Sumter to Shiloh

by Bob Mayer

  James took in the gun and axe in Samual’s hand and got to his feet. “The devil over there on the dock.”

  Samual shook his head and pointed north. “We got to go. Now.”

  James grabbed the knife from Samual’s belt. “Twenty year you been telling me to wait.”

  “We can be free.”

  James pointed at his head. “I been free here a long time.” He tapped his chest. “I need free here. For that, I need his blood.”

  “No,” Samual said. “Good book say ‘Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’.”

  “You a damn fool still,” James said. “Been fool all these years.”

  “What you mean?”

  “’Eye for eye,’ brother Samual. ‘Eye for eye’ it also say.”

  James headed toward the ship. Samual looked up as the first clear rays of dawn tinged the eastern horizon. “Lord, I got to save him, no matter what he do.”

  Samual ran after the younger slave.

  St. George was tucked into the shade of an old oak tree, an empty tequila bottle held loosely in one hand, the other hidden inside his sash. His slouch hat was pulled over his face, slightly muffling the sound of snoring.

  Samual arrived as James knelt next to St. George and with one hand whipped the hat off the white man’s face and with the other, jabbed the point of the knife into the left eye.

  St. George’s scream pierced the early morning calm as both hands grabbed for the blade protruding from his face. Samual had the axe ready, one blow and the overseer wouldn’t feel his pain any more and the world wouldn’t bear the man any longer. He hesitated, God holding the strike as James readied a fatal blow with the knife.

  A shot rang out and a bullet cracked by so close, Samual felt the breeze on his cheek and hit James in the chest, knocking him back from St. George.

  “Come!” Samual yelled to James as the younger slave stumbled to his knees, blood pumping from a hole in his chest. Forty feet away the devil woman who was in business with St. George had her pistol leveled, preparing to fire again.

  Samual dropped the axe and pistol, threw James over his shoulder, and ran.

  More shots rang out, adding impetus to Samual’s sprint. He passed through a strand of forest until he reached the edge of the massive Louisiana swamp. He splashed into the dark water without pause, pushing forward.

  They wouldn’t follow into the swamp right away. They’d wait on the dogs or for him to come back out. But he wasn’t going to come back out. At least not on this side. And he had a little bit of time before they could get the dogs.

  When he was far enough in that he could risk stopping, Samual gently laid James down on a dry hummock. A bubbly froth was coming out of the hole in James’ chest as he struggled to breath. Samual pressed his hand against it, sliding his other hand underneath, to the man’s back. When he drew the hand back, there was no blood, which meant the bullet was still in James.

  “I got him,” James gasped. “Got his eye. And I dying free.”

  “You not dying.”

  “You doctor?” James asked. He raised his head, looking down at his chest. “You take that hand away, I die. You keep it there, they catch us. Bullet got my air, my blood.”

  Samual took his shirt and tore it in strips. He fashioned a bandage as best he could and wrapped it around James’ torso.

  It did little good as blood spotted it right away and James struggled to breath. Samual once more pressed his hand hard against the wound.

  “You need to get away,” James said. “Leave me. I’ll go north, draw ‘em off. You go south. They won’ think ‘dat. Dogs will follow my blood.”

  “Won’t leave you,” Samual said.

  “Then we both die.”

  “Won’t.”

  James caught his breath. “Samual. Something you need know.”

  “Yes?”

  “That day. On the river with your son.” James coughed, blood spackling his lips. “St. George know Agrippa read what he shouldn’t. Threatened him on da’ boat. Agrippa jump over into the river.” James paused, licked his lips, tasting the blood, his life leaving him. “St. George shot at him like it were a game. Agrippa went under. Didn’ come up.”

  “I know,” Samual said.

  James gripped Samual’s arm with ferocious strength. “No. You don’ know. Remember he save Master’s eldest boy? Agrippa mighty swimmer. I watched. Long after they go back to laughing and drinking ‘bout killing uppity nigra. I saw.” James coughed again, more blood. A trickle on his cheek. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath again.

