FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  “We’re with the Union Army of the Tennessee…Illinois boys,” Will replied.

  “Well, it looks like you’re all gonna be in a fix shortly. You can hear guns in the distance from the other side now.” He paused and then gave a short signal to another seaman.

  “Did the Lafayette run the batteries with Admiral Porter?” Aaron asked.

  “She sure did. We were second in line, right behind the Benton. This old lady took lots of hits. You can see the dents in her iron,” he said proudly. After peering again to the east, he raised his arm, and the Lafayette nosed into the river. Now under way, the sailor turned his attention to the soldiers. He used his hands to describe the movements of the flotilla that made it through the Vicksburg fortress batteries.

  “This old girl is as tough as they come!” he said. “We got some solid broadsides at the town as we passed one by one, and we all made it save one, the Henry Clay, but she was beached.”

  A ram followed by a side-wheeler and then followed by another ironclad crisscrossed the waters like a busy New York harbor. The mixture of steam and coal smoke belched upward, catching the upward draft, which swirled against the clear noon sky and stood like a beacon to the mission at hand. Porter’s navy continued the crossing. By the end of the day, twenty thousand Yankee soldiers would step on Mississippi soil.

  “Do you see that gunboat comin’ with a bone in her teeth, kickin’ up all that foam?” the sailor asked as he pointed to the north. “You see… you see…the one with double stacks?”

  The boys nodded.

  “Well, by jiminy, that is the Benton! She’s the pride of our fleet! And you won’t believe this, but your General Sherman rowed out to her right after we passed the Vicksburg batteries! We were right behind the Benton in line and about sunk him and his bogtrotter crew. We thought maybe they were rebels attacking from the western shore. That son of a bitch almost got himself shot by us. Thank God our lookout recognized the grizzly old fool!”

  Will stepped forward and replied, “That Sherman may be crazy, but he saved your navy at Rolling Fork. He saved ol’ Porter with that candlelight march, didn’t he?”

  The boys nodded and smiled in unison. Aaron and Trick raised their muskets. T.J. lifted the butt of his Sharps rifle slightly off the toe of his boot.

  “You know, when it comes down to it,” T.J. said, “it’s this type of iron that finishes the fight!” He lifted his rifle perpendicular over his head.

  The sailor seemed humbled by the remarks. He looked again at the eastern shore, which was fast approaching, and replied, “It will be Union iron on land and sea that finishes this war. Godspeed to all of you. You beetle crunchers best take care of yourselves, and don’t be no gophers when the lead starts flying.”

  Trick pulled up his cartridge belt, which had slipped almost down to his knees, and patted his shiny black leather cartridge box. “These forty cartridges are ready and awaitin’ for a big fight up yonder!” He pointed to the shore. The sounds of cannonading could be heard in the distance as the engines cranked down.

  T.J. patted his box, too. “Forty dead men,” he said.

  With a jolt and a jerk, the Lafayette reached the opposite shore and came to a stop. The oak gangplank was dropped into the red mud. The soldiers moved quickly to the shore, advancing into the tall cane breaks that rose to the height of fifteen feet. When Trick got to the opening in the canes, he stepped quickly to the side so as not to get trampled by the blue horde. He looked at the bow of the Lafayette. The sailor was still there, staring motionless at the movements of the soldiers with both hands on his hips.

  Trick waved his musket in order to get the sailor’s attention. He then raised it as high as he could and saluted him with his right hand.

  Seeing Trick, the sailor came to attention and replied with the snap of a smart salute.

  Trick held his salute as long as he could. He then turned to join the others, slipped on the mud, and nearly dropped his musket before entering the ranks.

  The sailor remained silently at attention, right hand in salute, waiting until the last soldier disappeared into the cane breaks.

  Chapter 39

  Ninety-Third Illinois Volunteers

  On Mississippi Soil

  Next Day

  The dust rose from the marching Union troops in thick clouds. The four friends of the wigwam stayed close, as if protecting each other in some way from what lay ahead. The road extended east for the most part, cutting like a channel into a jungle of vines and cypress trees. Though the sun was hidden by the tangled density, occasionally a small break in the canopy caused a ray to descend on the column of blue-clad soldiers. The relentless tramping of boots kicked up red clay dust, causing a continuous chorus of coughing.

  Will, Aaron, Trick, and T.J. felt closer now than ever before. Will was still the leader of the group, tall and strong, his blue kepi firmly fixed on his brow and contrasting smartly with his sandy-blond hair. Aaron, always straight as an arrow, was still quick in mind and movements. T.J., even taller now, was as lean as a rail and still the quiet one. Towering above the group, he was always steady in his movements and had the eye of an eagle. His buddy from Buda, Trick, as always, was quick to engage anyone with a handshake and a grin. He had lost a few pounds since his enlistment but still relished the thought of each meal, whether it was plain hardtack, dandy funk, bully soup, hog and hominy, or just hish and hash. His uniform continued to be in disorder, his oval US belt buckle often dangling below his belly button, and his boots were the dustiest of all. But it didn’t matter to him much. He was with his friends, marching in a grand conquest, the memories of which he knew he would relish for a lifetime.

