With Every Drop of Blood

by James Lincoln Collier

  “I joined up,” I said, grinning some more.

  Cush hopped out of the wagon. “Ain’t you got a ounce of sense in your head, Reb? Captain Bartlett see you in that there blue jacket, he take you for a spy for sure.”

  “Spy? I’m not trying to spy.”

  “You explain that to Captain Bartlett. Reb, they shoot you if they think you spying. Now you git outten them there togs and git back into them old clothes of yourn.”

  Well, I felt like a fool, all right. It seemed like such a good idea—dress myself up like a Union fella, and maybe be able to sneak off out of there somehow. But I could see Cush was right. Captain Bartlett was bound to realize I was up to something. That was me—jump into things feet first and think about it later. Cussing myself for an idiot, I ran back into the warehouse and over to the mountain of clothes. Two colored privates were working over it, sorting out trousers, jackets, shirts, caps, into different heaps. I dashed around behind the pile. My old clothes were gone. I went back around to where the two privates were working. “You fellas see any old trousers laying around back there?”

  “Ain’t seen nothin’ but old trousers,” one of them said. “Mostly with the seat shot out of um.” They both laughed.

  “No, not uniforms, regular clothes.”

  “What you see back there is what is.” I raced around to the back of the pile again, and began digging through it, flinging clothes every which way. But my old clothes were gone. In the five minutes I’d been outside somebody’d come along and got rid of them.

  “Blame it,” I said. I ran back outside. The teamster soldiers were mounting up, climbing into wagons or onto lead horses. Somewhere a whistle blew. I ran up. “My clothes are gone, Cush.”

  “We got real trouble, Reb. You gotta get out of them things.”

  “I can’t ride up to the front naked.”

  The whistle blew again. I swung up onto Regis, snapped the reins, and the next moment we were rolling on out of there, up the hill away from the docks and on toward the battlefront.

  I’d put my foot in it again. How was I going to get out of that blame Yankee uniform? I wished there was some way I could turn myself black, for I’d be a whole lot less noticeable amongst those colored troops. All of a sudden it came over me what a funny thing that was to wish. I would have laughed out loud if it wasn’t so worrisome—a white boy wishing he was a darky. But it was so. I’d have been a sight safer if I was colored right then.

  Was there anything around I could paint myself up with? By now the air was full of red dust kicked up by the wagon wheels. I decided not to wipe it off when it fell on my face, but let it stick to the sweat. It wouldn’t turn me black, but I’d seem sort of reddish brown if you didn’t look too close. It’d help some.

  By now we had got out of City Point and were getting into the countryside. I could hear in the distance the faint rumble of cannons, like thunder over the horizon. I turned my head back to Cush. “Are they fighting up there now?”

  “There’s shooting pretty near all the time at Petersburg, except at night, and sometimes then, too. The Rebs got theyselves dug in pretty good. Breastworks five feet high, with trenches behind and bombproof shelters dug in the dirt ten feet deep. You get yourself set up like that, a hundred men can hold off a thousand. We can’t break through them, but they can’t get outten there, neither.”

  He’d sort of forgotten I was a Reb, what with me being in a blue uniform. “It seems like the Rebs can’t be beat, then.”

  “Oh, we’ll beat ’em. They starving in there right now. You won’t see no pigeons anywheres in Petersburg, nor cats, nor dogs, and from what I heard the rats is disappearin’ pretty quick, too.”

  I didn’t want to believe that. “How come you know what’s going on in there if the Federals can’t get in?”

  “Oh, they’s no shortage of Rebs coming out and giving up. They say they wouldn’t quit, but they’s nothin’ to eat but a pint of corn a day and a piece of bacon big enough to grease your plate with. They say they’re beat and there ain’t no use getting killed now.”

  I didn’t like the idea of Southern soldiers giving up. “It must be only a few of ’em. I reckon most of ’em are full of fight.”

  “Oh, there’s fight in ’em still. You see when we get there.”

