Of Folly & Pards

The side pork snapped loudly over the flames of the small cook fire, and Private Alan Taylor sung quietly to himself as he tended the true delight of the day--fresh eggs. The eggs had been the work of his pard Dick Scarrow, who had charmed some young woman out of four of the large brown treasures. After much discussion amongst the members of their mess, it had been decided that they would scramble the eggs and share them out evenly.

“How they cooking up Taylor?” asked Tom Lamb, sniffing loudly and smiling.

“The pork is snapping and that first batch made some very fine grease! The eggs are cooking in it now--lord this is going to be pleasant eats, no thought about it!”

Lamb smiled, exposing the gap where he had taken a grazing kick from a mule some months back. Everyone agreed that Lamb had been lucky that the mule had not fully connected or he might have been killed. Lamb himself, superstitious as many soldiers were or became over time, had carried an iron mule shoe in his haversack which he had gotten from one of the division teamsters.

“Why spit in the eye of fortune?” Lamb would say when asked about it, “No soldier is blessed with enough luck to risk that!” Lamb was joined by Dick Scarrow and the ravenous personality that everyone called ‘Possum’--not for the common practice of the word being slang for a pal or friend, but because of an incident which occurred shortly after he had joined their battalion.

His real name was Vincent Scott, and he had arrived as a replacement for a man who had been killed in their early days of deployment. Being a replacement was not easy, as no one much warmed to his presence nor offered much in the way of advice about the rigors of the life he had been ushered into. As such it was no wonder that shortly Scott became the target of practical jokes, culminating in one pulled by none other than his now boon companions. Scarrow had pretended to take the nervous Scott into his confidence about the dangers of cleaning ones musket.

“With every charge you fire, even after cleaning it there tends to be a build up of powder in the breech” Scarrow had said, taking the unwitting Scott aside with a fatherly aire, “And if you’re not careful when you are thrusting the rod down with the jag--BOOM--it’s all over!”

“Just like that?” Scott had asked wide eyed.

“God as my witness! Lost a good pard to just such a mishap!”

Scarrow had wandered off then, rejoining the sniggering Lamb and Taylor who had been watching from a nearby bush.

“Alright, he’s primed--are you?” Scarrow asked with a wide grin to Lamb, who stood by with his musket handy.

“Sure am. I just loaded the power and wadded the paper. Should still make enough of a noise to give him fits!” laughed Lamb, his face turning red.

“Okay…he’s back at cleaning it…look how careful he’s being!” snickered Taylor, trying his hardest not to make too much noise. They watched as Scott tried his best to run his rod and jag down the bore to clean his weapon, holding it with only two fingers as though he was sure any moment it would erupt with a sudden explosion. Scarrow slapped Taylor on the shoulder, and turned to Lamb.

“Okay…let’s put him out of his misery!” With that, Lamb turned out slightly and fired his musket into the air. As they watched, Scott jerked back and nearly threw his musket away from him as he fell hard to the ground. The three men staggered out, laughing hysterically and went over to share the successful culmination of their joke on Scott.

Scott however, did not move, but remained where he had fallen. Taylor looked down at the man and stopped laughing. Lamb kneeled down and shook Scott but the former did not respond. Now men where approaching, drawn by the sound of the musket shot.

“What the hell was that? Lord, is he dead?” shouted a bearded Private from another company.

“He shoot hisself cleaning?” asked another voice.

“What the blazes is going on here?” shouted a sergeant who appeared through the ring of men who had gathered. “Who fired that shot? What’s this?” The sergeant bent down and looked Scott in the face, then stood back up and gently kicked him with his foot.

Scott’s eyes popped open, and he started to laugh. This of course only made the sergeant even more furious, prompting him to drag Scott to his feet. The reality that somehow Scott had in fact pulled his joke on them begun to dawn and Lamb decided he wanted to kill him for real this time. Of course he never had the chance, since all four of them had been hauled to the Captains tent and sentenced to work details and a three day stay in the bull pit. By the time they had come out, there never were four souls more closely knitted. For his excellent job of playing possum, Scott would forever be known as such.

“Oh Taylor! I can smell those eggs cooking! You done real good brother!” said ‘Possum’ as he slapped Scarrow on the back. Taylor finished up the preparations, and each man in turn passed over their mess.

“Taylor,” said Lamb with a worried sound to his deep voice “the eggs are grey. Why are my eggs grey?”

“Kinda grey-green I’d say”, added ‘Possum’.
Scarrow said nothing, but simply dug into his deep tin cup and spooned a helping of greasy side pork and eggs into his mouth. He sighed in contentment and nodded his approval.

“It’s some wood ash”, answered Taylor as he passed his little cellar of salt around to Scarrow.

“Wood ash?” asked Lamb incredulously.

Taylor nodded and smiled to Scarrow. ‘Possum’ had helped himself to a dash of salt and begun to wolf down his portion with abandon. Taylor looked up from his eggs and smiled at Lamb.

“Wind blew in some ash from the fire; it isn’t affecting the taste at all.”

Lamb stared down at his food in his canteen half a moment. ‘Possum’ leaned over saying “If you don’t want yours…”, but this spurred Lamb into overlooking the color. The others laughed, as Lamb smacked his lips loudly.

“Grey or not, these are good!” he said with a gap toothed grin.

The morning wore on, and all signs seemed to suggest that it would be a quiet day. Of course this was no guarantee, but after being the Army for almost a year Taylor was starting to feel he had a feel for such things. He sat back, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe whilst ‘Possum’ washed up the skillet. Taylor watched his companion scrubbing over a canvas pail that Lamb had brought up from a little stream which ran nearby their camp. The skillet slipped from his hands into the pail with a splash, and ‘Possum’ threw up his hands in frustration.

“Slippery as a fish! Why do I have to wash up, huh?”

“It was your turn.” answered Taylor. ‘Possum’ scowled and retrieved the skillet, leaning over on his stump and scrubbing hard with the broom corn whisk they used for such things.

“Well, we’re gonna need a new whisk soon. This one is about done in; what with the amount of scrubbing I’m having to do to get this burnt egg out of here.”

“I expect so. Maybe we can just cut it back again and re-wrap it?” ‘Possum help up the bedraggled whisk and cocked an eyebrow. Taylor chuckled, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Perhaps not then. Well, Scarrow will likely be able to get us another somewhere.”

Lamb and Scarrow rounded the line of tents at that moment, coats unbuttoned and looking hot. They had been summoned to a short work detail over near the officer’s tents, and returned with a funny look on their faces. Lamb knelt down and poked Taylor, his face betraying his need to share something.

“Hey, we heard something! You think we’re gonna just sit here all day?” He said with a glint of mischief in his eye.

Taylor looked over at Scarrow, who frowned and shook his head. “I’m guessing that the answer is, no?”

Lamb nodded and smiled conspiratorially. “That’s right pard! He heard them giving the orders ourselves, when we were digging out the Colonels fire pit. That rain we had last night apparently made the ground shift a bit filled the whole thing in.”

Taylor blinked at Lamb. “And?”

Lamb shook his head in confusion a moment, and then chuckled. “Oh, we’re going out on a--what he call it?”

“Reconnaissance in force.” answered Scarrow. Lamb nodded and resumed his gleeful report.

“Right, what he said. Sounds fun, huh?”

Taylor shrugged. “I guess. I thought that’s what the buttermilk cavalry was for? Looking about for what’s about.”

Scarrow nodded and took a seat. “It is, but Lieutenant ‘Folly’ is bored and argued that while the cavalry is busy to our West we could poke about to the East. Captain wasn’t all for it either, you know how he is about anybody swanning off without good reason. But, the Lieutenants got some big bugs looking out for him--so the Captain didn’t have much choice.”

Taylor groaned inwardly. ‘Folly’ was the nickname many of the men had for one of their newer Lieutenants. He was ambitious, adventurous, and typical of men who attained their rank through political connections. For the most part he was harmless enough, simply a pompous man who thought too highly of himself. Of course, that described a great many officers.

“I think it’ll be a lark! Might even be fun.” Said Lamb with his goofy smile.

Taylor shrugged. “Fun? Well I doubt that. When have you ever known marching around to be fun?” Lamb just frowned and shook his head. ‘Possum’ wandered over to Scarrow and presented the whisk for his inspection.

“We need a new one. This one is done in.”

“So I see.” Scarrow turned it over in his hands, before tossing the sad looking whisk into the remains of their cook fire. It smoldered for a long moment, before bursting into bright flames and being consumed fully.

*****


Lieutenant ‘Folly’ rode up and down along the company front with a great smile upon his face, shouting encouragement to the men. Some of the men grumbled that they just wanted to get moving, since they had already been waiting in formation for some time. For others this show of the Lieutenants only elicited yawns and giggles, but this stopped when the Captain arrived to see them off. ‘Folly’ halted his horse, and smartly saluted the Captain. Captain Arkins returned his salute, looking like a reluctantly indulgent father.

“That’ll be enough prancing Lieutenant, I want you moving. Remember my orders on this little jaunt. “said the Captain glancing at the assembled men. Only second section of first platoon had been assembled, and the lucky fellows not chosen waved and smiled in glee that they did not have to wander around as toy soldiers for the enjoyment of the Lieutenant.

“Of course sir!” responded ‘Folly’, enjoying himself.

“No further along out Eastern flank than the crossroads near Fairfax. I expect you back before four o’clock, and will want your report on the conditions of the roads upon your return.”

“Yes sir, it shall be as you request. The boys are ready and--”

“The boys have been ready for some time now. Just do as you have been ordered Daley.” Interrupted the Captain trying to speak quietly so the men wouldn’t hear the anger seeping into his voice. “I may have to allow you this farce, but I don’t have to like it.”

‘Folly’ looked stung, but saluted smartly. The Captain returned his courtesy and turned his horse at a slow trot back towards the battalion headquarters. The men of the second section watched the Captain go, and resigned themselves to their task.

“Still think this is gonna be a lark, Lamb?” teased ‘Possum’ as they assembled into a column of fours and proceeded to march away along the dusty road.

“Shut up ‘Possum’!”

“Quiet in the ranks!” shouted a sergeant behind them.

The day proved to be hot, and as the clouds of morning gave way to the clear uninhibited sunshine of mid-afternoon, Taylor wiped his brow and unbuttoned his coat. Scarrow, who marched along beside him, had taken a rag wetted by his canteen and tied it around his neck. Lamb took a short drink from his canteen and looked around him. The section had been walking for nearly an hour, the Lieutenant trotting along at the front of the column seemingly happy as a clam.

‘Possum’ patted the side of his canteen and nudged Lamb. “How long you figure we’ll be out here?”

“I don’t know. You heard the Captain though; we have to be home in time for dinner.” Lamb chuckled at his own joke.

“It’s just, it’s so hot and I only have half a canteen left.”

Taylor looked back at his friend. “Well stop drinking so much!”

“It’s not my fault! I filled it full like most everyone else before we left, but then He had us standing there in formation for so long that I started drinking on it before we’d even left.”

Taylor nodded in understanding; he had done the same thing. They had been called into formation and stood there waiting for ‘Folly’ to arrive for over thirty five minutes. With the heat, men had availed themselves of their canteens--indeed the sergeant had ordered them to drink. “Well, just go slow ‘Possum’. I don’t imagine it’s gonna get any cooler before we start for home again.”

At last ‘Folly’ halted the section on the road. A scraggly line of trees ran along the right side of the dusty track way, and though they offered very little shade the men crowded into whatever they could find. Dismounting from his horse, ‘Folly” took his reins in hand and wandered over to a large tree just a short away ahead. Having insured his horse was safely into the deeper shade; he beckoned the sergeant over and stood looking around.

“Aint that a sight!” commented Private O’Carroll pointing at the Lieutenant and his horse in the shade of the tree. “Nice to see he puts such care fer his horse, an leaves us out here to bake!”

Corporal Hashbrook frowned. “Just keep it down. Sooner we get through this, the better. Let’s not anyone make it worse.”

There were several rude comments to this, but the griping subsided. A noise caught the section’s attention and they looked up to see the sergeant salute the Lieutenant and stiffly make his way back to the column with a frown upon his face. “Alright men, on your feet!” shouted the sergeant with a bit more bite than seemed necessary. ‘Folly’ had mounted and was making his way along the road again. The sergeant, grim faced and clearly unhappy was grumbling. They hadn’t marched along for more than an hour more when they crested a hill and saw below them a small farm and a long field of beans. Working amongst the furrows a short distance away was a woman and two younger children. They stood up upon the sight of the column, the smaller of the two children skittering behind her skirts. ‘Folly’ ordered the column to halt, and moved forward towards the woman and her sun browned children. They were not dressed well, and looked to have seen better times.

“Salutations madam! “Have you seen any rebels recently?” said the Lieutenant as his horse trampled the first of rows of beans. Taylor saw the sergeant hang his head a moment, and was not at all surprised when the woman and her children simply turned and ran back towards the farm house. ‘Folly’ simply turned his horse about in the field, and rejoined the column.

