I hope they’re as rough as their names, he thought with a smile.
He paused beside a platform where a battle flag made by the ladies of Richmond was to be presented. This company had the rather ferocious name of Southern Yankee Killers. Jeff watched as the volunteers stood in ranks, their eyes fixed on the speakers, who gave them a flowery tribute. Then the color sergeant advanced with his corporals to receive the flag, rising to the occasion with an impressive response:
“Ladies, with high beating hearts and pulses throbbing with emotion, we receive from your hands this beautiful flag, the proud emblem of our young republic. To those who will return from the field of battle bearing this flag—though it may be tattered and torn—in triumph, this incident will always prove a cheering recollection. And to him whose fate it may be to die a soldier’s death, this moment brought before his fading view will recall your kind and sympathetic words. He will bless you as his spirit takes its aerial flight …”
Jeff stayed long enough to hear the speech and several others much like it. Finally the oratory stopped long enough for the soldiers to receive liberal offerings of cake, cookies, punch, and coffee from the young ladies, all of whom were adorned in their best dresses.
Being half starved from his long trip, Jeff edged over to one of the tables and managed to fill up on some of the sweets and the lemonade.
Finally, he left the heart of the city and made his way to the house his father had rented. When he got there, however, he was surprised to find six or seven small children ranging from a baby of no more than a year to a pugnacious boy of seven or eight.
He stopped abruptly, wondering if he had the right house, then shrugged and walked to the door. As he stepped inside, he was accosted at once by a very large woman, who demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”
Jeff blinked with surprise and then swallowed. “Why I … I live here.”
The woman stared, and then her features softened. “Oh, then you’d be Lieutenant Majors’s son, I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I’m Jeff Majors.” Jeff looked around and saw that the room was filled with items he had never seen before.
The woman, seeing his glance, said, “My name is Mrs. Taylor. My husband is a sergeant in your father’s company. We had no place else to go, so Lieutenant Majors said we could stay here.”
“Oh,” Jeff said lamely and then added, “I guess you’ll be here for quite a while.”
Mrs. Taylor shrugged. “As long as the army’s here. And then when they go off, I’ll have to wait.” She tucked a strand of hair back. “Don’t worry—well fix a place for you somewhere.”
Jeff at once said, “Don’t bother, Mrs. Taylor. I’m going to see my father now. I just want to get some of my things.”
“Well, we packed them in a box. But you won’t find anyplace else to stay,” she said abruptly. “Richmond’s packed like a grape in its skin! No more room anywhere.”
Jeff found a change of clothes, but it was so crowded in the room with several children staring at him that he said, “I’ll change later. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”
Leaving the house, he began his walk to camp. As he walked he thought, I can’t stay in that place. Why, I’d go crazy with all those kids!
He reached the camp and, having walked all the way, was rather tired. At once he went to Company A and found his father sitting in the tent he used for an office.
“Jeff—you’re back!” Nelson Majors leaped to his feet and moved over at once to call out the door, “Corporal Majors—come here.”
Tom glanced up from where he was drilling a squad across the field and came running, once he saw Jeff. “Step into my office,” their father said.
When the boys were inside, he shut the tent flap and grinned. “Can’t let them see this.” He stepped forward and gave Jeff a hug.
Tom did the same. “When did you get back?”
“This morning, about two hours ago.” Jeff put his clothes down on the cot. “Looks like the house has been taken over, Pa.”
“Yes, I had to let Mrs. Taylor stay there. Sergeant Taylor’s a good man and didn’t have anywhere to put his family. But they’ll make room for you, I’m sure.”
Jeff said nothing, for he wanted to speak to his father alone.
Tom said with a grin, “Tell us all about your trip. Some luck getting out of all this work and drill to go on a nice vacation!”
“It wasn’t a vacation,” Jeff said indignantly. “If you think it’s fun taking a baby on a train ride across the country—”
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to Tom,” their father said. “Now, tell us about everything. How is Esther? How are the Carters?”