  The thunder was louder, and now we could hear the pop-pop-pop of rifle fire. Ahead the wagon road rose up into low hills, winding along through what would have been cornfields if anybody was able to plant them. There wasn’t much sign of fighting yet, except for a hole in the ground here and there where a shell landed. But there wasn’t a tree anywhere in sight—not one. Just stumps: here a field of stumps where there’d been a woodlot, there another field of ’em. The Union troops had cut them all for firewood and timber to build huts and breastworks with.

  We rolled on. Then we saw coming down the bare hill in front of us about a hundred men, walking slowly, their shoulders sagging. Guarding them were a dozen soldiers in blue, bayonets fixed. Cush pointed. “See what I told you? Reb prisoners. Taking them back to City Point to be shipped north.”

  I stared hard. A lot of them were wearing ordinary farmers’ clothes, but there were enough gray uniforms mixed in so there wasn’t a doubt about which side they were on. “Well, I bet we took a lot of your fellas, too.

  Cush gave me a look. “You better watch how you talk so long as you got that blue uniform on.”

  “Nobody could hear me,” I said.

  “You want to git yourself hung, it’s okay with me, but I’d just as lief skip it myself.”

  The Confederate prisoners were now passing us. They looked bad—scrawny, so their uniforms hung on them loose, and a lot of them blotchy and red-eyed, like they were sick. I wished I could do something to cheer them up. I wished I had some food to give them, even a cool drink of cider. I wished I could just say something to them.

  Then suddenly, in the middle of my wishing, there came a long whistle in the air. The prisoners and guards all threw themselves flat on the ground. Cush flopped off the seat and slid under the wagon. I sat there on Regis, frozen. There came a tremendous bang, like a clap of thunder right overhead, and something tore through the canvas wagon cover with a ripping sound. Back down the wagon train somebody shrieked, “I’m hit.” There was a babble of voices. The men on the ground began slowly to stand up. Behind me whoever had got hit was shouting, “Oh, oh, oh.”

  I went on sitting where I was, still frozen. Cush slid out from under the wagon, and looked at me sitting there. “You better learn to move yourself a mite faster, Johnny Reb. You ain’t going to last very long at the front lessen you do.”

  It was a lesson for me, all right. I knew about shells, but never had experience with them before. I’d know better next time. “Was it a big one?”

  “Mortar, most likely. We’re less than a mile from the lines up here. The Rebs can see the dust kicked up by the wagon train. Better when it’s raining, for the dust don’t rise.”

  The wagon train moved off. I was plenty nervous all right—my heart thumping away to beat the band, the sweat standing out on my forehead. I remembered what Pa said—there wasn’t a man going into battle who wasn’t scared. But I was powerful curious, too.

  We rolled on up a hill. Along the crest a Union breastwork about five feet high ran in both directions as far as I could see. Here and there along the breastworks cannons poked their noses out toward Petersburg. A half dozen soldiers clustered around each cannon, and between them Federals leaned on the breastworks, their rifles resting on top of it. None of them was firing right then—just taking it easy.

  The wagon train swung along behind the breastworks, about fifty yards back. The colored soldiers leapt out of the wagons and began unloading as quick as they could, hoping to get out of there before they got shelled.

  Cush jumped out of the wagon, scooted around back, and began heaving a barrel out. I slid off Regis and went back there to help.

  “You just keep out of sight, Johnny Reb.” He
hoisted the barrel onto his shoulder, and went off toward the breastworks.

  I ought to stay out of sight; I knew that. But I was powerful curious to get a look at the battlefield. I clambered back to the front of the wagon and stood up on the seat. Now I could see beyond the breastworks. The hill fell away, the ground dropping off into a shallow valley. Then it rose up, and on top of the next hill, not a hundred yards away, was the Confederate breastworks. And in between, lying on both slopes of the hill, and down in the valley as well, were bodies—in gray uniforms—hundreds of them. Down at the bottom of the valley was a pit that had just been dug. A dozen Rebel soldiers were collecting the bodies, two men picking each one up by the arms and legs, and flinging them into that pit. Or, if the body didn’t have arms and legs, just dragging it along by the shirt front. The Union soldiers up at the breastworks by me weren’t paying attention to them. I figured it was allowed to go out and bury your dead.