“Your orders, sir?” asked the sergeant with a tired lilt to his voice which spoke volumes.

“Odd, wasn’t it sergeant?” responded the Lieutenant as the column moved forward.

“What sir?”

“That woman’s reaction, for her to run away like that.”

“Perhaps you frightened them sir.”

“Nonsense!” responded ‘Folly’ sounding as though he thought the sergeant’s suggestion utterly foolish. There was a sudden shout from nearer the farmhouse, and everyone’s attention was there.

“What was that sergeant? What did they say?” asked ‘Folly’ loudly. He had stopped the column just opposite on the road from the ramshackle house and outbuildings, and stared down at the sergeant for answers.

“They said go to blazes, sir.” came the sergeants reply.

Suddenly the shout came again, but this time it was clear what the voice said.

“You hear me, you bastards? You try an’ take anything off us and I’ll shoot you dead! Turn around, and tell your thieving friends we aint giving up nothing more!” It was a woman’s voice, of that Taylor was sure.

The sergeant looked up at the Lieutenant and shrugged. “She probably thinks we mean to requisition supplies from her, sir. Maybe we ought to…”

“You heard her sergeant! She threatened violence against Federal soldiers, clearly she must be a rebel sympathizer!” interrupted the Lieutenant, with a fierce cast to his gaze.

“With all due respect sir, I think she’s just scared.”

“Sergeant, we are going to search this property and take into custody anyone who resists us! Form the section as skirmishers!”

“But, Lieutenant…”

The Lieutenant wheeled his horse about and pointed at the sergeant. “That was an order, sergeant!” The sergeant did an about face and joined the column.

“Attention, section! By the right file, as skirmishers--take intervals--MARCH!” He shouted hoarsely, his face red and his hands trembling with anger. The Lieutenant formed on the right, and the section formed a long single line facing the farm house. Taylor looked at Scarrow with a frown unsure of what they were doing, but his gut telling him it was wrong.

“I can’t believe this!” whispered “Possum’ loudly on Taylor’s left side. All along the skirmish line the men stood looking at one another with eyes large and full of doubt.

‘Folly’ drew his sword with an unnerving rasping sound and shouted “Skirmishers, forward at the quickstep--March!”

Slowly, they began to make their way across the bean furrows, men tripping and coughing as they kicked up the loose soil. They had made only a short progress when suddenly the woman leaned out the window and shouted once more at them. She held an old looking fowling gun in her hands, but did not aim it at them.

“I mean it! You leave us alone, I aint foolin’!”

“She’s armed sergeant--are the men loaded?” asked ‘Folly’ pointing the tip of his sword at the woman.

The sergeant didn’t even look up. “Yes sir, as ordered before we left camp.”

“Good. Fix bayonets.”

As long as they lived the men of first Platoon--second section, would remember that moment. The Lieutenant was close enough that they all heard the order that was given, and every eye went to the sergeant. Bayonets? The sergeant for his part stopped advancing, and the other men with him. He said nothing, simply staring ahead of him. ‘Folly’ advanced a few more steps, and then wheeled back about to where the men had stopped.

“Did you hear me sergeant? I told you to have the men fix bayonets!”

The sergeant looked up at last at the Lieutenant, and didn’t move. After a long moment, we looked back down, and said in a quiet but clear voice--”No, sir. I will not obey that command.”
“NO!? THAT WAS AN ORDER!” shouted ‘Folly’, his pale face going red.

“I will not obey your order sir; I think that woman and her children are not a threat to us.”

“She is armed sergeant! Fine, you are relieved! Section, fix bayonets!” screamed the Lieutenant, wheeling his horse about towards the barn again. As he did, there came a shot from the window and birdshot peppered the furrows well off to their right. While the woman’s shot posed no real threat to any of then, the loud report spooked the Lieutenants horse and it bucked hard. With an angry shout, ‘Folly’ was thrown hard to the ground, knocking him senseless. The terrified horse kicked and bucked a moment, before finally racing off over the hill from which they came. The men dropped into the dirt, muskets up.

“She shot ‘Folly’!” said Franks at the end of the skirmish line.

“Naw, his horse shied--I saw her shot go off wide to the right!” responded Doyle.

“Is he dead?” whispered Sykes.

“If only!” responded Hashbrook.

“You men stay down now.” shouted the sergeant down the line. “Cover that window boys.”

“What are we gonna do sergeant?” asked ‘Possum’.

“Whatever we have to boys! We have to get ourselves out of this pickle the Lieutenant done put us in.” came the reply.

The sergeant drew out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and drawing his ramrod out from his musket tied the grey-white cloth to the fluted end. “Now, you boys keep quiet while I see if I can get this affair back from the cocked hat it’s been knocked into. I want you all to keep a sharp eye, but fingers off those triggers! No more carelessness today!” There was quiet agreement, and with that the sergeant crawled forward slightly and raised the rod upwards whilst waving it back and forth.

“Hey there in the house!” It was silent for what seemed like a long while. At last, the woman spoke, but did not show herself.

“I hear you out there!”

“Ma’am, I want you to lay down the bird gun!”

“Aint doing! You all get out and leave us be!”

“Ma’am that is exactly what we plan to do, but frankly I’m afraid of getting birdshot in my backside!”

They could hear the woman laughing softly, but then she answered. “I’ll not shoot any of you boys--but I want you all off my land.” The sergeant looked back at the skirmish line and nodded at them. Slowly they rose to their feet, and began to start back towards the road they had come from. The sergeant called Lamb and Doyle over to carry the Lieutenant back towards the road, both men groaning but obeying the order. As they heaved him onto Lambs shoulder, the woman cried out to them once more.

“He aint dead, is he? I wasn’t aiming at nobody!”

The sergeant shook his head and replaced his ramrod and handkerchief into their proper places. “No, he fell from his horse and dazed himself--but don’t go making a habit of waving muzzles at folks from now on!” The woman came into view in the window, and with a look of guilt set the bird gun off to the side. Her children crowded up next to her, and the sergeant could see the tears spill from her tired green eyes. He doffed his cap to her, and then followed Doyle and Lamb back towards the road.

*****

The heat did not abate, but only seemed to grow stronger as the sun made its way across the late afternoon sky. Nearly everyone had taken turns carrying ‘Folly’ by this point, as he sprawled unconscious in the outstretched gum blanket offered up from the sergeant’s haversack. Coming to a halt at the large tree where the Lieutenant and his horse had taken refuge some while earlier, the men fell into the long grass. Between the heat and effort of lugging ‘Folly’ along, they were becoming exhausted. The sergeant had ordered everyone to strip their fatigue blouses and to march in shirt sleeves, but now the water supply was dwindling dangerously. Scarrow knelt down next to Taylor and poked his friend.

“You alright Taylor?” asked Scarrow.

“I’m not feeling so great; remind me to play hospital rat next time someone has a fancy idea like this, eh?”

Scarrow shook his head and took Taylor’s canteen, making him drink. The lightness of his canteen betrayed the seriousness of the problem they faced. Scarrow took up his own canteen and made Taylor drink some more. The sergeant came over and glanced at Scarrow knowingly, then slapped Taylor on the shoulder.

“Don’t you worry” the sergeant with a smile “Scarrow has a lot of horse sense, he knows the way home.” Scarrow patted Taylor on the shoulder and telling his friend that he’d be right back, he took the sergeant aside.

“Taylor was down with the heat awhile back. Usually it aint much trouble because he carries an extra canteen, and that seems to keep him going. But with all the rush and wait--”

“He didn’t bring it” interrupted the sergeant “Yeah, I think it’s safe to say none of us are out here feeling like this was well planned or carried off.” The sergeant shook his head and wiped his brow. “No one is much good on water, so Taylor isn’t the only one who will be suffering with the heat before we get back. Lugging the Lieutenant doesn’t help matters.”

Scarrow looked over that the body half covered by the gum blanket. “He really wanted to take bayonets to that woman and her children; it’s hard to believe even now.”

The sergeant spit, kicking dust at his feet. “She shouldn’t have been waving that fowling piece in our faces either! She was lucky no one shot her being so careless that way, but I imagine she had her reasons.”

“Given any thought to what we are going to tell the Captain when we get back with ‘Folly’ over there?”

The sergeant squinted at Scarrow a moment, and then shook his head. He looked over where the Lieutenant lay for some moments before he looked up again.

“Don’t give yourself grey thinking about it Scarrow.” He tapped his fading stripes. “That’s what these are for boy. Go tend your friend.”

When they had rested for a bit, the sergeant made them move on again. They drew lots to see who had the dubious honor of taking the first round hauling ‘Folly’, and once situated they trudged along. For Taylor, it was mostly a blur. He moved as a man driven by the promise he would be back to his own tent again soon and the constant encouragement of Scarrow at his side. The sergeant moved like a man possessed of great energy, moving up and down the staggered column keeping everyone moving. When they reached at last the picket line just beyond their encampment, they looked the worse for wear. The sight of their officer in tow as he was set action in motion and a wagon was brought up to carry them the remaining distance. Questions were shouted left and right around them, but Taylor heard none of it. As Scarrow helped him into the wagon he lost all sense of place and drifted into nothingness.

*****

Taylor woke with a start and sat bolt upright, but was then instantly sorry he had.

“OOOH! My head feels like I’ve had horses running over it all afternoon!” He closed his eyes and lay back again, as the sound of Scarrow’s laugh filled his ears. “It isn’t funny! It hurts! Where am I anyway?”
“Hospital, you’ve been out senseless for most of a day. Orderly says you’ll be alright, but you need to watch the heat and exhaustion.” came Scarrow’s response. Taylor opened his eyes slowly; they ached with a feeling between headache and extreme fatigue.

“Careful with the heat, huh? Easier said than done down here!”

Scarrow nodded at him and frowned. “Yeah well, pard you are being cashiered.”

Taylor let his friends words sink in a moment, closed his eyes and frowned.

“The Army is discharging me?”

“That’s right pard, medical reasons. Surgeon says with your body so messed with the heat, it’s only a matter of time before it could kill you if you don’t get a long stretch of recovery.”

Taylor couldn’t believe it; he was going home from the Army. He felt a sudden panic, and realized with amazement that he wanted desperately to stay here. Despite all the many hours they had all dreamt of going home, he did not want to go.

“I can’t go home Scarrow, not like this! I got better before, why shouldn’t I get better this time?” he asked, tears in his aching eyes. Scarrow laid his hand in Taylor’s, and nodded.

“Aint no sense fighting it Alan. Orderly says the orders have been cut and you head out with the other wounded tomorrow. It’s done brother, aint your fault--it just is.”

Taylor closed his eyes, but his tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. He opened them again, staring at the canvas ceiling of the large wall tent, and leaned over slightly towards his friend in the creaky cot he lay in.

“You saved my life Scarrow. You kept me moving out there; I would have died out there if not for you.”

Scarrow smiled thinly and put out his hand. Taylor took it in his own hand and squeezed it tightly. “You know,” continued Taylor with sudden emotion making his lip quiver, “I’m your friend forever more Dick. You ever need anything--anything--and I’ll be there for you.”

Scarrow sniffed, his eyes welling up slightly. He let go of Taylor’s hand, and nodded. “We had some good times,” he answered as he turned to make his way out of the tent, “we certainly did.”

“Wait! What happened with the Lieutenant? Did the sergeant catch it for refusing back there in the field?” asked Taylor suddenly, feeling as though his grasp on this world he had lived in was slowly fading away. Scarrow stopped and shrugged.
“Nothing came of it. ‘Folly’ knocked himself silly and can’t remember what happened beyond how rude the sergeant was before that rabbit spooked his horse and he took a tumble. The Captain was so furious over the whole affair I rather think--big bugs or not--the Lieutenant will catch hell.”

“But there wasn’t any rabbit…” Taylor smiled as Scarrow tapped the end of his nose knowingly.

“I’ll come back and see you with the boys later.” said Scarrow with a wave as he left the tent. He brushed past an orderly who made his way beyond where Taylor’s cot rested, and on into the rest of the ward. Somewhere in the camp beyond the hospital tent, a soldier played ‘Home Sweet Home’ as his pards sang along.

Sudbury's Murder

Opening his eyes, Harold Bentley took in all the familiar sights of the world within which he resided and groaned. He closed his eyes again, and rolled to his left, only to discover that there was a stone or tree root prepared to deny his attempts at further sleep. Rolling to his right was out of the question; Harvey, Thomas and Roth were insurmountable obstacles. They hadn’t chosen to be such foils to his getting more sleep of course, but in a shelter half--or ‘dog tent’ as many men called them-- there was only so much room to go around. Bentley allowed his eyes to slowly adjust to the grayish morning light and sat up on an elbow to take in the world more fully.

