With Every Drop of Blood

by James Lincoln Collier

  The soldier laughed. “He’s asleep. He ain’t hardly been off his horse for three days. He’s plumb tuckered out. He said don’t wake him up for nothing ’lessen the Yankees is coming in through the front door.”

  There wasn’t any point in arguing, I could see that clear enough. I was just a kid, and Cush was of even less account than me, for he was black. “What time’ll he get up?”

  The soldier shrugged. “When he’s ready. Not before daylight, I don’t reckon.”

  So there it was. I was plumb tuckered out myself. The heart was pretty much gone out of me right then, and I figured I better get some sleep. In fact, there wasn’t anything else I could do. So I pulled the wagon down the road a bit and off into a field where nobody was likely to pay any attention to me, unharnessed the mules, tethered them under a tree where they could graze, and lay down in the wagon.

  For a moment I lay there wondering what Cush was thinking and feeling right then. Suddenly I realized I was hearing a sound I’d heard all my life—the spring peepers. They were singing away, chirping and peeping, just like they did back home. It near broke my heart to hear them, for it reminded me of the old days, before the war, when Sam and Sarah were babies in their cradles. Sometimes, when the evening was nice, me and Ma and Pa would sit on the front steps after supper, just resting. Pa’d smoke his pipe and him and Ma would talk, and I’d snuggle down between them, listening, feeling mighty comfortable with myself. There would be the sound of the peepers. At that time I didn’t even know where the sound came from, or who was making it. It was just a pretty sound, and I liked it.

  And here I was, in the middle of a terrible war, with two armies getting ready to pounce on each other, and it didn’t matter to the peepers one ounce—not one ounce. I reckoned they figured that if human beings were so foolish as to kill one another by the thousands—tons of corpses piled up everywhere—worse luck to them. The peepers would go about their business all the same, chirping and peeping, no matter what human beings did. Thinking about this, I could feel the tears start up behind my eyes. But I was too tired even to cry, and I fell asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I woke up when the sun started up over a line of trees to the east and fell into my eyes. I sat up in the wagon and rubbed my eyes. I felt a whole lot better, but just as hungry as I could be. I couldn’t think when I’d been that hungry. Now I could see the sun sparkling off a little pond. I took the mules back there, watered them, splashed my face, and had a drink myself. I was starting back for the wagon when some cannons suddenly started to thunder off to the south, not too far away. They were fighting again.

  All the more reason to get Cush out of there, in case the battle came our way. I harnessed up the mules as quick as I could and drove them back to the house where Colonel Marshall was.

  The soldiers were gone. My heart sank. I’d missed him. I sat there on Regis, looking around. In fact, there was nobody in sight—no soldiers, no ordinary people, nobody. Off to the south the cannons were still pounding away. The fighting was still far enough away so I couldn’t hear any rifle fire. Maybe there was a chance Lee would drive Grant off.

  Then I noticed a plume of smoke rising up from the chimney of the house. Somebody was home after all. I climbed down off Regis and trotted around to the back of the house, for it figured to be a kitchen fire. The kitchen window was open about a foot, and coming out of it was the smell of bacon frying and coffee steaming in the pot. My mouth began to water, and I licked my lips. Oh, my, how good that smelled. I slipped up to the window and took a peek in. An old black woman was bent over the stove, stirring something—scrambled eggs, I figured.

  It was more than I could stand. I darted away from the window and knocked on the back door. I could hear the woman thump across the kitchen, and then the door opened. “I’m looking for Colonel Marshall.” I licked my lips.

  “They all gone,” she said. “Ain’t nobody here but the Marse McLean.”

  Why hadn’t I waked up earlier? “Do you know where they went?”

  “I dunno nothing about it. Now you git. I got to fix Marse McLean his breakfast.”

  I licked my lips, but I wouldn’t beg. “Maybe Marse McLean knows where they went.”

  “Now, I ain’t gonna bother him with no foolishness. I got to git his breakfast.” She started to close the door, but as she did it a man dressed in a suit and a stringtie came into the kitchen.