  It was clear enough what happened: the Confederate troops had come out of their lines, charged down their hill and up the other side, and had got all shot to pieces in the attack. My throat was dry and I swallowed hard. I just couldn’t believe that all those men died together like that in one fell swoop, hundreds of them. One minute they were alive and the next minute they weren’t; and now they were all being heaved into a pit. Those lives they were living, with all their feelings—being hungry, laughing at a joke, crying over someone dead, having a toothache, so much going on in each life—didn’t mean anything at all. And the whole thing was a waste, for the attack hadn’t got them anything.

  Then I heard a sharp snap in the air and a ball flew by me. I saw Cush running back toward me. I jumped down from the wagon seat, onto the ground, and ran around to the back of the wagon. The main thing was to get the mules out of there soon as possible. Cush came up. “I’ll help,” I said.

  “You dassn’t.”

  “I’ll stay by the wagon and unload for you. If anybody comes I’ll jump inside like I was pushing the barrels along.” Quickly I crouched down, scooped up a handful of dust, and closing my eyes, rubbed it onto my face. Then I stood, grabbed hold of the barrel Cush was wrestling with, and helped him heave it out of there.

  “You don’t look no more like a nigger than the mules does,” Cush said.

  “Careful how you talk about my mules, Yank.”

  So we went to work. And we’d got the wagon near cleaned out when I saw Captain Bartlett come riding a horse down the line towards us. My heart jumped. I knelt down behind Cush where I figured the captain couldn’t see me and flung another handful of dust on my face.

  Captain Bartlett rode by, about ten yards behind us. “Get moving, boys,” he shouted. “Soon as you’re empty move on out down the road.” He went on down the line.

  I stood up. “Come on, Cush, let’s get them last two barrels out.” We heaved one out, and Cush carried it off. I rested for a minute, and then here came Captain Bartlett back the other way toward me, shouting at the men as he went along. I swung myself up into the wagon and knelt down with my back to the tailgate, like I was tying my shoe. I couldn’t see Captain Bartlett, but I could hear him shouting, “Keep moving, boys, keep moving.” Then the horse clattered up behind my wagon and stopped. The light coming over my shoulder grew darker. “What have you got left: in there, soldier?”

  I didn’t turn around. “Just that one barrel, sir. I’ll get it out as soon as I get this mischievous shoe tied.”

  “Forget about the shoe, soldier. You want a bomb landing in here while you’re tying your shoe?”

  “Yes, sir.” I straightened up and began sliding backward toward him, wrestling the barrel along.

  “Blast it, soldier, you can’t do anything that way. Hop on out of there.”

  Suddenly I heard Cush’s voice. “I’ll help him, Captain.”

  “Soldier, I said hop out of there.”

  I didn’t have any choice. I slid backward over the tailgate onto the ground, one arm wiping at my face. Cush leaned in beside me and together we heaved the barrel out of there. Captain Bartlett sat on his horse, watching. Suddenly he shouted, “What’s this? Who are you? You’re not in my company.” He looked closer. “Why you’re white.”

  “No, sir, just awful light.”

  He stared at me a couple of seconds more. “Don’t tell me that. You’re not colored and you’re not in my company. Turner, where did he come from?”

  “He hurt his leg and asked for a ride up to the front.”

  Captain Bartlett didn’t pay that any attention. “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re that Rebel boy.” He leaned down from the horse and grabbed the front of my jacket. “Where’d you get this uniform? What are you doing in a Union uniform?” He shook me, rattling my bones. “Spying? Answer me. Where’d you get that jacket? Turner, did you give him this jacket?”

  There was a bang up the line of wagons, a scream and a shout. Captain Bartlett swiveled the horse around. “I’ll deal with you later.” And he galloped off toward where the shell hit. I looked at Cush. “What’s going to happen?”

  His eyes were wide and he looked scared. “Shoot you for a spy. You ought to of known better’n to put on a Federal uniform. Shoot me, too, for helping you, like as not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By now the Confederate shells were coming down on us pretty hot, screaming overhead and going off with a bang up or down the line, or out on the wagon road we came up an hour before. It was dreadful scary. What a joke it would be if I was killed by my own side. The colored troops were scrambling onto the wagons and pulling out of there as quick as they could. A couple of officers had gone back down the wagon road a ways and were waving their arms over their heads to speed things up, although from the way the wagon drivers were whipping their teams, it didn’t look like they needed any reminding.