It was late spring, and Bentley took some pleasure in the cooler morning air. It was rich with the earthen scents of soil, and living things. A farmer, such as Bentley was, knew such smells intimately. He had grown up on them, striding beside his father through their fields as a boy in New Hampshire. He remembered how they used to walk with his older brother Charles in the meadow and pasture, never saying a word until the love for the land would overwhelm the old man. He would stress to them the importance of the earth they trod, point out every marker of their property. He would encourage them to kneel down beside him when he dug his hands into the soil; pass them moist clods of earth to feel between their fingers.

“Feel the texture,” father would say, “note the smell of it. The land is alive boys, and if you understand that when you lend your hand to the plow, then you will succeed in making a life as a farmer.”

Private Bentley crawled from the tent, the morning dew shocking him awake as his hands touched the cold wet grass. He stood up and wiped the moisture from his hands on his trousers and stretched his back. Languid white smoke drifted across the company street from a cooking fire resistant to the wishes of some of the men to encourage the flames; whilst conversations murmured amongst the tents. A little chickadee landed atop the tent pole a short distance away, and cocked its head at Bentley as if to greet him.

“Good morning to you little bird,” said Bentley with a smile. The bird flitted away, bringing a chuckle to the lanky man. He yawned and wandered at a shuffle down the street--Minnesota Avenue to the men--and settled himself on a misshapen stump which immediately tested Bentley’s coordination and balance in exchange for a place to sit.

“Careful Bent that stump still green-broke.”

Bentley smiled at his friend Daniel Sudbury, a round faced man with bright blue eyes. A cup of steaming coffee was handed over, and Bentley--or Bent as Sudbury always called him--took it with a smile and a nod of appreciation.

“Your type of morning Bent,” said Sudbury looking about them and sipping from his own cup “Soon as I woke I knew you’d be quiet and content this morning.”

“Someone might as well be.”

“I suppose that is true enough.” said Sudbury with a nod as he tended the stubborn flames. A crow sailed slowly over the clearing in which their encampment was situated, drawing Bentley’s attention. It sailed in a circle for a moment before landing in a tree top nearby, and calling in its’ harsh voice to the sky.

“I hate them birds.”

Bentley looked over at his friend, who was also watching the crow now. His eyes looked hard, and his hand was clenched in a fist. Bentley frowned, and wondered what could incite such an emotion for a simple animal. Was he superstitious? Sudbury had never seemed the type, though he supposed that even as well as he knew his friend it was possible. It could be their nuisance to farmers he supposed. Sudbury was a farmer as Bentley was.

“Why Suds? They get into your granary or something?”

Sudbury shook his head, and looked back to the fire. He didn’t answer, only resumed poking the fire. For its’ part, the crow called twice more and flew away over the trees in search of more friendly parts perhaps. The fire started to pop a little, evidence of the wetness of the wood. Bentley returned to his coffee, and the pair sat in silence for awhile. A second, and then a third crow drifted over their heads and on in the direction that the first had taken. Sudbury didn’t look up when the birds croaked their coarse voices overhead, but the frown on his face deepened. The curiosity within Bentley grew, as did his reluctance to pursue the matter openly. Instead, he turned his attentions to the comforting qualities of the morning. Daniels and Brock stumbled half-awake to join them; Brock looking a bit worn but grunting approval when a cup of ‘morning life’ was placed in his hand.

“I don’t think I shall ever have a good night sleep again.” groused Daniels hanging his head. Bentley smiled.

“Sure you will! Never slept well at home?”

“Not with my wife, that woman is unnatural affectionate!”

Everyone laughed at that, even Sudbury snapped out of his gloom. They burst even harder into laughter when Brock, who seemed to brighten a bit as well squeaked--”How many youngsters you got again?”

“Shut your pie holes, by damnation!” shouted someone from one of the a-frame tents along the street. Daniels held up seven fingers and the group tittered as quietly as they might. Bentley smiled and thought about his children a moment. Geoffrey would be mucking out the cattle barn now, ten years of age but trying so hard to be a man. John, still his mothers ever present shadow at five. Susanna, the image of her mother--fourteen years of age and smitten the foolish romances of youth. Sometimes Bentley wondered if he would miss their entire childhood away at war. A pang of regret and sorrow welled up within him, and he sipped his coffee in an attempt to drive it away. His own father would not have understood such sentimentality; all he ever seemed to truly love was their land.

“You listening Bentley?” asked Daniels. Bentley snapped briefly from his thoughts and stared absently at his friend.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Daniels laughed. “Never mind let the Joe work on him a bit more.”

The others chuckled and Bentley smiled to himself, but not for the camaraderie of his pards. He was thinking of his wife, Livy. If any person truly knew his soul with the equal of the omnipotence of God, it was his strong and beautiful girl. She knew how he lived and died with his children’s triumphs and heartaches. How he missed them all. Being so far from home was like a wound within him, and he found that he could not safely allow himself to think too often on the distance. Bentley supposed he wasn’t alone in this of course, but some things served best to be kept close. The loud call of several more crows and Sudbury’s scowl drew him from his thoughts.

“Them damn things. That’s a full murder of ‘em now.”

“You and your theories Suds” laughed Daniels rising and starting back towards his tent.

“What theory is that?” asked Brock making Daniels pause a moment.

“Old Sudbury here has it in his head that every time you see a flock--”

“A murder, they calls a group of crows”, retorted Sudbury sullenly.

“Sorry, every time you see a murder of crows fly over the camp we will shortly go into the field.” Daniels shook his head and continued towards his tent. Brock sat looking thought and seemed to grow paler again before turning back to Sudbury.

“Is that so Suds?” he asked.

Sudbury tossed the remains of his coffee down into the sputtering fire, sending a phantom of steam and smoke up between them. Through the hiss of the embers, he quietly answered.

“That’s it. You’ll see. Crows know when the supper table is being laid. They aint no shirkers for their purpose in nature.” Brock grunted quietly, and just sat watching the embers of what remained of the fire as Sudbury got up and went back to his tent. Bentley shrugged and kicked some dirt towards what remained of the fire.

“Well, what got into everyone this morning?”

Brock looked up at him, and Bentley stopped when he glimpsed the others eyes. What he had initially taken as the affects of a poor nights sleep, Bentley now recognized as quiet terror in the other mans features. He knew it plainly, as any soldier who had experienced an engagement had seen such looks countless times.

“I’m scared Bentley” said Brock in a quiet voice, his eyes not daring to meet Bentley’s a second time.

“We all get the willies now and then Brock wouldn’t be natural not too.”

“No, not like this. I had a vision--a dream or something of the like. It didn’t feel like I was sleeping though, it had a quality to it that weren’t like a nightmare. I think I might be for it.” Brock paused; he hung his head and was quiet a moment before he spoke again. “I had pushed it out of my mind, decided it was nothing before Sudbury brought up the crows.”

Bentley suddenly felt anger well up in him in sympathy for Brock, and he turned and yelled after his friend--”Suds, damn you! You and your stupid superstitious blather!” There was some chuckle from men nearby at this outburst, and Bentley could see Sudbury turn back to look in his direction. Brock stood up quietly shook his head.

“No, Harold it’s not Suds--it’s those birds. The crows. They were in my dream, like Suds said.” Bentley turned and looked at Brock, whose features had taken on a set quality with all trace of the fear gone to be replaced with a calm look. “I don’t know what to think Bentley, I don’t know what might be coming or not. I was never much of a god fearing man, not much taken with the scriptures or anything.”

“Brock, this is silly--don’t go talking like that.”

“No, listen to me Bentley.” Brock moved close, his eyes earnest but calm and filled with certainty. “I want you to do any speaking over me when--if that time comes. Promise me?”

Bentley nodded. “I promise. But it’s gonna be for nothing.”

Brock smiled and nodded. He seemed suddenly to have cast off some invisible weight that had been upon him. “You’re probably right Bentley. Like as not, we’ll spend all day sitting in camp waiting for more waiting.” With that he turned and wandered back towards his tent. Bill Thomas, Ed Roth and Will Harvey--Bentley’s tent mates--wandered up and clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.

“Morning Harold. What’s all the shouting about?” Asked Roth as they stood together, watching the retreating form of Brock.

“Oh, nothing. People getting nervous. Stupid superstitions giving people the fright.” Bentley answered, then turned and lightly punched Thomas in the arm. “That’s for leaving me the damn root last night!”

They laughed, and Thomas and Bentley set to scuffling in a playful fight. Overhead a crow flew Northwest over the camp, towards a dark hanging cloud of smoke just over the horizon. From this vantage, one could see the sporadic copses of trees spreading out over the varying ground along the wide dirt track that locals called the Hapston road. The crow followed this road with the natural wisdom of its kind towards the small village of Grosset Station, some 15 miles distant from where Bentley’s division camped. The obsidian winged bird soared using a warm updraft, generated by a fire which was burning in that village. To its keen eyesight, the federal cavalry that was ransacking the town was viewed with clarity. The crow alighted atop of a tree just outside of town, and called loudly. It was answered quickly by others, who sat in similar trees. Smoke billowed into the air from the barn that by design or some accident was engulfed beyond saving now by hungry flames. The crow cocked its head, watching as the small party of federals was surprised by riders clad in butternut. Swords clashed, a bullet took a man from his saddle and dropped him hard into the mud at the base of the crow’s tree. He groaned, and moved no more. Soon a haggard, bloodied federal raced away from Grosset Station. His horse whinnied and kicked as the cavalryman put spur to the beast, bullets zipping over his shoulders. Below in Grosset Station, the rebel cavalry gathered and rode back the direction they had come. The crow watched them leave, galloping back towards a grey-butternut haze on the horizon. Smoke drifted through the tree in which it was perched, and the crow cawed loudly before taking flight to find a new roost. The crows would wait here patiently. In time, if no one came to move the fallen below, they would do what they had done for eternity. In Grosset Station, the barn burned steadily.

*****


“Lord Almighty! Why don’t they just let us go?”

“Mind your language Daniels! You better start working that salt out of your mouth now or you’ll slip up and do it when we get back home!” responded a private that Bentley recognized but couldn’t name. Daniels, down along the rank from where Bentley stood, wasn’t taking the advice.

“Well, how long are they fixing on keeping us standing here?”

“Long as them damn pumpkin rinds want, course!” Came a reply from well down the ranks. Bentley could not see the speaker, but like those about him he smiled and nodded. The source of the problem was that they had been near the end of their hour long drill when the Lieutenant had been called over to the Captains tent by a runner. Rather than just dismissing the company and ending drill, they had been told to stand at the rest. This in itself would have probably been fine had they not been doing so for over twenty minutes. First sergeant Pulaski wandered by, looking a bit impatient himself. Men held their tongues until he was well along the line, and then resumed their grousing. Pulaski was fair, but he had little tolerance for ‘tittering and bellyachers’ as he called it. Bentley just was thankful that they had been left to stand in the shade at least, given that the sun had broken through the clouds and the temperature had risen. He recalled when the battalion was first mustered at Fort Snelling; one of the training officers had left them standing in formation on the parade ground in the chilling Minnesota winter. They had marched just past a barracks building and into a lane where the wind could get at them freely, stopped, and then the officers had stepped back into the safety of the windbreak to discuss something. While they might have only been standing in the cold wind for fifteen minutes or so, that night brought various plots of murder and revenge in barracks for their perceived ill use. Bentley chuckled to himself thinking of those green days, but his mood turned on a somber note. They had been a lucky bunch overall, loosing fewer men than many other outfits. Still, there had been losses. Bentley shifted the weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep ahead of the aching fatigue which was setting into his legs.

The very first had been a friend of his, who had died in a stupid skirmish with some rebel militia along Seven Mile Creek. Bentley frowned as he thought back to the surprised look on Erickson’s face when a lucky shot hit him between the eyes. The next day had given their battalion its first real engagement when they had run into Van Dorn’s boys at Farmington. A lot had changed since then, but nothing more than themselves.  He realized that when he thought of Erickson’s face, he could not really picture the man anymore. That rather bothered him, and so he tried again to bring his dead friends face to mind. Frustrated he moved on, and ticked off in his head the names of those others they had lost along the way. Some had been lost to battle; many to illness and wounds which never healed but festered and spread to the blood. Some others had lived and simply been mustered out. He wondered how they had found home when they returned. Bentley shuffled his feet again, wondering how those at home had found their returning soldier--many missing limbs or worse.

“Attention Battalion!” shouted first sergeant Pulaski as he went by the Bentley at a brisk walk. He met with the captain, who was followed closely by the first and second lieutenants. The long roll sounded, as drummers somewhere near the regimental headquarters summoned other companies into formation. Bentley cast a glance back to where Sudbury stood. He looked back at Bentley with steely eyes.

“Remember” whispered Brock loudly from down the rank. Bentley turned and looked at him, nodding.