  “Who is it, Aunt Sally?”

  “Just a boy.”

  She opened the door a little so he could see me, and I stepped inside so she couldn’t close it on me. “Sir, I’m looking for Colonel Marshall. They got our nigger locked up with the Federal prisoners in a tobacco barn, because he was wearing a Federal jacket I put on him.”

  “Colonel Marshall is gone. They left at daybreak. Lee is trying to break out through the Yankee lines to the south. You better clear out, son. They’ll be fighting all around here.”

  “Sir, is there anyone else who could get our nigger out?” The smell of that ham and eggs blame near floored me, and I licked my lips.

  He shook his head. “They’re all gone. Lee sent everybody he could scrape together into the fight.”

  I licked my lips again—I couldn’t help it. “Sir, maybe if you was to tell them soldiers to let him go—”

  He shook his head. I licked my lips once more. He smiled. “Son, there’s nothing I can do for your nigger. But you look like you wouldn’t mind a little breakfast. Aunt Sally, give the boy my breakfast and cook up another for me.”

  “Marse McLean, if you gonna feed everybody who knocks on your kitchen door—”

  He smiled again. “No, no, Sally, it’s all right. There’ll be enough inhumanity in Appomattox today without our adding to it. Eat hearty, son.” He left.

  The woman grumbled, but she filled up a tin pie plate with ham and eggs and a couple of biscuits and poured me a cup of coffee, and I sat down at the kitchen table and ate. Well, ate isn’t the exact word; I shoveled that ham and eggs home so fast I was gasping for breath at the end and had to sit there blowing on my coffee until I could get myself calmed down enough to drink it.

  It was the best meal I ate in two weeks, since I left home. The truth was, I felt so comfortable sitting there in that kitchen with all those good smells around me, I couldn’t get myself out of that chair. I had to find Colonel Marshall—I knew that. But what did it matter if I sat there just five minutes longer? So I did, smelling the food, looking around at that warm, clean, sunny kitchen, and dreaming that I lived there and had nothing to do for the rest of morning but look forward to dinner.

  Then suddenly I heard voices coming from the front room, and I was brought back to myself. I looked at the kitchen clock and saw a half hour had gone by. Suppose they shot Cush while I was sitting there? I jumped up. It sounded to me like the cannons were closer now. What was I going to do? Maybe the best thing was to go back to that barn and see what was happening there. Maybe Colonel Marshall had come back. Or some other officer was there. Or the soldiers guarding it had heard the fighting coming toward them and had run off. It could be anything. “Thank you,” I said to the woman, and headed for the door.

  Then into the kitchen came Mr. McLean with three or four Confederate officers behind him. “This is the kitchen,” Mr. McLean said. He pointed out the back window. “There are stalls for four horses in the barn, but not much fodder, I’m afraid.”

  The officers stood at the kitchen door, looking around.

  “I don’t suppose General Lee will be very hungry, considering the circumstances,” he went on, “but we’d like to show the Yankees some hospitality. I’ll see what we can rustle up.”

  The officer nodded, and then they left the kitchen. Suddenly Mr. McLean noticed me standing by the door with my hand on the knob. “You better go along, son. There’s some important visitors on their way here.”

  The cook was staring at Mr. McLean. “Marse McLean, did I hear right? Gin’ral Lee comin’ to this house?”


  He nodded. “He’s going to meet with Grant here in about a half hour.”

  “Sir,” I said, “does that mean the war’s over?”

  He shook his head. “Depends on whether they agree on terms. We can’t be sure yet. Now you go along, son. I’ve got things to attend to.”

  “Does it mean we lost?”

  “Nothing’s settled yet, son. Now you go along.”

  So I said “thank you” to Mr. McLean in case I hadn’t said it before, ran out the back door, and around front to the mules. All sorts of things were flying through my head. I’d be blame glad to have the war over, but it made me feel kind of sick inside to think that after everything, we were most likely going to lose. I wondered if Pa was up there looking down on us. How would he feel about getting killed for nothing?

