by Alison Hart
“It soon will be, old uncle,” Private Crutcher replies.
“Then glory be to God!” the old man shouts. “C’mon, Sylvie. C’mon, Dade.” He motions to the others. “C’mon and join dese soldiers marchin’ to freedom!” The slaves fall into step beside us, chanting Jubilee! Jubilee!
My heart swells. This is why we’re fighting.
The wagon road grows steeper, and soon the name Clinch Mountain begins to hold some meaning. After an hour of traversing switchbacks and jumping gullies, I feel like this mountain has us in its clinch, all right. But it’s daytime, and the rain has slacked off to a mizzle. This climb ain’t near as tough as the one over Laurel Mountain.
As we ride, Private Black keeps his gaze trained on the outcroppings of white boulders that loom over us from the steep hillsides on my right. I finally get up the nerve to ask him what he’s looking for.
“Perfect spots for Rebel ambushes,” he says.
“What’s an ambush?” I ask, still ignorant of much of the army talk I hear.
“That’s when the enemy is too scared to show his face,” Private Crutcher calls over his shoulder. “The cowards hide and shoot from behind cover.”
“I call it the worst way to die,” Private Black adds. “A shot from an ambusher don’t leave you time to get revenge—or say your goodbyes.”
Turning in his saddle, Pa adds, “Captain Waite says the pesky regiment trying to keep us from reaching Saltville is the 10th Kentucky Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Giltner. They’re Kentuckians who cotton to the Confederates.” He shifts back to face the front. “Boys, that means we may find ourselves grappling with Kentucky slaveholders.”
“Huzzah!” the soldiers around us cheer.
But a chill jitters through me, and I aim my eyes on those boulders, too.
Suddenly, sharp pops echo up the lane, far ahead of us. All talk stops. I tense, and Sassy nervously tosses her head.
More shots ring out, closer this time. Two rows in front of Pa, a cavalryman topples off his horse. An instant later, bullets rain from the boulders above us, and the riderless horse drops to his knees with a groan.
I stifle a scream.
“Find cover! Prepare to fight on foot!” The order blasts from the front of the platoon. The soldiers spur their horses into the trees to the left, crashing over rocks and into each other in their haste.
Sassy scrambles down the mountainside. I jump off, stumbling along beside her before pulling her to a stop. Pa, Black, Morton, and Crutcher have dismounted, too. I grab their horses’ reins while the men dive behind outcroppings and tree trunks, grabbing wildly for their rifles.
I lead Sassy and the other horses farther into the woods, doing my best to hurry them along without starting a panic. Corporal Vaughn, also a horse holder, hastens with me. I calm the horses with soft words, trying to keep from being trampled as they bunch into each other. My breath is coming in gasps. Bullets continue to hail from the boulders beyond the road, splintering bark and pinging into the dirt, but I hear no order to fire from our side.
“Private Alexander,” Corporal Vaughn dares to whisper. “What’s happening?”
Before I can respond, I hear the clattering of what seems like hundreds of iron-shod hooves as a company from the 11th Michigan races up the road toward the mountaintop, pistols drawn. Their bugler trumpets, and my heart races with them.
They gallop by in a stream of puffing horses. Then it’s silent for several minutes, until I again hear gunfire, shouts, and yells.
While our company waits behind cover, Corporal Vaughn and I do our best to keep the horses calm. Finally, “all clear” drifts through the forest.
Relieved, we lead the horses forward. As I watch the men rise from the shadows, it hits me: While the 11th Michigan charged forward to meet the enemy, the Fifth stayed in the brush like cowards.
Private Black strides over to get his and Crutcher’s mounts. Private Morton takes his horse, his face pale under his cap. I long to talk to them about the skirmish, but their thoughts seem far away.
Pa walks solemnly toward me, rifle in his hand. When I give him Hero’s reins, I ask, “Pa why didn’t the Fifth go after that 10th Kentucky?”
“Because that wasn’t the order.”
“But ain’t soldiers supposed to fight?”
Pa levels one eye at me. “Soldiers are supposed to obey orders.”
“Sergeant Alexander!” Captain Waite calls from the road. “Have your squad form a detail to bury Private Huston!”