“I remember.” His stomach suddenly felt like lead, and he felt the old feeling of anxious energy in his chest. The captain called them to attention, and began speaking to them in his energetic way. Bentley heard nothing. He was too taken up with his thoughts of the action they were clearly headed into. He was a mass of competing emotions, as he often was before the battalion went out into the field. He told himself the fear he felt was normal, part of this life he had engaged himself to in hopes of doing his duty for his country. He also knew some of it came from the fact that Brock was certain he was going to die. Bentley felt that there was order to the world, but that in battle it was chance or luck that saw some through and others to their end. Surely it wasn’t ordained by fate or God that some men simply were meant to die at a certain place or a certain time. If that was true, then what place did hope have here? If it was all predestined and set, what good was faith when the bullets began to fly? The colonel came up upon his horse shouting something encouraging, and the men around him cheered.

“Hurrah!” shouted the lively voice of Daniels.

“Hurrah!” shouted Roth, as Thomas waved his cap in the air.

“Hey, hard case--you alright?” asked Harvey poking him in the ribs from the right.

A command was shouted and the ranks became columns of four, placing Brock in front and to his right and Sudbury behind him. They began to march, and the drumbeat urged them on. Bentley looked at Harvey, who now had attracted the attention of Thomas and Roth as well to his quiet condition.

“Harold? What’s eating you?” asked Thomas.

Overhead, two crows sailed past in the direction they were headed.

Bentley shook his head and frowned.

“I hate those birds.”

Salt Horse and Stump

“How can you eat that?”, asked the scruffy faced soldier as he poked his bayonet into the glowing embers of the small fire at his feet. Sparks swirled into the dark autumn air over their heads, dancing slowly until each winked out and vanished. His companion, little more than a dark form crouched with a small skillet in hand by the fire, shrugged. A steady sound of snapping, fizzing grease emanated from the skillet, drawing the shadowy soldiers attentions. The small orange flames flared a moment, revealing his companions blue eyes and easy smile.

“I soaked it for a good long while,” the blue eyed soldier responded, “you really ought to give this batch a chance.”

The scruffy faced soldier shifted on his seat–a mossy edged stump which looked as though it had stood in that glen for years–and shook his head. Overhead, a brisk wind made the skeleton like branches of the old oaks sway and creak.

“Funny isn’t it”, asked the blue eyed soldier as he looked up from his cooking, “how much this country is like home?”.

His companion , scratching his face, looked about silently. After a few moments pause, he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose autumn is autumn everywhere–still it is kind of funny it seems so like home.”

Around them leaves danced across the dewy grass, and the flickering flames of the fire threw long shadows over the men. Private Bill Harmon scratched his face again, thinking that is was time at last to brave a razor. He watched his friend, private John Boyd poking at his crackling slab of salt pork which was snapping away in his skillet, and felt his stomach lurch. Salt pork–a heavily salt preserved, thoroughly fatty staple of the Army–was often called “salt horse” by those dubious of it’s true origin. Boyd, due to his prodigious love of the stuff, was known lovingly by the same moniker amongst his friends. Harmon watched as “salt horse” eagerly fished the still snapping slab of meat from the skillet and carefully took a bite.

“Mmm, that’s good. You sure you won’t have any?”, asked “salt horse” pushing the greasy meat towards him on the end of his fork.

“No thanks,” said Harmon shaking his head as he turned slightly away once more on his stump. “Salt horse” just shrugged and sat back with a contented sigh next to the fire to devour his steaming meal. Taking up his tin cup, “salt horse” plunked the meat into in and sat chewing noisily with fork in hand and a smile upon his face.

“Back home,” he said between a bite, “we would sit around in my brothers house and tell ghost tales around this time of year. Scare the living soul of our poor sister–and she had the furthest to travel home too if she and her’s didn’t spend the night. Ha ha! What times those were–and her pie! Oh, her pie.” He was quiet for a long while, as the fire crackled and Harmon watched his expression fall to a more melancholy set. “Seems almost another life ago.”, he said at last as he absently took another bite of his salt pork.


Harmon nodded, and looked up to see three of their fellows appear from the darkness to join them. They were in their gear, but their muskets hung over their shoulders by the sling.

“Back from post, or just going?”, asked Harmon as the three men took up spots and “salt horse” made offerings of grease to all–none accepted.

“Just back,”, said Husby–a tall youngster who had eyes which showed age beyond his years, “and it was damn cold.”

“Cussing is the sign of a weak mind,” retorted a clerk-ish looking companion with small spectacles on a broad face named Williams, “but you’re right, it is damn cold.” Husby smiled and flashed a gesture to his friend, who laughed and held his hands out to the fire. The third man, a quiet sort named Martin, simply kneeled on his haunches and leaned his musket against his shoulder. Soon his eyes closed, and “salt horse” smiled and poked his knee.

“Go to your tent if you’re going to sleep! You want to pitch over into the fire or something?”, asked “salt horse” with a grin.

“Im not asleep”, answered Martin without opening his eyes, “just resting.”

There was chuckle around the fire, and then silence settled over them as each man huddled together and enjoyed the radiance of heat from the fire. Husby placed two gnarled bits of wood on the flames and once more sent sparks and embers whirling through the night sky above them. Some moments later, Martin spoke again.

“You lot hear about poor Bowman?”, he asked, his grey eyes suddenly open.

“No,” answered Harmon, “his leg again?”

Martin nodded, and several of the men shook their heads.

“I knew he should’ve drained it longer!”, spat Husby, “you don’t break a bone like he did without making sure that there aint no pus! It’s no different than with a draft animal you have to root around in there and..”

“You mind Husby?”, asked “salt horse” interrupting suddenly with his greasy meal dangling only inches from another bite, “I think we get the inference.”

The men laughed, and Husby halted but frowned. Michael Bowman’s plight was known to them all, and though not in their platoon was universally pitied. The man had been kicked in his left leg by an especially cantankerous mule when the whole company had been passing several wagons on a march; and the astronomical chances of being felled so, combined with the public nature of the injury had turned his case into a company wide discussion. He had been taken to the hospital, and after several weeks returned with a limp but seemingly well otherwise. One would think that having recovered would diminish his instant celebrity–but in a camp which was basically sitting with little to do beyond daily drill and fatigue duty this simply was not the case. Discussion instead turned to the likeliness of being so injured while on the march, and followed often with the exchange of every bizarre tale of unfortunate accident and death whilst in the Army. Now it seemed that poor Bowman was thrust to the forefront once more, as Martin would explain to his hushed audience. Michael Bowman had reported to the sick call that morning, his leg swollen and pain wracked. He had been accompanied by his tent mate, Kyle Zimmerman, from whom Martin had gotten the tale first hand.

“Poor fella, he’s loose it this time.”, said Harmon stirring the embers once more with his bayonet.

“If he’s lucky!”, responded Husby, “infection like that take a man fast as you can blink.”

There was a general agreement, and a short few words of prayer was said in Bowman’s name before silence descended once more.

“So,” started Harmon, trying to rekindle the happier mood once more, “ghost tales huh? We used to do that when I was young, sitting around the stove when my granny was still living. That woman could tell a tale!”.

“Salt horse” smiled and nodded, while the others looked on not quite following. Harmon, sensing he had set the hook, explained.

“Salt horse here and I were talking about how this place reminds us of Minnesota in autumn–and telling tales with family and all.”, he said with a shrug.

The others nodded, and Williams removed his spectacles from his face to start polishing them with a rag. “Well,” he said studying his work, “if it’s a ghostly tale you want–I have a good one, and best of all it’s true!”.

Everyone laughed, and several shouts of “sure it’s true” and “we’ve heard that before”, were voiced. At last everyone was quiet and expectantly watching in eagerness for Williams tale to begin.

*****
The Pooka

“When I was young, there was this Irish family that lived about 5 miles down the dusty track that we called a road , and one day the eldest grandfather of the farm died. He had lived a good long life, been kind and generally neighborly, so of course a host of people gathered for his wake. Now, I know Husby–being American-Irish himself--knows what a traditional Irish wake calls for, but let me tell you that I had no idea and what a treat it was! I mean, this poor old fellow is dead (and laying right there for all to see in his casket too) but all around him is food and drink and a great attempt at merrymaking. Not that the family was all smiles of course, but those of us unrelated did our best to celebrate the man’s life as much as his passing. This was in early autumn, and the day had been largely clear bright blue skies; but as the evening came on dark clouds rolled overhead and even the air seemed heavy. My parents and sisters and brothers had packed up to go, but I had begged my father to stay a little longer. It was, I argued after-all, only 5 miles (ah, to be young enough to think 5 miles was a leisurely walk again) home and I could find my way in the dark. You see, I had heard that stories were about to be told amongst those adults and near adults still remaining. Well, when you are 13 years of age, you yearn to be seen as more than you are–and my father kindly allowed me to stay. Well, that and at the time I was terribly smitten with the 16 year old Mary–the second oldest of the family. Anyway, that doesn’t matter, either way my father allowed me to stay and I sat and listened to the old timers tell their tales of the deceased and eventually as the night came on the stories turned to spooks, devils and the like. There were some good stories, but half way through I was bored (what scares an old man often is nothing to the imagination of a 13 year old boy!) And started to make my leave when one of the older women of the family stood up and shrieked. She was pointed at the door frame of the doorway that led to the back yard, and looked very agitated.

“Pooka! Pooka!”, she wailed and pointed to a great big black wasp which had alighted from somewhere on the wood. It was, I admit, large of size–and had these sulfur yellow eyes. I had never seen it’s like before then, nor have I again since–but at the time I simply stood dumbfounded at the terror that a bug could inspire. Sure, it was not terribly common to still see such insects at that time of year, but not wholly odd either. Her shrieking served more to alarm me than anything else, but being a gallant young man (Mary was on hand, how could I not seize the chance to put right her elderly relatives issue?) I stepped over and slapped at the wasp. It went careening about the room, and finally vanished out a window–at which I turned and said triumphantly, “There you are, no more pooka!”. The gathered group, mostly older folks and family just looked at me a moment and then suddenly the whole wake was called to an end.

“Did I do something wrong?”, I asked the father earnestly.

“No, no son. It’s just time we went to bed, and you ought to go home. I will drive you there, just let me hook up the cart.”, he had answered with a distressed look in his eyes. I felt certain I had ruined some custom I wasn’t aware of and apologized. The father simply shook his head and told me again that it wasn’t that way at all, but that he should get me safely home. With that, he stepped out the back door–halting briefly on the stood to look back in at me–and was gone. All at once, the old woman whom had made such a fuss was tapping me at the shoulder.

“Im sorry I ruined the wake,” I said, feeling truly awful, “I didn’t know I shouldn’t shoo it away.” For a moment the old woman looked at me with watery green eyes, before she spoke.

“It was a faerie spirit boy–the Pooka. It takes all manner o’ forms it does, but always black with them gawd awful sulfur eyes! That wasp ye saw! Yes! Beware too it coming as a cat–or it’s favorite form of a starved and bony horse! Ye was foolishly brave, and now it’ll be haunting ye tracks this night.”, and with this pronouncement she stuffed something hard into my hand and climbed the stair to the loft. When I opened my hand, I discovered she had pressed a little metal Irish style cross into my hand. At this moment, the father came back in looking slightly blown.

“The ox has run off into the deeper meadow, it’s going to be a moment before I can catch him–no idea what has gotten into him. Will you wait?”, he asked, looking almost hopeful that I would not. I obliged him, having decided not that I had anything to be afraid of, but instead that I had offended their customs somehow and that it was all they could do to keep from simply rudely throwing me out. The old woman, well at 13 anyone who seemed as old as she did to me then must be slightly off their rocker, so I paid her little mind.

By the time I had made it a 2 miles from their farm, I had almost forgotten the whole affair–centering instead upon Mary. What a beauty she was! The sky above roiled, dark grey upon black clouds–in the distance the occasional flash of lightning punctuated the dim glow of the bright moon hidden behind the turbulent mists. I must remind you, I had no thoughts what so ever for Pooka’s in whatever form on my trip home–otherwise it would be easy to suggest I imagined what befell me after. But as God as my witness, as I walked along the road, I thought for a moment I heard the sound of hoof beats. I turned, expecting to see someone rushing home, but the road was empty. Only the wind and blowing leaves accompanied me along the dusty track, nothing more. I shrugged, and walked on–knowing well that sounds travels funny sometimes–and expecting to be joined by a cart or wagon shortly by. I decided I would ask them for a ride, if they were going my direction.

Shortly after, I heard the sound again–and once more there was nothing behind me along the road to be seen. I had stuck my hands in my pockets, as the temperature had suddenly begun to grow colder, and touched the crude metal cross there. It was then, with a sudden and mind jarring awareness of gooseflesh and hair standing on end that I heard–without question–the sound of hooves and a whinny of a horse. I stopped, and slowly turning was rewarded yet again with a dark road overcast with growing mist. I fought with myself, knowing I was letting the crazy superstitions of the old woman get the better of me, and started home again at a good pace. When I was less than a mile from home, I heard the hooves again–which were followed by a savage gust of wind which filled my ears with its howling. Then all at once, as I rounded the bend of the road and could see my home–a candle lantern burning at the front porch for me–the wind ceased and all was still. I sighed to myself, chastising my silly childish fears of the dark and wild tales likely the workings of an addled mind.