  With a trembling hand, Samual wiped it clean. “What you see?”

  “I saw Agrippa crawl out on far shore. Alive. He was alive.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Samual whispered, rocking back on his heels in shock. “Why you not tell me?”

  “Better everyone think he dead. He dead, no one look for him. As long as you a slave, best for you too. You not a slave now.”

  With a surge of adrenaline, James shoved off Samual’s hand and got to his feet. He staggered off into the swamp, heading north, his own hands on his wound.

  Samual stood, his instinct to follow and help.

  But then it really sunk in. Agrippa could be alive.

  Samual headed south.

  Chapter Four

  25 July 1861, Northern Virginia

  “We heard you had got over the ‘big scare’, and we thought we would come over and see the boys,” Lincoln said to Sherman, both men ignoring a light drizzle that complemented the pall over the camps of the defeated Army of the Potomac.

  Lincoln was in the back of an uncovered carriage, seated next to Secretary of State Seward. Lincoln’s tall, brimmed hat kept the rain from his face, but his black frock coat was soaked. Rumble was on his horse, the Henry rifle across the pommel, a small piece of oilcloth keeping the trigger and chamber assembly dry. As near as he had been able to tell since leaving Washington and crossing the river into Virginia this morning, he was the sole extent of the President and Secretary of State’s protection. Colonel Sherman was also mounted, but had more of an escort, a coterie of staff officers hovering behind him on the mud splattered road just outside of Sherman’s series of camps containing his brigade.

  “We welcome you, sir,” Sherman said, with a slight bow from the saddle.

  “Tell me, first,” Lincoln said, “how do you feel the battle went? I hear many different tales in Washington, but since they are told by those in Washington, one might suppose those doing the telling are those who had the fleetest feet in departing the battlefield.”

  Sherman didn’t even smile at the jibe. “Sir, it was one of the best planned and worst fought battles in history.”

  Lincoln nodded sagely. “The best summation I’ve heard so far.”

  “What might I do for you, sir?”

  “My friend, Sergeant Major Rumble, tells me you are a grim but honest man,” Lincoln said. “If I can ignore the fact your brother is a Senator.”

  Sherman glanced at Rumble and put the tip of his right finger to his eyebrow in acknowledgement. “Sergeant Major Rumble would know, sir. I saw him on the battlefield the other day. How’s your brother, Elijah?”

  “Recovering, sir,” Rumble said. “He’s under a civilian doctor’s care, but also under guard as a prisoner.”

  Lincoln twisted in the seat. “Your brother?”

  “Wounded in battle, sir. He lost his left leg.”

  “And I assume he was wearing gray?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Rumble said.

  “A shame and the curse of this war,” Lincoln said. “You have my authority to end his prisoner status and send him home as swiftly as possible, as long he swears never to raise arms against the country again.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rumble said.

  Lincoln turned back to Sherman. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to visit your camps and speak to the men. It seems
they might use some bucking up.”

  Sherman frowned. “Please, sir, discourage all cheering, noise, or any sort of confusion; we had enough of it before Bull Run to spoil any set of men. What we need is cool, thoughtful, hard-fighting soldiers—no more hurrahing, no more humbug.”

  Lincoln chuckled. “I can see Sergeant Rumble spoke accurately. As you command, Colonel, I will refrain from theatrics and politicking, the two being almost the same.”

  The party moved out, splashing down the road. They arrived at a regimental camp, where the men were hurriedly called out to assembly. They gathered in a square around Lincoln’s hack.

  The President stood up, towering over everyone.

  “I understand this square formation is what you men formed near the end of the Battle of Bull Run. That it was your unit that saved the entire army from annihilation. Except in that case, your weapons were pointed outward at the enemy. I am grateful you have seen fit to assemble without weapons and without pointing them at me. This is a more amendable reception than the one I receive on Capitol Hill.