“Yes sir!” Pa responds, handing me back the reins. I lead Sassy and Hero up onto the road. In front of us a bulky mound lies in the center of the lane. The horse that was shot is dead. Blood oozes from its neck and shoulder. Already someone has stripped it of bridle, saddle, and gear. Soldiers lead their mounts around it or step over it. No one but me pays it any mind.
I remember Jackson’s words when we first visited Camp Nelson and saw the broken-down remounts: Horses don’t choose to fight, and they sure don’t get no enlistment fee.
And no glory neither, I see now. The body will be left for vultures and other varmints.
My eyes blur. I lead Sassy and Hero around the fallen horse and say a silent prayer.
The sun breaks through the clouds as Burbridge’s army descends Clinch Mountain and follows Laurel Creek. The story making its way down the column is that three of Colonel Hobson’s regiments dismounted to fight the 64th Virginia, sending the Rebels scattering into the hills. The Fifth hasn’t been threatened again, but as we jog alongside the creek, I can’t shake thoughts of that dead horse and rider from my mind.
We make it through Low Gap without any more encounters with graycoats. Saltville’s only a few miles away. A fever seems to infect Pa’s squad, and I’m catching it, too. Something has us riled for battle. Might be the dead comrade we buried on Clinch Mountain. Might be the salty smell of the town wafting our way. Might be the sun falling behind the hills, covering our approach.
General Burbridge must be blind to the men’s eagerness, though, because after we ford the Holston River, he halts the division and orders the army to make camp. I dismount, and as Pa’s squad untacks their horses, the grumbling begins.
“Why’re we stoppin’ now?” Private Black complains. “We need to attack Saltville while them Rebels are eatin’ dinner.”
“And while they’re whittlin’ and playin’ cards,” Private Crutcher joins in. “A night’s delay’ll just give their regiments time to regroup.”
“Pa says a soldier always obeys orders,” I tell them.
Private Black snorts. “Long as the order comes from Cap’n Waite, I’ll follow it. But them other officers?” He hawks up a mouthful of saliva and spews it out on the ground. “Their regiments have been taunting us this whole march. Them white soldiers don’t care spit about us coloreds. And I ain’t plannin’ on takin’ a bullet for ’em neither.”
“We ain’t taking bullets for them,” I say. “We’re fighting for the slaves. Like those men at the farm that followed us—to find Jubilee.”
“Ha!” Private Crutcher barks a laugh. “Only they ain’t slaves no more. President Lincoln freed the Virginia coloreds long ago. They were just too scared to leave before.”
“They were not too scared!” I protest. “They needed someone like us to lead them.”
“Take a look, boy.” Private Crutcher waves his arm around the camp. “You see ’em anymore?”
I think back, realizing I ain’t seen a single one of them since we started up Clinch Mountain.
“Soon as the Rebels started firin’ on us, them gutless coloreds ran back to their master’s farm like frightened sheep,” Private Crutcher declares. “Nope, we’re fightin’ for ourselves. And me, I don’t aim to be buried under a pile of Virginia rocks like Private Huston.”
Private Black’s “Amen!” puts an end to the discussion.
When Private Crutcher leads his horse to the river to drink, Private Black draws me aside and pulls something from underneath
his jacket. It’s an envelope, stained and tattered as if it’s traveled a long way. “Gabriel, unless them Rebels wave the white flag, we’re marchin’ on Saltville tomorrow. Unlike Private Crutcher, I ain’t fightin’ for myself. I’m fightin’ for my sons so they’ll have a better life than me. This letter’s to them in case I . . .”
I glance sharply up at him. “Die? Why, you’re too ornery to die, Private Black.”
He leans closer, and for once there’s no jest in his face. “I know something of life, Private, and I don’t need no white colonel to tell me them Confederates will defend their town with every ounce of their strength. Word from Cap’n Waite is that the Fifth is goin’ into combat right along with Ratliff’s brigade.”
This is the first I’ve heard of going into battle. I think of Pa and the rest of the squad, and I don’t know whether to be thrilled or scared out of my britches.