Though this sense of superiority lasted all of three seconds. For as I took my first step towards my won yard--on ground I had walked hundreds of times--I suddenly and violently found myself thrown to the ground. It felt almost as though someone had gripped the heel of my left foot and upended me forcefully, causing me to land in a leaf filled puddle in the mud at my feet. I shook my head, and crawled back to my feet–discovering that the heel of my left boot had been snapped clean off. With a yelp, I ran into the house–and to this day I swear I heard the sound of hoof beats near as I slammed the door.”





Husby nodded, and said nothing. Martin, his eyes closed simply grinned.

“That was pretty good Williams.”, said “salt horse” wiping grease upon his trousers.

“Well, thank you. I swear it’s true too.”, answered Williams with a smirk.

“How much had you had to drink?”, asked Harmon with a sly look in his eyes, “you know...before you got yourself attacked by your Poofda?”.

“It’s Poo-KA”, responded Husby, “and don’t joke, they’re real. My grandfather saw one once, turned his hair white all through when he was only 25!”

“Yeah well, that or the mix of his mash maybe when he was boiling his home brew, eh?”, said Harmon, to which everyone laughed. “Salt horse” shook his head.

“Come on Harmon, you know as well as the rest of us that there’s more to life than what you see. What about that night we camped by them ruins of that inn on the old post road–when we were escorting that ammunition to the fort before we mustered south? Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”

Harmon nodded, and frowned. “Yeah I suppose–still not sure I believe that even myself, but then I have always been the skeptical type.”

“Alright Harmon, tell us.”, said Husby with an expectant look in his eyes.

“Fine, but like I said...I lived it but I still haven’t accepted fully it happened.”, said Harmon, as he began his tale.

*****
She’s Coming

“You probably all recall that back when we first mustered in, the state wasn’t really quite ready to field us right off. All the newest stuff had gone to the battalions that had been formed before us, and so proper ammunition and weapons were at a premium. None of the forts in Minnesota had the right rounds for the weapons the newly assigned companies had been issued, ad so a lot of ferrying crates about was assigned. Most of that work went to the boys in B and C–but thanks to “salt horse” here–he and I had the dubious “honor” of escorting a wagon load of ammunition from Ripley back to Snelling. A company was due to depart for points south in a month, and while everyone else was wishing loved ones a last farewell and showing off their soldierly togs, “salt horse” and I were working.”

“What did you do “salt horse”?, asked Husby interrupting the story.

“I liberated some tinned sweet milk from the officers mess–but blamed the whole thing on Harmon.”, responded “salt horse” with a smirk as he chewed. When the laughter had quelled, Harmon continued.

“Anyway, we made pretty good time and found ourselves on the outskirts of this little river town called Eagle Creek which sits along the post road. He had better part of a day yet to get back to Snelling by road, and given that dusk was coming on we thought we might find a place to lay up and start early the next day. Well, our luck held typical and no one in town had much in the way of courtesy for soldiers (can’t say I blame them really, not sure I would want soldiers in my house if I had a daughter either) so we decided to pitch a fly off the wagon on the edge of town. We got ourselves situated next to these ruins of where this fella used to have an inn–though all that was left of it was crumbled masonry and the foundation now. I guess it had been lost to a fire some years before or some such. Anyway, we got ourselves well settled, dug a nice fire pit and soon even had a good warm glow to ourselves as we snuggled under my old quilt (yes, the one that I finally had to pitch after all that filth and mud outside Vicksburg.). Well, I tell you we were snug–I often long these days for when I could sleep so well out and about since such things felt adventurous. So off to sleep we went, and long about midnight or so I woke up. The fire had died down, and I felt chilled so I crawled out and added some wood. As I was standing there, I thought I heard someone whistling. Yes, I know it sounds crazy–but it was so still that I knew it had to have been someone whistling. It was an odd tune, discordant and strangely startling; but as it sounded a ways away from the direction of the village I dismissed it. I did stand perfectly still for a moment, trying to see if I could still catch the sound but to no avail. I sat next to the fire, warming myself, and sound found I was drowsy. I was about to lay back down when–and slightly closer–I thought I heard the tune being whistled again. I stood stock still, listening intently, but there was nothing. Something about the tune, about the proximity of the whistler, filled me with sudden dread and I stood some time just listening and looking about. I thought about waking Boyd, but you know how it is when you’re sleepy. You start to question everything, and after 45 minutes of hearing nothing more I decided I had imagined it or heard a bird or something other than what I thought it was. I went back to sleep, and drifted off in short order.

I woke again around three or four in the morning, but it was still pretty dark, and found I needed to have a jimmy piddle in the worst way. I made my way along over to this split rail fence that was across from where we had plunked down and, set to my business. Well now, I am in one of man’s most vulnerable moments, when all of a sudden I hear the whistler again–sounding like they are no more than a yard to the rear of me! I froze stiff, and had the most peculiar thought insert itself right into my awareness–“She’s coming”. Now I don’t know what that means, but I buttoned as fast as I could though I didn’t hear anything further, I went directly to the fire and stoked her up well. Now I am standing there, musket in hand staring into the flickering scrub brush and such about me feeling something is going on when all of a sudden Boyd here just–and I am not exaggerating–rose up out of bed and hurtled over to the fire with me. It looked like he was bodily yanked out of the bed roll and pushed towards me. He was awake at once, saying ‘What’s going on? What am I doing here? How did I get out of bed?’. Well, after that, we didn’t sleep anymore–but then nothing else happened either. First sign of morning, we hitched up and made out of there without looking back. Now, I don’t know if I believe it happened or not–but you wanted to hear the tale, and that’s it.”

Everyone looked around at one another, and Williams turned to “salt horse”.

“That true?”, he asked.

“I can only speak to the part I was awake for, but I can tell you what he said of me was true. I think Harmon and I skipped lightly on some place with a spirit, but who knows really?”, answered Boyd with a shrug.

A sudden materialization from the darkness of a soldier startled them all, and Harmon and Husby both stood with a jerk.. Williams squinted, but recognized him first.

“Ha! Bowman! Good to see you up and moving, thought you were at the hospital? You gave us all a good start–fools that we are telling spook stories on a dark night like this!”, said Williams with a smile.

Everyone laughed except Bowman who cast an eye around to each of them before saying, “Has anyone seen my watch? I cannot seem to find it.”.

Harmon sat back down and shook his head. “Haven’t seen it Bowman–but I wouldn’t put it past those stewards to take it. Did you look at the hospital?” But it seemed Bowman didn’t hear him, for he simply turned and ambled along towards where he his platoon was quartered. Harmon shrugged, and Husby returned to his seat watching after Bowman.

“Poor guy doesn’t look too good,” he said quietly, “I wonder if someone ought to go after him to make sure he’s alright?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” responded Williams with a yawn.

“Husby’s right though,” said Martin with eyes stabbing into the dark into which Bowman vanished again, “I’ll just go over and see if he’s alright.”. With that, Martin rose and wandered after Bowman. As they watched him go, another figure wandered quietly from the darkness. It was Zimmerman, whom they all recognized as Bowman’s tent mate. He was carrying something in his hands, and looked distraught.

“Zimmerman, if you’re looking for Bowman, you just missed him.”, said “salt horse” as he set his empty cup down with a rattle of his fork within. Zimmerman’s gaze shot upwards, and he frowned at the group.

“That’s a beastly thing to say!”, Zimmerman half shouted, letting a shiny watch slip and dangle on it’s chain from his thin fingers. The firelight caught the glint of the metal as it swung back and forth before being returned to his fingers safe keeping. “Salt horse” shrugged, unsure what he had done.

“Is that Bowman’s watch?”, asked Harmon quietly, “he’s looking for it.”.

Zimmerman, who had started to stalk away stopped in his tracks and turned around. He walked closer to the fire, the four remaining men watching him closely.

“What....what did you say?”, asked Zimmerman, his face perplexed and distorted with curious alarm.

Harmon looked about once, then said slowly, “Bowman–he was here shortly ago, looking for his watch.”

Zimmerman took a step back, and then looked down at the watch. He was quiet for some moments, before finally he spoke again.

“Michael Bowman is dead–corruption in his joint must've took root in the blood or something, nothing they could do. I took his watch to send home to his mother, as he asked me too. I’ve only just left his body 10 minutes ago, if that.”

The fire snapped, and threw sparks which swirled into the dark autumn air over their heads, dancing slowly until each winked out and vanished.

Spanish Fort

The air was very still, and the first light of the morning was just starting to burn through the hazy mist that hung heavy in the sky. Corporal Moran, awake but comfortable under his blanket and greatcoat, hardly dared to stir. His mind was occupied with thoughts, and the unease of change. The war was winding down, at least as far as the country and the press was concerned anyway. General Lee was closely pursued and on the defensive for a change, and the war was said to be nearly over in the press--never mind that General Forrest’s irregular cavalry were fighting on in the west! No, as far as many of the war weary people of the country were concerned, it was only a matter of time. Moran let his eyes wander over the many sleeping comrades in the barracks they occupied--some form of long shed converted for their needs--and thought that maybe soon he would leave this behind. Of course, how many times had they been told that the ‘war would be over by christmas!’, or that ‘the end was in sight!’--only to have it drag on yet again? He decided to remain skeptical this time, if only because as good as old Grant was, Lee had proven even better at wriggling free when cornered. Moran looked to the window and yawned. It wouldn’t be long before the musicians started sounding first call, and the quiet room of gently sleeping men would be jarred awake. They would rise up, as he had seen hundreds of times since he joined the army some three years before, and complain--whine--poke one another and laugh loudly--grumble about the early hour of the day--a thousand rituals bourne of this soldiering life. Moran realized how he would miss that, even as he chided himself for thinking so. How many times had he daydreamed about being home again, complained about the
food--conditions--wondering all the while if he would live to see his 20th year. The musicians sounded their call, and men began to stir around him.

“It can’t be!”, said an annoyed voice half yawning.

“Somebody go kill them musicians...kill ‘em!”, said a voice that was immediately muffled as he pulled covers over his face.

“Quit yer bitching an moanin’ ya ass! Aint ya used to it yet?”, came a sharp accent from the far end of the room. Moran sat up in his bunk, twisting himself about trying to relieve the stiffness which seemed to seize his young body like sudden age. Army life was hard, and he knew that the experience had aged him beyond his years. He was regularly mistaken for much older than he was--the lines in his face were deceptive. A face suddenly appeared at his left, hanging upside down. It was his young friend Patersen, who was assigned to the top bunk above him.

“So, do you think it’s true? You really think we’re going to be discharged soon?”, said Patersen with an excited smile.

Moran laughed, and shook his head. “No. I think there are still plenty of rebels who don’t care a wit for what happens to Lee one way or the other, and who plan to keep fighting. Now, if we were in Virgina--maybe we might be looking at walking sooner than later. But we aren’t, we’re in the west--and despite what the papers are prophecying the war is still very much enaged out here.”

Patersen frowned. “You are spoiled as Army beef--you know that Moran?” With that, he vanished from sight, and Moran only chuckled. He set to getting dressed, knowing that they would be expected for roll call shortly. Patersen was ratting about above him, and suddenly he plummeted from the top bunk to land loudly on the floor. The lanky blonde youth stretched his back with a loud groan and started working at making his rack up for the day.

“Damn blasted tick was twisted tighter than Kentucky tobacco--and not near so smooth. Cramped up my limbs somethin’ akin to knots on a ships line!”, complained Patersen. Moran watched his friend with a smirk, making his bunk opposite from him.

“Matthew Patersen, I have never heard nobody with a habit for such phrases! When you get home again, nobody is gonna recognize you for the soft, gentle boy you were before the Army!”, said Moran shaking his head. Patersen only waved him off and scowled. It was a morning ritual for them it seemed, more so since the news had begun to suggest an end in sight. Moran thought it rather funny really, that having now lived beside these men for almost three years, they had taken on the habits expected of siblings and loved ones. They argued, bickered and fought over the silliest things--but then would immediately close ranks if someone from outside of their company, platoon, or squad dared insult or transgress upon one of their member. Moran sometimes found himself contemplating this bond between them all with a curious humor, and that would set him to contemplating the enevitable end of it all. As he stood in his place in ranks, his mind wandered to what life would be like when that moment came. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go home, had he not dreamed of that nearly every day since he had begun this adventure? Of course he wanted to go home--to see his parents, his home and his beloved sisters. Yet despite his longing for home, he felt torn between two worlds--even a little disloyal that his connection to these men around him could begin to challenge his desire to be home. The roll was called, each man answering as a matter of routine. Until, that is, the sergeant read out a pair of names which were not answered for. There was a brief pause as the spell was broken, and every man in formation looked about for the missing men.

“Ward, Henry!”, repeated the sergeant sharply, looking about. It was dead silent at first, and the name being repeated drew attention of a sergeant-major. The sergeant-major spoke in low tones and directed the other sergent to search the probable hiding spots.