  “As President, I am the Commander-in-Chief. I am responsible for all. The onus of Bull Run is on me. I promise to do all I can to give you the support you need in the future. Supplies will . .”

  As Lincoln went on, Sherman sidled up next to Rumble.

  “I figure McDowell is out,” Sherman said. “Who’s next, Lucius?”

  “McClellan.”

  “Humph,” Sherman said, which was comment enough. A tic was dancing on his left cheek, underneath his scruffy beard. “Your southern brethren don't know what they’re doing, Lucius,” he hissed. “This country will be drenched in blood, and God only knows how it will end. It’s all folly, madness, a crime against civilization! Those people speak so lightly of war; they don't know what they’re talking about. War is a terrible thing, as you know. They mistake, too, the people of the North. We will fight, to the end. We’re not going to let this country be destroyed without a mighty effort to save it.”

  “I know that, Cump,” Rumble said, but Sherman was getting more and more agitated as Lincoln continued to address the troops.

  “Besides,” Sherman said, “where are the southern men and appliances of war to contend against us? The North can make a steam engine, locomotive, or railway car; hardly a yard of cloth or pair of shoes can southerners make. I was in Louisiana the last few years, commanding the military school. I know what they can do and what they can’t do. They’re rushing into war with one of the most powerful and determined people on Earth. They’re bound to fail despite the recent victory. Only in their spirit and determination are they prepared for war, I’ll grant them that. In all else they are totally unprepared, with a bad cause to start with. They might have made some headway at Bull Run, but as their limited resources begin to fail, shut out from the markets of Europe as they will be, their cause will begin to wane. If those damn people will but stop and think, they must see in the end that they will surely fail, but in the meanwhile hundreds of thousands will pay the price with their lives, both North and South.”

  “They don’t want to look too deep or too far ahead,” Rumble said. “I wouldn’t argue with you, Cump, but I’d keep those predictions close to the chest. Not what anyone wants to hear. The five hundred or so killed during the battle has the country in an uproar.”

  “That will be a light day for the grim reaper in a year,” Sherman predicted.

  “I think the President knows that,” Rumble said.

  Lincoln was coming to the end. “And I also assure you that if you have a grievance, you may bring it to my attention personally. There is nothing more important to me than they welfare of you soldiers.”

  A cheer started, but Lincoln raised a hand, silencing it.

  “Don’t cheer, boys. I confess I rather like it myself, but Colonel Sherman here says it is not military, and I guess we had better defer to his opinion.”

  A soldier stepped forward, shaking off hands that tried to keep him in ranks.

  “Mister President, we don’t think Colonel Sherman has treated us very well. We was taking shelter in a barn whilst it was raining the other day, and the Colonel turned us out of it.”

  “Well, boys, I have a great deal of respect for Colonel Sherman and if he turned you out of the barn, I’ve no doubt it was for a good reason. I presume he thought you would feel better if you went to your military tasks and tried to forget your troubles.”

  The man stepped back, muttering. A voice cried out from behind Lincoln.

  “Mister President, I have a cause for grievance. This morning I went to speak to Colonel Sherman and he threatened to shoot me.”

  Lincoln turned around to see the complaint had come from an officer. “Threatened to shoot you? Really?”

  “Yes, sir, indeed. Threatened to shoot me like a dog.”

  “Come closer.” Lincoln leaned over, as if passing a secret, but his voice could clearly be heard by all. “If I were you, and Colonel Sherman threatened to shoot me, I would believe he would do it and act accordingly.”

  The officer turned beet red and sulked off, to the laughter of the men close by.

  With a few more parting words to the men, Lincoln sat down and the carriage moved out, Rumble on one side, Sherman on the other.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sherman said. “That officer came to me with a bit of mutiny in him. Your support is crucial to keeping discipline among green troops.”

  “You know, Colonel,” Lincoln said, “the Confederates were green too. How was it they prevailed on the field?”