  But the war wasn’t over yet. Off toward the south somewhere cannons were banging away and rifles going pop-pop-pop. What was I going to do? It didn’t seem like I had much choice: the only thing to do was get myself back out to that barn and see how things stood.

  I started for the mules, and then it came to me that they’d be a sight safer right where they were, for it wasn’t likely there was going to be any fighting where Lee and Grant were meeting. So I hauled the mules and wagon off into the field behind Mr. McLean’s house, and then I set off at a run for that tobacco barn. It was a good piece of running. I began to sweat pretty quick, and by the time I was halfway there my breath was coming hard and my legs ached. But I kept at it, and then I rounded a bend and the tobacco barn came into sight, out in the middle of that field.

  There was nobody there—nobody at all. The firing off to the south was a good deal closer now: I reckoned the battle wasn’t more than a mile or so away. I figured the soldiers that were there by that barn the night before had gone off to fight. And where was Cush?

  I started across the field to the barn, and then suddenly the barn door flung open, and out came two Confederate soldiers, with Cush between them. “Wait,” I screamed. I began charging across that field as fast as I could run. “Wait.”

  The soldiers stopped and looked across the field at me. I came running up. “Don’t shoot him,” I shouted. “The war’s over.” I stood there panting. Cush’s nose was bleeding and there was a scratch down the side of his neck. He didn’t say anything—he knew he’d best keep quiet.

  “The war’s over?” one of the soldiers said. “Could of fooled me.” He pointed off to the south where the guns was banging away. “Seems like they forgot to tell them fellas.”

  “It’s really over,” I shouted. “General Lee’s meeting with Grant right back in town. They’re settling it this very minute.” I hoped that was so.

  The two soldiers looked at me. “What makes you so all-fired sure?”

  I calmed down a little. “It’s true,” I said. “Mr. McLean told me. I was at his house and some of Lee’s officers came in and said they was going to meet there with Grant.”

  “McLean? Who’s he?”

  Was it really over? Could I stall these fellas off until it stopped? “Please. He’s not a Federal. He’s just a plain nigger. I put that jacket on him so as not to haul him around naked where people could see him.”

  “That wasn’t real smart.” He spit. “Where you from, boy?”

  “Shenandoah. Pa got shot at Cedar Creek. We just got to have our nigger back to work the farm.” Then I noticed something. Off toward the south the sound of shooting was dying down. “Listen,” I said.

  We all stood there, dead still. There were still some rifles popping away, but we couldn’t hear any cannons banging. “I told you,” I said. “It’s over.”

  “Keep quiet so’s I can hear.”

  Now the rifle fire was dying out, just a pop here and there. We stood listening. Then it was dead still. The only sound was a couple of robins out in the field singing “cheer-up” cheerily.

  “What do you make of it?” one of the Confederate soldiers said.

  “Something’s up.”

  “I keep telling you,” I said. “It’s over.”

  “Boy, I told you to keep quiet.” He squinted at the other soldier. “I don’t trust it. May be some kind of a trick. You can’t tell with them Yankees. We ought to have kilt this nigger last night when we had the chance.”

  “Please,” I said.

  Nobody said anything for a minute. Then, from off in the distance, there came the sound of a bugle, a small sound, but clear. “It must be over,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Let’s finish off this here Yankee nigger afore it’s too late.”

  Then the bugle came again, closer this time, and right after it the sound of horses hooves thrumming on the dirt. We turned to look. Coming down the road was a troop of Union cavalrymen. They were raising a lot of dust, but I could see clear enough the Union flag coming along in front.

  “Let’s go,” one of the soldiers said. They turned and ran. Cush dropped straight down onto his knees. “Thank the Lord,” he said.

  Me and Cush walked back to Appomattox, going slow on account of Cush’s leg. Oh, my, the excitement there was something. There were soldiers everywhere, Union and Confederate, the blue and the gray, talking with one another. The Confederates were all scrawny and hungry, and some of the Federals were giving them whatever they had by way of food—hardtack, dried beef, coffee, and such. For us, there was a terrible sadness to it. But it was a relief, all the same. For now I’d go on home, and look after Ma and the little ones. I’d been gone for two weeks, and they’d be worrying over me now, and praying like as not. But I’d get the mules home safe, and then I’d keep my promise to Pa. Whatever happened to us from now on, it couldn’t be as bad as it was the last terrible four years.