  “Cush, what’re we going to do?”

  “You better make a run for it, Johnny Reb. You ain’t got a chance otherwise.”

  “What about the mules?”

  “Damn the mules. The best thing can happen to you, is get sent off to prison for twenty years. Them mules be long dead by the time you see ‘em again.”

  “What about you?” I said.

  “Maybe I can talk my way around it. I dassn’t run. That’s desertion and they shoot me for sure for that.”

  Blame me for an idiot. Why the devil did I ever put on that damn Yankee jacket? “It’s all my fault, Cush.”

  “I’ll talk them around, Johnny.” But I could tell by the look on his face he was plenty worried. “You better run for it, else we both get blown up together.” He turned and started to run off down the road after the wagon train. The minute he did there came a tremendous scream like a steam whistle straight over us. I threw myself down and so did he, and as we hit the ground there was a almighty roar all around us. I felt myself bounce off the ground, and for a minute I didn’t know where I was. Then I realized I was lying there with half an inch of dirt all over me. I raised my head a little. Cush was lying flat on his back, dead still. The canvas cover to the wagon was ripped to pieces and the mules were whinnying and stamping around in their harness.

  I turned my head to look down the road. The empty wagons were streaming off as fast as they could go, the drivers cussing out their teams and whacking at them with whips. And coming up the hill toward us was Captain Bartlett, riding hard. When he was about fifty yards away, he suddenly reined up. For a minute he sat on his horse staring at us lying flat on the ground with the tattered wagon behind us. Then he wheeled his horse around and started off after the wagon train. I lay still until he was out of sight. Then I got up on my hands and knees and crawled over to Cush. His eyes were closed and he was breathing fast, but he was alive. I grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He licked his lips but he didn’t come around. I kneeled up so I could look him over. His cap was knocked off, and a little blood was oozing through the hair on top of his head. It didn’t look too bad, but I didn’t know anything about wounds. Maybe he was dy
ing.

  Then I noticed that his pants were torn at his left thigh and there was blood there, too. I held the tear in his pants open with my fingers. That wound didn’t look too bad, neither. It didn’t worry me so much as the head wound, because you could get your brains all scrambled by a hit without much showing. I knew, because I’d seen the body of a man who’d got kicked in the head when he was shoeing a horse. There wasn’t hardly anything you could see except a little bump on his noggin, but he never woke up after he got kicked and died the next day.

  It made me feel awful that Cush might die like that too, just go on lying there knowing nothing about it and die. I shook him again. “Cush, wake up.” He licked his lips, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  It seemed like hours since that bomb went off on top of us, but it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes. I looked down the wagon road again. The wagon train was about out of sight: all I could see was a cloud of dust hanging over the road. The shelling had eased up, but the bombs were still coming in. I stood up and ran back, crouching, to the mules. Up by the breastworks the soldiers were lying flat, waiting out the barrage. “Easy, Bridget,” I said. “We’re going this very minute.” I jumped around to Regis and hopped on. But blame me if I could snap the reins to get the mules going. I sat there looking at Cush lying flat on his back in the road. I told myself he was a Yankee and a darky, and deserved what he got for coming down into our country to cause us trouble. Why should I save him? But suppose a shell landed on him? I couldn’t let him die like that, lying in the dirt all alone. I just couldn’t do it. We’d got to be friends by mistake.

  I jumped off Regis, ran over to him, and shook him. “Cush, wake up.” But he didn’t open his eyes. I looked up, trying to think what to do. There, galloping up the wagon road, came three horsemen. I couldn’t see who they were, but I wasn’t about to take a chance. I had to get Cush out of there. I grabbed him by the shoulders, dragged him over to the wagon, and grunting and cussing, heaved him in. Then I raced around to the front, leapt on Regis, gave Bridget a crack with the whip to let her know it was urgent, and off we went, tearing at a near gallop along behind the Union breastworks, heading south. I didn’t know what was out there, but it was the opposite direction from where the wagon train went, and that was good enough for me.