“Willhelm, Erich!”, read the sergeant-major with a stern tone. Now the ranks broke into murmurs, but these were silenced rather quickly with the arrival of Captain Dartt.

“Attention, battalion!”, shouted the sergeant-major and everyone stood eyes front. The captain paced back and forth for a moment, his hands in fists at his side. The absence of these two men was jarring, not because it had never happened before--people were always dawlding, in hospital or simply trying to dodge work. Every company had it’s shirkers and ‘hospital rats’. What was of worry to those who knew these two was the fact that they had, not the day before, spoken of their thoughts of quitting the whole affair. No one had taken then seriously, lord knows every last one of them had threatend to desert more than once through the years. It had become a way for some men to blow off steam, venting around a company fire at night that “this is the last time you see my face! I’m quitting and going home!”. But no one had ever done so, the same men had always turned up the next day for roll.

But now, here were two who had not. It was the first time that the declaration and the after affect had ever transpired, and the mood it cast on the company was one of disbelief, worry and a sense of betrayal. The sergeant who had gone in search of the men returned with a frown, but his report was heard clearly by all--perhaps spoken loudly enough to serve that very purpose--that both men were in the infirmary and that fact had simply not been reported properly or in time for roll. The tension eased, and the captain stalked back towards his quarters--but not before admonishing the sergeant-major for the lack of discipline regarding proper reporting of sick call amongst the men. In the typical and inevitable way of the Army, this then led to the orderly sergeant being dressed down once the captain was out of earshot--followed by the sergeants--and ultimately the entire company.

John Moran, not even quite twenty years of age, suddenly felt very old. The morning’s rituals passed into midday, and not assigned any specific duties for a change, other desires called.

Late March, this far south, was balmy to say the least. Moran, digging with a borrowed spade behind the mikes-shift barracks, dripped perspiration. Patersen and Cole were sitting nearby on a pair of stumps, taking turns trying to hit an old tin cup with juice they spat from their chaw. Moran was trying his hand at gardening--though everyone had told him it was daft. Deep down he know they were probably correct, like as not they would march on somewhere else and leave all the fruits of his labor behind. Still, it passed the time--and if they did remain here long enough the garden might well supply them with some fresh additions to the mess. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, set his spade aside and retrieved his sack coat from where he had laid it in the grass. The week before had been cooler, rainy and overcast--now most of the men went about in shirt sleeves as much as possible. There was a shout of victory from nearby and a soft ‘ping’ noise as one of the pair scored a hit on the tin cup.

“HA! Beat that, Patersen! You can’t never make a shot like that!”, shouted Cole with a slap of the knee and obvious wild joy. Patersen was all grimace and frowns, looking like a thunder head waiting to burst open.

“You just wait you toad, I’ll show you yet!”, and Patersen moved to the line they had torn in the grass for his turn. Shaking his head, Moran simply resumed his work. He started wondering how long they would be quartered here, since the Mobile Campaign was not yet complete. That August the navy had run the bay, and through luck and sometimes reckless bravery taken victory. Since then, the rebels had been confined in a group of fortifications and still held the city of Mobile itself as well. To a casual observer, surely it might appear that the Sesech were bottled up and trapped--weak even. The truth was, while they might have a narrowing field of operation, those fortifications would still prove tough assignments. Everyone knew that the storming of those ramparts would be hot work--and that most likely the 16th Corps would one of those get stuck with it. As he dropped some seeds into a small hole and covered it over again, Moran spoke.

“So how’d you ever get out of fatigue duty?”, he said to Patersen.

“Quiet!”, responded the youth sharply, “can’t you see I am about to take my turn?”

“Oh, sorry.”
There was a soft noise in the grass, and Cole laughed himself hoarse, while Patersen merely growled loudly. Moran turned his head and was about to comment when the hurtling frame of Patersen knocked Cole to the ground. Dropping his spade, Moran lent himself to the massive task of trying to separate the pair, only becoming embroiled in the wildly flailing fists and kicks each was aiming at the other. As they rolled around, each calling the other various names and calling into question the lineage and circumstances of their conception, Moran finally got the better of the other two. With his hands knotted into the collars of their shirts, he held their faces into the grass shouting–“Are you two done yet? Or do I have to thrash you both to get you to behave?!”–just as the captain and 1st lieutenant happened to turn the corner of the building. Corporal Moran saw the captain’s eyebrows knit together, as the lieutenant stood frowning, and let go of the collars of Cole and Patersen with a sudden jerk as though they were hot to the touch. The two men, still prostrate beneath the corporal, lifted their heads and spat out grass and dirt almost as one. Cole just laughed to himself, as Patersen caught view of the officers before him and sighed heavily.

All things considered, they had gotten off lightly. Captain Dartt, while a competent officer overall, was known to be a bit of a pistol when it came to discipline. Still, all in all their “punishment” could have been worse.

“This is the worst possible thing ‘Old Marm’ could’ve done to us!”–said Cole with a grumble as they sat in the forward outpost facing the enemy fortification just a short 1200 feet distant. Moran frowned at him, especially cringing at the use of the nickname some of the men had for their captain. The name had come about innocently enough, when someone had made the comment that Dartt looked remarkably like a teacher they had had in their youth from the profile. Moran had made the mistake of making this comment before Patersen, who in turn began calling the captain ‘Old Marm’.

“Believe me, this isn’t so bad,” chided Moran as their small fire burned in the earthen hearth of the short trench, “I’ve seen what the captain can give in punishment. And as far as that nickname–you keep it to yourself! He ever hears that, and he’ll make you pray for outpost duty!”

“Ah, you’re just worried he’ll find out it was you that came up with it!”, laughed Patersen taking a sip from his canteen.

They’re conversation slowed, and soon everyone was left silent around the small fire. Someone had had the brilliant notion of digging a bell shaped indent into the side of the trench here, shoring up the sides of earthen hearth with some bits of scrounged brick. To complete the affect, a crude chimney was dug down into the top, which allowed the fire to draw--though not very well. All things considered, it worked relatively well (despite some occasional excessive smoke) and was a testament to the growing ingenuity seen amongst the rank in file in improving life when engaged in trench warfare. This adaptation of the men to trenches made corporal Moran strangely displeased--an awareness that getting used to something uncomfortable resulted when one accepted that discomfort wasn’t likely to end any time soon. He held his hands to the flames, warming then and driving the dampness from his joints. As warm as the late march days could become in Alabama, the evenings tended to be damp and cool--especially with the water so close.

Cole, his head nodding against his chest, was gently snoring. Patersen sat beside him, puffing quietly on a short pipe. Moran stared up into the darkness above, his eyes affected by the glow of the fire and making the sky appear a great dark smear without variation. He had just closed his eyes, when Patersen spoke.

“You ever think about what you’re gonna do when this thing is really over, Moran?”

The words were soft, but the question itself lingered loudly in Moran’s mind. This was not the way Patersen usually spoke, so he looked up and fixed his friend with an attentive gaze.

“What do you mean what will I do? I’ll go home I suppose, same as you.” Patersen drew his feet up, his knees near his chest and shook his head. Moran stared at him, as the pause lasted longer than expected.

“I don’t know if I’ll go home, I mean I want to go home--just maybe not right away.”, said Patersen looking down the trench and then back at his feet as though her wanted to avoid his friend’s gaze. “Sometimes”, he continued as Moran listened intently, “I can’t even imagine the war ending--then I realize it will, it has too eventually. Funny, how you pray for something to end so long and then when it might you find you’re almost afraid of what that would be like!”.

“I know what you mean,” remarked Moran, “I wonder sometimes what it will be like. We’ve all gotten used to life this way, and none of us is the same as when we joined up.”

Patersen nodded, blowing a slow cloud of smoke into the air as he did. “Living with my mother now will be a trial,” smiled the youth, “what with all habits I have taken too. I figure she expects me to come back still her boy, and I don’t know how she’ll take to the man I am instead. I feel badly about it, since she missed my growing so.”

Moran nodded. “You’re not alone in that feeling you know. There isn’t probably a man in uniform that doesn’t fret for all those same reasons when given the chance. I’ve done it too--wondering if I will get used to going back to the regular life. Not that this is high living here,” said Moran with a laugh which Patersen joined with heartily, “but I kinda like the Army too.”.

Patersen gave him a look of disbelief, and shook his head. “You like this? I knew you were crazy, but--what do you mean, like a career?”

Moran shrugged. “Maybe, I haven’t thought it out fully yet. I’m not saying I like all of it, but at the same time this ordered existence kinda suits me.”

“How do you know they’ll even be an Army when we’re done? I mean, what if they disband it all like before, and there aint no room for men beyond what they need to replace the lost regulars?”

“Then I suppose I’d join the regulars--or not. But either way, I understand what you are feeling about the afterwards of this whole affair. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about all that just yet. In case you haven’t noted, there are still some pretty juiced up rebs out there in forts we have yet to take.” Moran smiled quietly and Patersen leaned back against the trench wall. Movement from along the entrance to the trench caught their eye, as a sergeant wandered up and motioned to them.

“Alright, it’s you lot--previous watch is about ready to be relieved. Get up and follow me.”, said the sergeant who turned and hardly waited for them to rouse Cole from his sleep. In short order they were following after him, Cole a little wobbly from being so suddenly roused, and moving quietly up to where the observers post was. The post--50 yards closer to the edge of the enemy fortifications--was basically a short trench with a packed earthen lip facing the enemy augmented with a short wall of sawn logs. One climbed a short ladder up to the observation area, and peered out through the darkness by way of rifle ports cut into the logs. Unlike the rear outpost, the observation post couldn’t afford the luxury of a fire--as the light too easily gave away their position and tended to make seeing in the dark difficult.

“Here you boys are, don’t fall asleep or I’ll skin you.”, said the sergeant in a husky whisper as the previous watch filed past them and vanished into the darkness. In a moment Patersen, Moran and Cole were left quite alone to man the outpost in a swathe of darkness which closed in about them like tar. Stumbling about momentarily as their eyes slowly accustomed to the low light, the three decided to do their turn on post with two observers on and one resting. Cole and Patersen decided to go first, leaving Moran down below to sleep. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable fit, as this trench had been dug with practical minds in charge and not those thinking about anything but keeping an eye on the enemy. Moran shifted about, only to disturb more of the loose dirt behind him which then cascaded down into the neck of his coat and shirt.

“Bugger!”, he said rather more loudly than he had intended. The noise sounded like a cannon blast in the silence of the dark night, and seemed to carry forever. Two ghostly white ovals he knew where Patersen and Cole shot over the lip of the trench and a soft hissing issued from their direction.

“What the blazes you doing down there!?”, spat Cole’s voice. Moran shrugged, brushed the dirt from his shoulder and was silent. The ghostly forms vanished, and Moran resumed trying his best to find some position which he might be able to sleep in.

He thought he might have found it when the other voice called out, but this wasn’t from their lines. It was a rebel.

“Hey over there! You aint asleep, we heard you all before. Come on Billy...aint you gots no manners?”, called the shrill voice. Moran was up, musket in hand, and the other two were busy scanning the darkness. Coming along the trench was the sergeant who had brought them up, followed by a lieutenant none of the knew.

“What goes on here then boys? Who gave orders to make contact with the enemy?”, asked the lieutenant firmly. Moran saluted and came to attention, the sergeant giving him a deep frown as the officer moved forward.

“We didn’t sir, they called out to us.”, responded Moran. The officer nodded, and scrambled up to the trench observation post. As soon as the lieutenant was up and conferring quietly with Patersen and Cole, the sergeant moved close to Moran and stared him hard in the eye.

“Just called out huh?”, said the sergeant with a growl. Moran nodded, and tried to look blankly ahead. The rebel voice cried out a second time, and the lieutenant motioned for the sergeant to attend him With a last glare, Moran was free, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Billy! Come on now, we just lookin’ to chat a spell...promise..aint no tricks or nothin’!”, came the voice again. The lieutenant looked to the sergeant, and then suddenly said loudly; “So, what is it you want Johnny?”

There was a long silence, before the voiced sailed again through the darkness. “Ha! I knew you was over there. How do?”

“Well enough, better if you boys would surrender and let us all go home.”

“That’s rich yank!”, laughed the rebel,” you know well as I do you aint never gonna take these forts! Why don’t you all quit, go on home and we’ll call it even!”

“Not likely.”

“Didn’t figure none.”

“So, what is it you want then?”

There was a long pause, before the voice came back again. “You tired of all this yet Billy?”

The lieutenant didn’t even hesitate. “Damn tired, Johnny. I think it’s coming to some sort of ending though.”


“Like as not, you’re right yank. Aint wanting to agree, but cause or not we aint blind--there’s writing on the wall for sure and certain.”

“Anything else you need then, Johnny?”

“No, I suspect that’s all. Nice talkin’ to you though yankee. You get your rest tonight boys, we aint coming. I promise.”