  Sherman didn’t hesitate. “We had three division commanders, sir. Only one had ever seen action before. Nine brigade commanders, myself among them. Only three had ever seen combat. On the other side, all the nine senior Confederate commanders had fought in Mexico.”

  “And all West Pointers on the gray side,” Lincoln said.

  “Yes, sir. Damn traitors. Ought to be lined up and shot.”

  “We have to catch them first,” Lincoln observed.

  “Sir, if I may speak?” Rumble asked.

  Lincoln turned his way. “Yes?”

  “When we were marching south to Bull Run we all thought the war would be over in a week. That we’d be sitting in Richmond right now. It didn’t happen. These men know that now. They’re sullen, they’re miserable, they’re defeated for the moment, but deep inside, they’re angry. Angry soldiers are good soldiers. They’re set for the long haul now.”

  Rumble continued. “I know the southern mind-set. I think the shoe is on the other foot. I think the Confederates now believe they can be in Washington within a few weeks. Which they can’t. I’ve heard stories that some of the southern boys have gone home, thinking the victory at Bull Run was more than enough and the war is as good as over. I believe that this belief of victory by the south is going to cost them more than our defeat.”

  Lincoln pondered that. “An interesting twist, Sergeant Rumble. Very interesting. We’ve lured them into over-confidence by allowing them to defeat us.”

  “Sir, I—“ Rumble sputtered by Lincoln waved a hand, silencing him as effectively as he had the regiment.

  “I was told the army needed training. I pressed for action sooner, rather than later. I understand now. I will have more patience. I just pray the country will too.”

  2 August 1861, Palatine, Mississippi

  A wagon or a carriage. If the former, it was not heavily laden. Violet Rumble knew the dust that rose from the Natchez Road as intimately as she knew the lines that had appeared years ago around her eyes and were conquering her middle-age.

  Violet left the sitting room and went to the front door, creaking it open on hinges that needed lubrication. Many things at Palatine needed maintenance. Tiberius was ensconced in his chair on the front porch over her head, drinking constantly and speaking little, a small blessing. St. George was recuperating in his cabin, his subordinate overseers taking care of the fields, while he hatched whatever devilry would come out of the loss of his
eye. And Violet took care of the big house alone.

  A wagon turned into the drive and Violet felt her heart leap for the first time in weeks as she recognized Rosalie’s golden hair. It had been a long time since her daughter-in-law visited from Vicksburg. Violet took the stairs swiftly, but halted on the bottom one, her happiness fading as she saw the look on Rosalie’s face and that her dress was stained with sweat.

  “Seneca?” Violet asked.

  In response, Rosalie halted the wagon and climbed over the seat into the rear. Violet almost ran to the back as Rosalie dropped the gate.

  Seneca lay on the wood planks, pale and sweating in the August heat, eyes half-lidded from morphine. His left leg was gone from the knee down and swathed in stained bandages.

  “Oh, my dear Lord,” Violet whispered as she climbed into the buckboard and joined Rosalie.

  “Wounded at Bull Run, two weeks past,” Rosalie said. “He arrived on the train to Vicksburg two days ago. I tried to talk him into staying there, but he kept insisting on coming here during his lucid moments.”

  “To Palatine?”

  “To you.” It was an indication of how upset Violet was that she didn’t notice the sharp edge in Rosalie’s answer.

  “He must go in my bedroom,” Violet said. “It’s the coolest. And I will send for the doctor to dress his wound again. We will take the best possible care of him.” She cried out for help and several slaves scurried up.

  They carried Seneca into the house and to Violet’s bed as she tore off the covers and propped pillows for him.

  “You.” She pointed at a slave. “Ride to Natchez and fetch the doctor.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Rosalie stood silent in a corner of the room as Violet bustled about making her youngest son as comfortable as possible. She finally spoke. “Are you going to inform Tiberius?”