The three sat down, and for half an hour Jeff brought them up on the news of their former neighbors. He ended by saying, “We did the right thing to take Esther there, Pa. The Carters were tickled to death to have her. Why, Mrs. Carter acted like it was her own baby!”
Lieutenant Majors ran his hand through his black hair, a look of relief on his face. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Jeff. I don’t know what we’d have done if it hadn’t been for those good people.”
“What about Leah?” Tom asked suddenly. “Did you get a good-bye kiss from her?”
Jeff flushed and snapped, “No, but it’s none of your business what I got, Tom!”
Tom laughed. “I don’t believe a word of that. That young lady’s growing up in a hurry.”
“Well, I have something for you. A letter from another young lady,” Jeff said. “But since you’re so cocky, I just won’t give it to you.”
“From Sarah?” At once Tom straightened up. “Give it here.”
“Nope. If you treat me right, I’ll—ow!”
Tom leaped across the tent and grabbed Jeff, throwing him to the ground. He held him there, squirming and protesting, as he went through his pockets. Finally Tom said, “Where is it, you varmint? I’ll have it now!”
“Let him up, Tom,” their father said. “It’s against the rules for two members of this company to get into a fight.” He helped Jeff to his feet. “Now, don’t pay any attention to Tom. He means well—he just thinks he’s funny.”
Jeff gave Tom a baleful look and reached into his inner pocket. “Here’s a letter for you, Pa, from Mr. Carter, and I think one from his wife in the same envelope.” As his father took the envelope and opened it eagerly, Jeff handed the other letter he had extracted to Tom, saying, “There’s your old letter, but you don’t deserve it!”
Tom grinned. “Thanks, Jeff. I’ll make it right with you.” He ripped open the envelope and began to read.
Jeff watched his face. As he had feared, his brother’s expression grew darker.
I guess she told him they could never get married, not as long as he’s in the Confederate army, Jeff thought. He felt sorry for Tom, as he had felt sorry for Sarah when she had given him the letter, saying, “Give this to your brother, Jeff, and tell him—well, I’ve said it all in the letter.”
Tom folded his letter, stuck it in his pocket, and turned away, muttering, “I’ll see you later.” Then he left the tent.
Their father looked after him. “I guess he got bad news from Sarah. I feel bad about those two.”
“I do too.”
“And Leah, she’s all right?”
“Oh, yes. She and her father are going to be sutlers. They’re going to follow the Union army.”
“That’s what Dan says in this letter. Kind of an odd job for a young girl—but I guess it’s best. Dan’s not in good health, and Leah always was his best nurse.” He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and gave Jeff a fond look. “Well, I’m glad you’re back, son. I’ve missed you.”
“When will the army be moving out, Pa?”
“Nobody knows, but it won’t be long.” His father frowned and shook his head. “I hate to leave you all crowded up with the sergeant’s family, but there’s not much else I can do about it.”
“Pa,” Jeff said, a determined look coming to hi
s eyes, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
The seriousness of his son’s voice brought the lieutenant’s eyes to bear on him. “Why, sure, Jeff, what is it?”
“I know you think I’m too young,” Jeff said, “but, Pa, I can’t stay here in Richmond.”
“You want to go back to Kentucky?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” he protested quickly. He hesitated, then said, “Pa, I want to join the army with you and Tom.”
At once his father shook his head. His lips became very tight, and he exclaimed, “No, that’s out of the question. You’re too young, Jeff. We’re not taking anybody in the army under eighteen.”
“That’s not so, Pa. You know as well as I do that lots of young fellows are telling lies about their ages.”
“I can’t help that. They’re not my sons, and you are.”
“Look, Pa, think about me for a minute. What am I going to do staying here in Richmond? I don’t know anybody. I’d go crazy.”
“I know, son, but—”
“I’m not talking about enlisting as a regular soldier, Pa.” Jeff had practiced this speech many times, and now it tumbled out of him. His face was earnest. “I know I couldn’t be in the company like Tom, but I could be a drummer boy.”