  We got hold of a little dried beef and hardtack and went out into the field where I’d tethered the mules, and sat in the grass by the wagon, chewing the beef and talking. “You still aim on going home to see your mammy, Cush?”

  “Got to,” he said. “Got to see how things is going to be now. Mebbe I can go to school.” He gave me a look out of the corner of his eyes. “Learn me to read from somebody who’ll learn me right this time.”

  I blushed. “Blame it, Cush, how was I know we would be friends?”

  “Kind of took me by surprise, too,” he said. “But I don’t know if most white folks are gonna take to it.”

  “You can’t tell, Cush.” Then I said, “You fixing to ride in the wagon?”

  “That there’s the point. How do you think white folks’ll take to that—seeing the colored boy in the wagon and the white boy riding the mule? You think they like it?”

  I thought about it a little. “I don’t know, Cush. Maybe. Maybe not. We got to wait and see.”

  “You think if you was to take me home, you mammy say, ‘Come in and sit down, Cush. Help yourself to that there piece of chicken and them hot biscuits?’ ”

  Well, I knew Ma. She’d be polite to Cush and give him some biscuits and gravy, but she’d bring it to him in the backyard, and he’d have to sit there on the woodpile and eat, while the white folks sat inside. “No, she wouldn’t. It’ll be a while before she’ll be ready for that. I don’t suppose she’d ever get used to that.” I thought a little more. “I tell you what, Cush. If you was to ride on Regis, and I was to sit in the wagon, it’d set better with folks along the way.”

  He gave me a long look. “That ain’t much of an improvement over the way things was, Johnny.”

  “We got to give it time, Cush.”

  “What’s the war for, then?”

  I sat there thinking. All along that’d been the hardest nut to crack. Pa said it was states’ rights, Captain Bartlett said it was to keep the Union together, Jeb Wagner said it was to keep the darkies in their place, Cush said it was to free them. And what was it Lincoln promised in that blame speech of his? “Our forefathers brought forth a new nation dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”? Pa never believed blacks were the equal of whites, and Ma didn’t, neither,
I reckoned, except maybe in the eyes of God—their souls were just as likely to rise up to Heaven as white folks. But Lincoln, he believed it, and I reckoned a lot of folks in the North believed it, too. So maybe that was what the fighting was for, after all. “All men are created equal,” I said. “Do you suppose that’s it?”

  “Got to be,” Cush said. “It’s what the Declaration promised, wasn’t it?”

  And what did I think? Blame me if I was sure. For sure it is going to be a long time before kids of slaves and kids of slave owners will be able to sit together at the table of brotherhood, like the Bible says. But it was mighty hard for me to believe that Cush was lower than me. Could we still be friends? I didn’t know. But I figured I’d try. “Well, Cush, you can walk home if you like, just to let everybody know you’re free. But if it was me, I’d ride that mule. It’s a sight more pleasant to have some company along the way.”

  He nodded. “There’s something to that, Johnny.”

  How Much of This Book Is True?

  The Civil War is unquestionably the most carefully studied event in American history, and we have benefited from the tremendous amount of research done on it. City Point, Petersburg, and Appomattox, and the fighting at these places was as we have described it. So, too, were the events that took place in the Shenandoah Valley, and the area where Johnny and his family lived. Generals Lee, Grant, Early, and others mentioned were historical figures and did the things we have put in the book. The same is true of Mosby and his Rangers.

  Of course, Johnny, Cush, and their families are fictional. Nonetheless, they are typical of the people of their time and place, and everything that happens to them in this book did in fact happen to somebody like them.

  Regrettably, the amount of killing occasioned by the Civil War was as horrifying as it appears in this book: Many more Americans died in that war than in any other. True, too, was the incredible bravery of the soldiers on both sides who went willingly to their deaths for causes they believed in.