The lieutenant yelled back his goodnight as well, and turned to the sergeant. “Make sure these men are fully alert. I wouldn’t trust his word anymore than necessary. Sound a good alarm if you see anything.” With that, the officer departed, and the sergeant glared at them all and nodded.

The night passed along quietly, and the events served to give them all a wakefulness that held them through their watch. By the early prickling of dawn, it was clear that the rebel had been good to his word--no mischief was attempted along their lines.

The morning was warm, humid. Sitting upon a stump atop a short rise near the camp, Moran considered the men about him. He cast a long gaze along the nationals encampment, taking in the distinct separation of the white commands from those the colored regiments. They had fought alongside colored troops for going on almost two years, and he still couldn’t say that he really knew any of them. The only time they really ever mixed was in the heat of battle, and then no one seemed to notice any difference. Federal blue was federal blue--irregardless of the man within. He felt a slight pang of guilt, thinking that he had never tired to make acquaintances with the negro soldiers. Of course they never wandered our way much either he thought a moment, before wondering if they could even if they wanted too. He was disturbed by movement, as Patersen collapsed beside him in a heap.

“Whatcha gnawing at now? Lord, never knew a man so given to thinking a hole in the ground he occupied!”, laughed his friend looking along where his friend had been staring a moment before.

“You know me, always thinking.”

“What is it, wondering what the Negroes are cooking for their supper? Like as not something awful, they eat almost anything I hear. Bits of animals no self-respecting man would ever think of chewing on!” Patersen scowled, and shook his head. Moran smiled tightly and started picking at gravel to toss at a spot in the grass which seemed a distractive target.

“Well, maybe. Maybe,” responded Moran after his third pebble, “they never were given much else to eat. You don’t get much fancy eats, I imagine, when you’re someone’s property.”

Patersen was about to respond and seemed to think better of it, picking pebbles as well. After a short time had passed, the young soldier looked up and out towards the horizon. “I think we’re going to be hitting the fort soon, just have a feeling.”

“I suppose it makes sense.”

“Couldn’t just sit here forever, Mobile is one of the last cities of the confederacy never occupied by National troops. Symbology I suppose.”

Moran chuckled. “Symbolic you mean.”

“I know what I mean,” answered Patersen sharply, “either way--it means there’s really a chance it’s almost over.”

“Thank God.”

“Maybe so, but I aint decided what I plan to do with myself yet! What will I do, if we make the push and they decide it’s over tomorrow?”

Moran looked at the true anxiety in his friends face, and smiled. “Don’t worry so much! Haven’t you learned yet that anything as simple as taking a fort with dwindling supplies and no chance of escape for the defenders is sure to end in disaster! This is the Army! We’ll probably be tied up her for months yet.” Patersen laughed, and nodded. He wrapped his arms about his knees and leaned his head down smiling. They sat quiet for a long while until at last Patersen spoke quietly.

“I suppose there’s comfort in the fact that at least one bunch have more to worry about with the war ending than me.”

Moran looked up. “Who would that be?”

Patersen pointed to the camp where the US colored infantry was quartered, and frowned. “I don’t figure any of them are eager for the wars end. Like as not when peace comes, it will be just the start of their troubles.”

*****

“What you looking at, Titus?”, asked Dover Jones, private in the 50th United States Colored Infantry as he sat wiping down the muzzle of his musket. His friend, Titus Washington–who had joined with him in those heady days back in Vicksburg after the fall–gestured to a pair of figures on the hill.

“Fellas up there, gawking down upon us.”, Washington resumed working on his musket. It helped to pass the time, but more importantly it was a matter of pride. Some of the other colored regiments might have been made up of true “contraband”–former slaves straight from the fields and into uniform–but though the 50th (which had started life as the 12th Louisiana Volunteers until last March) hadn’t yet seen combat, they would be ready. Sergeant Roth, who had served with one of the white National regiments that had helped storm Vicksburg, said he had never seen a group of men so steadfast to their duties and ready to scrap.

They had been set to so much manual labor, digging trenches, erecting fortifications and the like–some had begun to fear that they would never get to fight. But Washington had no doubt, not now or ever. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that not everyone wanted them to get a fair chance. Not every solider in the uniform he now proudly wore felt he belonged. But what Titus Washington knew, with the certainty of a man who had grown up in slavery and seen the worst and best of others, was that people didn’t follow one way. He’d known cruel whites as well as Negroes, just as much as he’d known generous, kind whites and Negroes. He’d once seen sad Indians, bereft of their lands and shipped south; but he’d also heard tell of Indians in the south and west that owned their land and kept Negro slaves to work it. His Mama had taught him well, and early. “You take each an’ every folk you meet as you meet ‘em Titus--Lord know there plenty enough small minded folk to go about already!”, she had always told him. So, despite it all he believed. The war might be winding down, and God only knew what might become of them all in the days after, but Titus Washington knew he’d get his chance to fight.

“Them boys still up there,” said Jones, interrupting his thoughts, “maybe we ought to go up and see what they want.”

“They’re just setting, no different from what we ever do. Maybe one of them replacement regiments, what not fought alongside colored troops before. Might be the first Negroes they ever seen not wandering roads whilst they march south.”, responded Washington as he worked.

“Well, lets go up.”

Washington looked over at Jones, his friend smiling gently and setting his musket aside.

“You’re serious?”

“Damn right I’m serious! Aint you the one always preaching to take each man at the meetin’ if you want the same of him? Come on, lets go!”, and with that Jones stood up--brushed straw from himself of the bale he’d been seated upon--and started up the hill. Washington watched him for a moment, motionless, before setting off after his friend. Others in the camp behind them were suddenly aware of their movement, and a silence settled over them. It wasn’t that colored and white regiments never mixed, they did often in formations and drill. But socially, that was another matter. There was no specific rule against it as such--it just didn’t seem to happen. Or, rather, it hadn’t normally--until now. The men at the top of the hill rose, as it became apparent that Jones and Washington were approaching them. They stood with hands hanging at their sides, watching the pair intently. When Jones was an arms length away, he stopped and nodded to the pair of soldiers--noting the taller bore the rank of corporal.

“Corporal, we came to see if there was somthin’ you were wanting.”, said Jones in his deep, scratchy voice.

The corporal looked at his companion, and smiled back at Jones. “Not really private......”

“Jones, corporal. This here is Washington. We’re with the 50th.”

The corporal nodded and a look of realization crossed his features. “The outfit what used to be the 12th--mustered in after Vicksburg?”

Jones smiled broadly and looked at Washington. “Yes corporal, that’s us? You know the unit?”


The corporal chuckled and smiled broadly in return. “I’m Moran, this is Paterson--one of our fellows, from the 5th Minnesota, ended up with you lot. Roth was his name I guess, or something. I remember them going around looking for volunteers when they formed you up after things got settled in Vicksburg.” It was as though a damn broke, and the tension which had been built up was washed away. Jones stepped in close, and now he and Washington were swapping tales of those days with abandon, much to Paterson’s surprise. Much to his discomfort, he realized with a little surprise.

Paterson stood aside, watching them and feeling strangely wrong about these negroes coming up the hill to speak with them. He supposed there was no reason why they couldn’t do so, but it simply wasn’t how things worked. Just as officers didn’t fraternize with the enlisted, negroes stayed with their own kind.

“Hey, Paterson, these guys were there for those god-awful canals started digging for the gunboats--remember that? Why, we might of even ended up digging right aside these boys and never knew it!”, noted Moran with a chuckled, slapping his friends shoulder. Paterson only nodded quietly. Slowly but surely, others from the two camps began to come together atop the hill. First out of curiosity for what was going on, but then as time went on huddled groups formed of lively conversation. On the edge of it all, Paterson watched, arms crossed before finally turning and making his way back to camp. Soon, sergeants from to two groups appeared shortly after, ushering their charges back to their respective sides.

They had broken no written regulations, they were in fact parts of one army. As Moran made his way back towards the camp, he looked back and waved to Jones and Washington. One army when men died and bled; two separate when they might have the chance to get to know one another and make friendships. He wondered what good it was to fight a war in which a race might receive their freedom from slavery, if they remained segregated from society. Shaking his head, Moran made his way back to the ramshackle buildings that their company had been fortunate enough to snag for quarters and ran straight into Fredrikson who was jogging the opposite direction.

“OOOF!”, spat Fredrikson as the air was driven from him briefly, and glared at Moran.

“Don’t you ever watch where you are going?”, asked Fredrikson regaining his balance. Moran hardly knew the man, and normally he might have apologized and simply moved on, but something about his tone spurred his normally dormant temper.

“I might say the same of you, since it was you that collided with me.”, said Moran with a growl. The other man blanched white, not really wanting a fight.

“My fault, sorry. Just need to get these messages to the captain straight away--it’s tomorrow The rest of the boys have started off already!” Fredrikson said as he edged around Moran, and started jogging away again.

Moran watched him going for a moment before calling out, “What is? Started off what?”. Fredrikson looked over his shoulder as he turned and trotted backwards, thrusting his arm out and pointing in the direction of the enemy defensive works. The message was clear, and Moran nodded as the other man continued on his way. Tomorrow then. They were to assault the enemy works tomorrow. With a low whistle, Moran continued on his way to the barracks with the news that they had been waiting for.

*****

March 27th, 1865 dawned initially as any day had, but it didn’t take long for that to change. There was a tension in the air, a charge which made men rise early from their billets and move silently about their morning routine. Meals were eaten with little fuss, no one felt the desire to lay about or horseplay. By nine o’clock in the morning it became clear that the day would be given to hot work, as General Canby ordered the 13th and 16th Corps to break camp and move along the shore towards the rebel flank. Leaving the converted sheds, many a man in his company felt the same heartbreak they had when leaving their own homes, and knew all too well that the next residence they occupied would likely not be quite as grand. As Moran fell into line in full marching order, he nodded to Paterson as he passed. His young friend gave him a feeble nod, and took his place in line, but made no further attempt at conversation. It had been this way since the day they had met with the Negro troops, and Moran couldn’t understand it. He had meant to mention the change in his friend before now, but with the deployment and everything else he hadn’t found the time. As they stood waiting for their orders, the sound of enemy artillery sounded in the distance. Men stood listening to the noises in their ranks. The new men flinching at every blast, whilst the veterans stood still and listened for the sounds which would warn them of true danger.

“Wooden fuses”, said the older veteran Ryan from the end of the rank, “the rebs are using wooden fuses in those mortars. They must be getting deperate using those again--you can tell it’s wooden, you hear the thump and then nothing. More than half of those shells aint even detonating.”.

“Still have to watch out!”, laughed someone in the rear rank, “get hit with one of them and it kill you just the same! Like gettin’ kicked by an ox!”

“What was you doin’ to that ox that it kicked ya?”, asked Charles Cady creating a general snicker. Lieutenant Arkins came up along the line, and called for silence before taking his place. The order came, and the columns moved forward towards the enemy lines along the shoreline of the bay. Shortly though, the 13th continued on forward towards Danley’s Ferry whilst the 16th was moved to its’ left flank into the entrenchments. Shortly the various regiments and company commands were assigned places in the trenches, and spades were brought up and laid close by--resulting in growls and groans from the men. It was clear that the 13th was to rendevous with the other Union forces and make an assault on the bay side flank, isolating Spanish Fort from the other rebel fortification at Blakely. Moran and the 16th would be set to the more or less frontal attack upon the garrison of Spanish Fort, working through the entrenchments and apparently creating new works as they went. At least it seemed so, until Moran saw the men of the 50th moving up towards them through the siege works. They made straight for the pile of picks and spades, and each man hefted one over his shoulder, as a compliment to their musket. Some of the men around Moran chuckled, and several cheered that they would be spared the digging.

“Good work for negroes”, said Patersen behind him, “save our strength for the fighting.”

Moran turned and looked Patersen in the eye, his friend blanching at the gaze and shifting from view. When Moran looked back, Washington and Jones were just passing. He nodded to the pair, and was greated with a smile and a nod.

“Moran!”, shouted a sergeant nearby, “take a squad up with you--you’ll be forward pickets whilst this bunch improves our lines. Take the Bury brothers, Carter, Patersen, Clark, and Hamlin. You’re in command corporal Moran--I expect you to hold the postion and keep me aware of the situation. Understood?”