The eyebrows of the older Majors went up. “A drummer boy?”
“Sure, Pa,” Jeff said eagerly. “You know they’re taking drummer boys in all the time, some of them no more than thirteen. And I’m already fourteen going on fifteen. I can do it, Pa!”
Nelson Majors stood looking across at the earnest face of this younger son of his. He had spent sleepless nights worrying what to do about the boy. He had hoped Jeff would choose to go back and stay with the Carters in Kentucky. But he knew that staying in that environment would be intolerable while his family was fighting on the Southern side. Now as he watched Jeff, he saw clearly the anguish that was in the boy. Still he hesitated.
Jeff finally said, “Don’t you see, Pa? I just got to do it! I can’t stay here away from you. You and Tom, why, you’re all I got.”
Biting his lip, Jeff’s father stared down at the floor, unable to meet his son’s eyes.
Silence fell on the tent, and Jeff was wise enough to know that he needed to say no more. His father, he well understood, was a firm man. Jeff had made his plea, and all he could do was hold his breath and pray that his father would see it his way.
Finally, Lieutenant Majors lifted his eyes. There was a heaviness in them and a strain around his lips. He looked tired, but he said evenly, “Well, Jeff, I don’t think there is any good answer for a thing like this. I see your side of it. If I was a boy your age, I’d ask for exactly the same thing.” He stared at the boy. “All right, you can enlist as a drummer boy. But that means you beat a drum—that’s all. No fighting. You understand?”
“Oh, I understand, Pa. I’ll do just what you say.”
Jeff saw the worry on his father’s face. “Pa, don’t worry no more than you can help. I’ll be all right. You and Tom are the ones that will be doing the fighting. I’ll just be beating the drum.”
“That’s not exactly right,” his father said. “Those drums are to direct men into position, and to do that you’ve got to be close enough for them to hear them. That means you’ll be not far behind the front line, maybe right on it. So you’ll be running the same chance as the rest of us.”
“I’m not afraid, Pa,” Jeff said stoutly. “We’ll be all right.”
Nelson Majors felt for the first time the weight of all this war meant. He had understood that he must lay his own life on the line, and when his older son had volunteered it had come as no great shock. Tom was of the age when he would do such a thing. But now, looking at this youthful son of his, only fourteen, the blackest hair of all of them—tall for his age, but still only fourteen—God help me, he thought. I’ve got to do it.
“Well—” he summoned up a grin and threw his arm around Jeff’s shoulders “—let’s go find the adjutant. And don’t expect any favors out of me, you understand? You and Tom are on your own.” He hesitated, then said, “We’ll have to pray for each other, Jeff. You and me and Tom, we’re going to go through a hard time. We’ll have to trust the Lord to keep us.”
Jeff was so excited he could hardly think. His black eyes sparkled, and despite himself he grinned. He felt the weight of his father’s arm on his shoulders and was excited about the prospect of putting on a uniform and marching with his father and his brother and the others.
“Come on, Pa, let’s go. I can’t wait till I get that drum and start to beat on it!”
9
A Brand-New Army
When the war first began, both the North and the South had recruitment rules that banned boys from joining and fighting. The Union held that a recruit had to be at least eighteen, and the South held approximately that same line. In spite of all this, a tall fourteen- or fifteen-year-old could easily bluff his way past a recruiting sergeant.
By far the easiest way for a boy to slip into the army was as a musician—especially as a drummer or a bugler. These were considered nonfighting positions, so a recruiter often allowed a boy to sign on without worrying about his age. The Union army alone had need of more than 40,000 musicians, while an estimated 20,000 served for the South.
Jeff discovered that many of the lads who joined as drummers and musicians were younger even than he.
He also discovered that the South was not ready to fight a war. He and the other recruits found themselves marching in their street clothes, using wooden guns and even cornstalks for training. One lucky unit might find itself outfitted by the proud citizens of its town. However, this produced a rainbow of uniform colors and styles on both sides. One regiment called itself The Highlands and proudly marched off wearing kilts!
