited, and as the men carried their wounded and fallen away from the trees, the whinnying of the horses echoed over the hill. 

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.