“I’ve driven many a mule team into the South,” Private Black goes on, “and I can tell you one sure thing: When them Confederates see our black faces charging ’em with rifles and bayonets, they’re goin’ to attack us with a vengeance. So if I die, I want my sons to know how much I love ’em. I want my sons to know I thought about ’em every step of every day.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
He places the letter in my hand and closes my fingers around it. “Promise on the Bible?”
I barely choke out a weak “yes.”
After tomorrow, I suddenly realize, when the Fifth marches on Saltville, none of our lives will ever be the same.
Chapter Eleven
A rapid burst of gunfire echoes across the fog-shrouded hills. It’s scarcely dawn, but the men are already up, moving about sluggishly. All have slept fitfully. As Pa walks among his squad, he tells us that the shooting is from Burbridge’s skirmishers, sent ahead to sound out the enemy.
The men are quiet as they saddle their horses. I’m checking Sassy’s girth when Private Crutcher leads Whistler over. “Gabriel,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve pinned my name to my pocket.” He taps a slip of paper with a name penciled on it. “If I die, don’t let me rot on Rebel soil.”
This time I don’t protest, because I know it might be true. I nod instead, hoping I can keep all my promises. Then I glance at Pa. What if he should get shot?
Before we ride off, I want to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. But now’s not the time. He’s inspecting a rifle, acting as Sergeant Alexander, not my pa.
I bend to check Sassy’s leg and spy a hawk feather on the ground. Stooping, I retrieve it and hold it up in the misty morning light. It’s a good-sized one, striped brown and white.
When Pa passes near, I reach up and tuck the quill of the feather into the chin strap that’s in place over the brim of his forage cap. “So I know,” is all I say in a thick voice, and he gives my shoulder a gruff squeeze.
The bugles announce it’s time to mount. My guts twist as the cavalrymen swing into the saddles. I’m riding with them this time. Not as a soldier, but as a horse holder. Captain Waite gave the order on my behalf, so I didn’t have to convince Pa, who would have said no.
Pa’s angry about the decision. He wants his son here in camp, far from Rebel gunfire. But I don’t want to be left behind. The squad has drilled and marched together for more days than I can count. These soldiers are my family now, too.
When the sun peeks over the hills, the division heads toward Saltville. We ford the Holston River, the water splashing our horses’ bellies. Ahead of our company, Captain Waite rides on Champion.
This journey ain’t been easy, but I’ve learned much. I’ve come to believe the captain’s done his best to be a good officer, despite his scant experience and head full of philosophy. Company B will follow him wherever he leads. But like all the soldiers around me, I don’t know what lies ahead. We’re following the orders of our captain, who’s following the orders of Colonel Wade, who’s following the orders of Colonel Ratliff, who’s following the orders of some general I’ve never laid eyes on. Here’s a harsh truth: A soldier must obey as blindly as a slave.
Maybe Annabelle’s right. Freedom for coloreds is about reading and writing. As Sassy carries me closer to Saltville, I say a prayer that Annabelle will continue to be a fine and fierce teacher. I only hope that I will see her and Ma again.
I glance at Private Crutcher, riding in front of me with his name pinned over his heart so he won’t die forgotten in Rebel territory. Then I look at Private Black—his gaze straight ahead, his handsome face showing no emotion, but I know inside he’s hoping with all his might that he’ll live to see his sons again.
Lastly, my eyes cut to Pa and the hawk feather poking from his forage cap. As he rides toward a faceless enemy, is he thinking about Ma and their unborn babe—one he may never know? And suddenly, as Company B halts at the bottom of a hill, I discover another truth: Men can be courageous even when they’re filled with fear.
A bugle sounds across the field. From the distance I hear Captain Waite’s voice, strong and clear: “Dismount—prepare to fight—on foot!”
My last truth ain’t about learning or obeying or being brave. It’s the sorrowful realization that I never got a chance to tell Pa I love him.
* * *
Folks love to speak of the hardest thing they’ve ever experienced. Take Mister Pie and his missing eye. For him, the loss of that eye was so grand that it’s become a shifting tale of truth and lies.