The South’s economic power lay in its production of cotton, not in manufacturing. When President Lincoln ordered a complete blockade of all Southern ports, problems in the South multiplied. No wonder recruitment posters made very clear that “volunteers furnish their own clothes.”
The result was a hodgepodge of colors in the Confederate army. Once, while watching a group of new recruits drilling, Lieutenant Majors remarked, “It looks like a circus parade and not a serious army.”
When uniforms finally did arrive for Jeff and his fellow drummers, the result was not completely pleasing. Jeff found that his trousers were too long by three or four inches. The shirt was coarse, too large at the neck, and too short elsewhere. The cap was an ungainly bag with a pasteboard top and a leather visor—and the overcoat made him feel like a little nubbin of corn in a large husk!
“Why, I can’t wear this!” Jeff exclaimed.
Tom laughed. “You fellows just exchange around. Better still, get Pa to take you to a tailor downtown.”
Jeff began a campaign at once, and his father agreed when he saw the poorly fitting uniform. After a trip to the tailor, Jeff came back wearing a natty uniform of which he was very proud.
But getting the uniform was only the first step. Once outfitted, the real problems would start.
Every army depends on the movements of soldiers in one way or another. When an enemy position must be taken, the last thing an officer wants of his men is that they charge without an order. Even when the enemy is not in sight, well-trained troops form units that have logic and order. In every battle soldiers must be trained to follow orders, even if they cannot see the need of them. Whether advancing or retreating, the units that do not keep their positions according to their orders are likely to be defeated.
“Now,” Tom said, “you’ve got to learn how to be a soldier.”
The sergeant of A Company, a short, muscular man from Alabama named Holmes, spoke his opinion bluntly. “You’ve got to get these movements down to where you do them without thinking. I know you boys don’t like to drill—but these drills are going to save your lives when we get into battle.”
In truth, Jeff handled the marching drills easily, as did his fellows
. They were young, healthy, lean, and energetic. And Jeff was pleased to find that as far as marching was concerned, he could keep up with any of the older men.
On the first hard march, one of the large soldiers, who had been giving the boys a hard time, played out.
Jeff received a thrill to see him lying beside the road, gasping for breath, and he could not resist the urge to say, “Hey, big man, come on! We’ll never get to Washington with you lying there resting like that!”
Later, Jeff was to be sorry for that.
Curly Henson was the soldier’s name. He was a brawny fellow with red hair and a fiery temper. The day after the march, Curly stopped Jeff outside the mess hall, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him up almost on his toes. “You had a pretty good time making fun of me on that march, didn’t you, kid?”
Jeff squirmed in his grasp but was powerless in the large man’s hands. When the soldier reached out and cuffed him across the jaw, he gasped but said nothing.
Henson shoved him away so that he fell sprawling. “Now, that’s lesson number one.” He grinned. “You’ll get a few more as time goes on.”
Tom had been made a sergeant, and he observed the incident. He came up and helped Jeff to his feet. “What did you do to Henson?”
“Oh, I guess I made fun of him for falling down on the march.”
“Well, he’s going to make life miserable for you. I guess I had better talk to him for you.”
“Don’t do that,” Jeff said quickly. “It wouldn’t be right. I’ll take care of myself.”
Tom stared at him. “If he gets too rough, come and tell me about it.”
It did get rough during the next few days. Curly Henson never missed an opportunity to humiliate the boy. He found opportunities to ridicule him in drill and to trip him as he was walking with his mess kit in his hand, so that he spilled his supper. Each time Henson laughed loudly and said, “Well, you learn how to keep your mouth shut yet, Majors?”
Finally, Jeff could stand it no more. I’ve got to get him off of me. He’ll make my life miserable if I don’t, he said to himself. And lying at night in his bunk, he thought up a plan. He knew that he was no match for the young man in a fistfight, so he determined on a rather rash action.
Drummer Boy at Bull Run Page 7