Moran nodded, a coldness settling in his arms and legs. It wasn’t that he was afraid, but the gravity of the assignment struck him solidly. His moment of dread passed without anyone the wiser. “You heard him boys!”, the corporal said loudly as he stepped into the track behind the 50th as they passed, “on me, at the double!”. As they made their way forward, the rebels lobbed several mortars towards their lines. One of the shells exploded just before the forward lip fo the trenches, the other two malfunctioned and failed to detonate at all. Moran felt, rather than saw, the men chosen by the sergeant fall in behind him as they followed along after the 50th. Off to their right, the sounds of volley’s exchanged could be heard between the booming of the Federal batteries and the responding guns of the fortifications. The air, wrent with a sound like cotton sheet’s being torn, was streaked with trails of black smoke and flashes of sparks as artillery rounds zipped in long arcs over their heads. The 50th--muskets slung over their shoulders--laid to the main trench with a ferocity Moran admired, imporving the works as the picketts rushed forward. Men of the 50th cheered them on as they rushed past, the sound lost to Moran as he rounded the bend of the trench and headed towards the forward post. A pair of mortar rounds slammed into the wall some way ahead of them, throwing dirt into the air which fell like rain over Moran’s squad. Sputtering, and wiping soil from their mouth, the group continued forward again. Soon they reached the forward most trench, and Moran directed his group to spread themselves along the walls facing the enemy even as bullets screamed past them. The world became a frantic swirl of smoke, flying debris and the loud buzzing and crack of rounds at they tore through empty space or found something to smash into. Life slowed, as the terror of the desperate sense of survival settled into them, each felt their limbs grow heavy. They became numb to the noise around them, their fingers loosing their sense of touch so that they could not feel the burns they were sustaining each time they gripped the blisteringly hot barrels of their muskets to reload. Moran felt he no longer aimed, but simply willed the bullet to go where he wished. The enemy could not rush them at the moment, so fierce was the regular pounding of the Federal batteries and their guns, but they did their best to impede what they knew the Nationals must be up too. Grenades and hand thrown explosive shells where rolled towards them, only to explode between the two sides and leave great divots in the scared soil. Their faces became painted in mud, powder, and dirt. Moran looked at the men with him, and began to wonder if they were men anymore. He ducked, and a round whizzed over his head to splinter into a wooded slat behind him. Clark, stood up to return fire and was hit almost before he could finish saying, “That was a close one!”. The impact of the bullet tore through his right eye as Moran watched, exiting and tearing away his ear. It happened in a second, but he seemed to spin and fall heavily to the trench floor forever. Clark’s last words, still echoing in his ears as his body came to rest in the dust and his musket fell down beside him with a loud CRACK as it discharged into the ground. Then all was frantic again, as a mortar round screamed over them, and vanished over the edge behind them. Every man had ducked low as it came in, but now sat looking to one another, unsure if they should move and afraid the rebels might be upon them if they tallied in cover too long. There was a sound from somewhere towards the enemy, and Paterson jumped up screaming, “They’re coming, those bastards!” and fired with a snarl on his face. As Moran stood, and the others with him, the rebel mortar round blew behind them making them jump. There was no time though to wait, to seek cover, as a dozen rag-tag men with bright bayonets had rushed over the walls of their fort towards them. When the Federals rose up before them, several slid to a stop and started back to safety, but none made it far. Vengeful screaming lead sought them, tearing the rebels from life and Moran found he was glad. He had shot down men before, and at first he had felt guilt. In time, he had been numb to taking life. Now, three years a soldier, he had found joy.

Moran smiled and laughed allowed. “For Clark! CLARK!”, he yelled loudly. The Bury Brothers, and Hamlin started at his shout, but then joined in. Faces like dark angels, eyes shining like demons. Paterson frowned, and ducked low to reload his musket. One of the boys from the 50th came up the trench, sweat drenching his face and stopped short when he noted Clark.

“Corporal!”, he said as he recovered, “Captain wishes to report that we have moved the trench line forward on your right flank, but we are taking fire now. The boys are holding it, but the Captain wants you and your men with us. That’s his orders, sir.” The man, older and with a white stubble, stared down at Clark again for a moment. Paterson stepped over with a frown.

“What’s the matter, aint never seen a man killed fighting, boy?”, said the youth with a sneer.

“Yes sir, all rebels though. They aint sent us to a fight yet. Still hoping to get in this one afore it done.”, said the soldier, looking a little ashamed and eager at the same time. Moran stared hard at Paterson, who shook his head and resumed his place--glaring as he spat at his feet.

“Tell the captain we’re coming. Ask him to have someone come up and collect Clark for us, will you?” , Said Moran, ducking without thought as a bullet whizzed overhead. The private nodded and was gone, followed only by the hard eyes of Paterson. Already another group of soldiers was coming up to take their place in this spot, as others moved up. A flare went over, hissing loudly and leaving a slowly drifting smoke trail behind it. The new men ducked low with the passing flare, but Moran and his men hardly flinched as they trooped out of sight.

******

Carefully edging his way to the berm of the defensive wall, the haggard man with the ragged chestnut colored beard dressed in what was once a well tailored uniform of cadet grey, scanned the enemy positions with his field glasses. He stood looking a certain direction for a time before cursing under his breath and lowering the glasses with a shake of his head. After a moment of looking at his feet, the officer resumed his inspection by field glass.

“Well, I’ll give them this–they do make good work, and even under fire.”, said the officer with a grudging tone. Suddenly he moved his focus off to the right, and spat loudly, “who in--By God what a waste, and so near an end to it!”.

“What is it General Gibson? To what do you refer?”, asked major Dawlings from behind his commander. The general had resumed his scan off to the left again, with an aire of deep disgust.

“Men foolishly throwing away what little they have left, Major.”, responded the general without ceasing his study of the enemy beyond, “Fine and gallant when one is in poetry or epic tale, but foolhardy when it serves no purpose but to rob your cause of sufficient strength to defend ones fortification.”

Major Dawlings began to scan the enemy works as well, ending where the general had been previously. He smacked his lips in understanding. “Boys getting too eager. I shall send Captain Beams out to remind the officers on the walls to keep better handle on the men sir, if that will suffice?” The major looked at the dozen or so men who had tried to rush the observation post the Yankees had along that portion of trench. They had been caught in the open, and shot down like dogs. Nothing surprised the major anymore, like soldiers on both sides he had been engaged in this war long enough now to have seen nearly everything. No cruelty seemed beyond the pale now; from the burning and looting of civilian homes by Sherman and his devils; to the horrors told of prisons kept by North and South–Dawlings was becoming certain that this war might well be the end of all things if it went on much longer. But, he was a soldier–so he must do his duty.

To the end.

For the first time, he felt that that end was truly close at hand.

******
It was like being in a grave, and he hated it. Cool, damp, dark, with occasional earth falling into his face when a shell came close enough to dislodge it. He could just make out the opening to his left, but as it was night the light was only slightly lighter than the blackness of the Bomb proof–really just a hole dug into the ground with wood slat pillars and ceiling. Moran remembered them well from Vicksburg, and had swore back then never to shelter in one again. But, necessity seemed determined to reunite man and menace–so Moran was stuck. The rebels had taken to random but heavy mortar shelling of the new works the 50th had dug, so sleeping in the trenches just wasn’t safe. Sure, more than half of the rebel shells weren’t going off, but why take chances?

“This is good earth,” said a voice from his right, “feels good to the fingers. Bet you could grow a furrow and then some ‘round here”.

Moran could only just make out the shape of the man, but knew the voice.

“You never liked farming Paterson, but if I didn’t know better I might think you missed it from such a statement”.

Paterson, only a shadow next to him, visibly shrugged. “Just commenting on the dirt is all. Moran, I just wanted to apologize for our fighting before--we been friends too long to let somethin’ get between.” Before Moran could say a word, there was shouting from up near the front of the bombproof and suddenly a mortar roared in detonation somewhere above them. Dirt cascaded down over them, then a second explosion could be heard and there was a crack as the world went black.

Paterson felt the blackness surround him and crush the air from his lungs. His life flashed before him, altogether too brief, and he became aware he might very well die. No, he would die if this went on too much longer. A thousand thousands fears, his mind raced and his lungs burned as he longed to breathe. He could hear the noises of men buried in the collapsed bombproof around him, men crying out only to have their mouths stuffed with soil when they did. Paterson began to see white spots before his eyes, when suddenly something hard struck his left leg and strong hands gripped and pulled him from the suffocation of the dirt. He sputtered, being rolled forcibly to his side as he coughed and choked from air. His eyesight was foggy, his eyes refusing to work at first--only dark shadows moving about him in the night air, interrupted by fuzzy smears of weak light which he surmised to be lanterns.

“Take some water, jus’ a little now, not too much”, said a voice close by as a figure knelt down and tipped a canteen up for him. The water made him cough some more, but helped rinse the dirt away. He was given a damp cloth, and soon his eyes stopped burning with the dust and debris of the collapse. Kneeling beside him, was one of the men of the colored regiments--the brass “50” emblazoned upon his kepi. Paterson coughed, the man patting him on the shoulder, and helping him sit up. Around him, men worked feverishly with shovels and sticks trying to unearth survivors. Overhead, artillery flares raced through the dark sky from both sides, their arc followed by grey-white trails of smoke. A shell burst in mid air above them, but the work of these men never wavered.

“You all lucky we was out in the trench! Would been nobody what to dig you all out again!”, said the man as he stood up from Paterson and started away to attend to another survivor that had more recently been unearthed. As the soldier made his way from him, Paterson called out.

“Outside? What were you doin’ in the trenches and not out of the way of the mortars?”

The soldier stopped, and turned briefly--the whiteness of his grin visible in the dark. “Always that way, an aside, as it turns it was good for you all we was there!”

Paterson watched the colored soldier move on to his work, and the terrible cruel realities of war and place within the suffering and triumphs of others became a reality for him. He stood up on shaky legs, and wandered over to take a spade that was laying near by. He joined a group of soldiers from the 50th, and began to dig with them for survivors. It began to rain towards dawn, slowing their work. Still, they did not give up, and slowly men were recovered from the earth. At first, they found the living. Men choking and frantic for air but still alive. These men, black dirt and grime head to toe, were moved off to one side to be attended too by several of the medical stewards that had been summoned when news of the collapse became wider known. Over time, these men joined the crews of the searchers, a growing desperation to free the trapped from the horror they themselves had endured. But as the hours passed and the sun began to filter through the grey of the clouds, they found only the dead.

12 survivors, still caked in the soil that had buried them, stood looking down on a neat row of 23 men whom had not been so lucky. Paterson, wiping sweat from his brow and succeeding in smearing further dirt across his face, planted his spade in the dirt before him and looked to the man next to him.

“What’s your name?”, said Paterson quietly to the private of the 50th.

“Hayfield. Ezeikel Hayfield.”, came the deep response.

“Well Hayfield, I thank you for pulling me out of that mess. I’ll be eternally thankful you were there to do it. If only he might have come out of it though. That there, Hayfield, was the best friend I ever had. He don’t even look dead really, does he? Just sleeping.”

Hayfield turned dark eyes on him, and nodded quietly.

Paterson kneeled down and laid his hands on the feet of Moran, and closed his eyes a moment. A bugle sounded somewhere in the grey distance, and after a moment the young man stood and turned away from the row of the dead. He wiped his eyes of the tears that welled there and sighed deeply.

“I’m sure sorry you all had to be out in the trenches tonight.”, spoke Paterson as the offensive along the new trench fronts renewed in vigor and fury. The federal batteries opened and the sound echoed loudly through the early morning air.

“Yes sir, weren’t no happy place to be. We took some hard knocks out there.”, responded Hayfield hanging his head. Paterson turned back to Hayfield.

“You mean you all were hit?”

Hayfield nodded. A sergeant came along in a rush. “You lot! Get your greasy arses together and quit that loafing! Orderlies be along soon fer them dead lads, now get yerselfs movin!”

The group made to comply, but Paterson stopped Hayfield.

“What happened? Mortar round?”

Hayfield nodded. “Yes, lost 14 men. Good men, but then an officer comes up and tells us to rush over and help in saving you all. Lucky we was so close I guess.”

Paterson gritted his teeth. Lucky? Lucky that they had been left in the open? Left as easy targets, and then put to work helping the men that had the plumb spot? Suddenly, looking at the careful arrangement of the dead by these men, Paterson looked up.

“Where are the dead? Those boys who got killed in your bunch?”

“Where we was, back there”, said Hayfield with a surprised look on his face as he pointed along the trench line. Paterson nodded.

“Come on Hayfield. We have to fetch them.”
They set off, several of the survivors and men of the 50th looking after them as they went. They were going to opposite way from where the sergeant had told them, so soon the onlookers stopped moving as well to wait to see what was up. Several of the survivors, knowing Paterson, thought it must be a fight--given the younger man’s known opinion of Negroes. The men of the 50th murmured amongst themselves, until it became clear what the pair were doing. Soon, the survivors knew too, as Paterson and Hayfield approached each carrying one of the fallen from where the 50th had been stationed in the trenches. Paterson gently laid down a man he had never met, beside his friend Moran. Standing back up, he looked at those he knew.

“Come on, help us move them. They shouldn’t be left in that trench, lets put them together.”, said Paterson as his eyes glistened. The whole group moved together, and as the renewed assault on the fortifications around the city of Mobile continued, the fallen men of the 50th were laid aside their comrades. In the end, their uniforms made them brothers, even as the world around them tore itself apart.

Spanish Fort fell the same day that General Robert E. Lee surrendered in the East, and Fort Blakely only held for a day more.

The war, officially was over. But the new struggle, to understand what had been won and lost, was only beginning.