For me, the hardest thing is standing at the bottom of Sander’s Hill holding the horses while Pa, Captain Waite, and 400 soldiers of the Fifth advance up the side. I watch them proceed in wavy rows of blue, six paces between each company, the way we drilled so many times at Camp Nelson. To the left of the Fifth marches the 12th Ohio, and on the right is the 11th Michigan. These are the regiments of the 4th Brigade.
Captain Waite, with Company B behind him, is one of the first to reach the summit. For a moment, he and Champion are silhouetted against the morning sky, and I hear his rallying cry. I strain for a glimpse of Pa or Private Black, but they’re too far away. The ranks of soldiers crest the hilltop, the colors of the three regiments snapping in the wind, and then flow like a blue river over the top and disappear on the other side.
A volley of gunfire and the boom of cannons ring in the air.
My insides tighten. All I can do when the soldiers are out of sight is to soothe the horses, even though Sassy, Hambone, Whistler, and Hero are too jaded to dance.
The sun creeps above the horizon. Long hours pass.
I wait with the other horse holders staggered along the bottom of Sanders Hill. I’ve led my horses under a shady tree so I can rest my back on the trunk. They’re hungry and they pick around at the grass, but they can’t eat much. I don’t dare drop the bits from their mouths in case of a hasty retreat.
The far-off sound of shooting never ceases. Patrols gallop constantly over the hill and across the river, bringing messages to and from the battlefields and camp, occasionally splitting off to relay information to the other brigades fighting west of the Holston River. No one tarries to tell us news.
All that’s left is waiting and wondering.
* * *
Hours later my body still flinches with each gunshot. Did that Rebel bullet hit Pa? Or did it find Captain Waite?
I try and trick my mind into forgetting about the raging battle. Closing my eyes, I pretend I’m riding Aristo bareback, racing along Mister Giles’s grass track. The wind pummels my cheeks as he gallops, his long legs grabbing the earth with each stride. I imagine Short Bit and Jase racing Savannah and Captain alongside us. Lord, how I miss them all! But a series of sharp pops cuts into my dreaming, and my eyes snap open. Atop the hill, I see smoke from gunpowder drift skyward, and then I hear the scream of a horse and the distant cries of men. My thoughts are once again riveted on the other side of that mountain.
Booms and cracks are also coming from the west, across Holston River. Fr
om the urgent shouts of the patrols I gather that Hanson’s and Hobson’s brigades are fighting the Rebels along Broddy Bottom and Little Mountain.
As the day lengthens, Union guards begin to return, driving groups of Confederate prisoners in front of them. I gape as they pass. It’s the first time I’ve seen Rebel soldiers, and I stare, remembering tales of their fierceness in battle. But these prisoners appear defiant boys, no older than me. Their ragtag uniforms look as if they were cobbled together from their mothers’ clothes trunks. One of the prisoners is a gray-haired gentleman the Union guard calls “Governor.”
Then wounded Union soldiers start to stagger in from the lines. Some limp by, dragging injured legs. Some are holding their sides. Soldiers prop each other up the best they can, some using rifles as crutches. When one worn-out soldier reaches his horse, he sags against it and weeps.
A regiment surgeon and his assistants have set up a makeshift field hospital not far from where I stand. The injured are stretched on blankets spread out under a tree. I hear them call out in their misery. Scattered around them on the ground are lint, bandages, a bucket, a washbasin, and a bottle of whiskey. I wince to think that we had more medicine, supplies, and herbal remedies for the horses at Woodville Farm.
As the wounded trudge by me, I anxiously scan their faces, looking for men from Company B. I see no colored soldiers, only white men whose faces are blackened from gunpowder. Still, as they trickle past, I hear scraps of news: “Ammunition running out.” “Fifth is fighting gallantly.” “Soldiers falling like rain.” “Rebels dug in tight on Chestnut Ridge.” And finally, uttered with fear and dismay, the message “Breckenridge is on his way!”
I stop Corporal Vaughn. “Who’s Breckenridge?” I ask.
“Confederate Major General Breckenridge,” he replies. “Word is he’s brought a detachment of five thousand to fight us.”
Five thousand? My skin goes cold.
I hear the thud of hooves to our right. Mounted Yankees are trotting toward us from across the river. Most appear to be officers, although a few enlisted men, some of them bloodied, bring up the rear.