  “We best get out of this damn tree tunnel soon, lest we all turn to sacred dust from the chokin’ and spittin’,” Trick announced. “We keep this up for too much longer, and I ’spect we’ll have a few mossbacks runnin’ back home.”

  “I don’t ’spect anyone is gonna turn back now,” Will replied as he gasped for air and then coughed. “Grant’s entire army will be over here soon, and we’re all in for a good fix.”

  Trick turned to Will and nodded, pulling his pants up with his right hand as he shouldered his musket on his left. “Sure wish we coulda helped General Smith yesterday. I heard from a teamster this morn that he whipped those rebels and took a lot of prisoners up ahead of us.”

  “Well, I am sure we’ll all be joining him soon,” Aaron replied as he wiped red dust from his brow onto his sleeve.

  Just then, the entire column came to a quick and intruding halt, causing a domino effect in the tight quarters. The boys jammed into each other. The clang of canteens and the shuffle of feet announced the intrusion up ahead.

  “Whoa to us Suckers!” Trick cried out. “Do you see what I see? By God, it’s a sight!”

  The boys looked ahead into a clearing. The tunnel of greenery that was the forest ended before a field containing a glorious white mansion. Standing tall and defiant, the white bastion to southern aristocracy was trimmed with an array of roses and other flora that cast their fragrant smell to the boys. They were stunned by the magnificence that spread before them.

  Corinthian columns from the base of the mansion rose twenty feet and supported a roof with an extended cupola on the top. These columns stood like silent sentries, spaced eight to a side, creating a balance pleasing to every eye on the dusty red footpath. Protruding from the roof were six chimneys, which kept the spacious rooms warm during the dead of winter. Between the columns windows continued around the house like a cavalcade of glass.

  “Bet Lincoln’s White House ain’t as big as this one,” Trick said.

  The friends nodded.

  “No house this big back home,” added T.J. as he placed his mouth on his sleeve and coughed twice. “Good spot to clear our throats!”

  “Wonder who owns this place,” Aaron said.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of hooves thundering from the other side of the house. Three riders rounded the corner of the house i
n a quick gait. Colonel Putnam on Black Hawk was in the lead. They advanced to the halted column of soldiers. Black Hawk, as always a bundle of nervous energy, danced a bit when the colonel reined him to a stop, causing the soldiers nearest him to back away. Black Hawk’s eyes had a fury about them, almost wide-eyed. Putnam, well familiar with his war-horse’s habits, kept Black Hawk on a short rein.

  “Boys, we have to keep moving,” Putnam said. “There are rebels all over this country. We missed General Smith’s big fight yesterday, and it is not my intention to miss another one!” He pulled back on Black Hawk’s reins, causing the horse to rear up, stabbing the air with his forelegs.

  “Colonel!” Will shouted from the front ranks. “The men were wondering what this mansion is called. We’d like to write it down in our journals.”

  “There will be plenty of things to write down when this campaign is over!” replied Putnam. “Lots of dead rebels and lots of Yankee victories!”

  Putnam pulled on Black Hawk’s reins again, keeping him steady as the war-horse impatiently stomped the red dust. Realizing that he failed to answer the simple question, he pointed at the mansion. “Boys, that’s the Windsor Mansion. It was built from the sweat of Negroes who toiled this infernal red soil for the white man for many, many years. It is the slave who put these columns up, and it will be this war that brings them down. I have been informed that many Negroes, now freed by Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation, will soon be coming our way to the boats.” Putnam peered down the road that led directly south from the mansion.

  “Captains,” announced Putnam, again reining in the excited Black Hawk, “form your men and march this road south for about two miles where you will find an intersecting road that only goes west. Continue south where you will find a rise about a mile farther. Take your men up the hill and rest them in the shade of the trees there. I will join you with further orders when I get there.” Saluting the men, he bent forward and galloped Black Hawk around the mansion with the other two riders following closely.

  The Ninety-Third Illinois captains formed their men in perfect rank and file. The road was wider now, which helped the formations, and the sun rose high. As they marched, the clouds of dust rose again but moved to the heavens unobstructed by the trees. The choking was replaced by soldier banter.

  The column of tired men moved on as Colonel Putnam instructed. Within an hour they had reached the intersection that he referred to and then continued south to a rising ridge that stood a distance from the eastern edge of the Mississippi River floodplain. They pulled off their caps, hats, and accoutrements and rested in the shade of the trees that climbed upward from the ridge. Sure enough, there was a church in the distance, slightly to the south, with a spiral pointing to the clear blue sky. Within minutes the thundering sound of horse hooves could be heard again. Rising from the ridge before them was Colonel Putnam on his black stead.

  “Boys,” Putnam announced excitedly, “hold down your weapons. There is a false reconnaissance that a column of rebels is advancing up this road. Do you see the rabble around the church down there?” He dismounted Black Hawk, giving the reins to an orderly sergeant. Pulling out his field glasses, Putnam peered into the lenses to get a closer look. “Aha!” he continued. “Those are Negroes, hundreds of them, heading up the road now that our army has cleared it. I see women, children, and old men mostly with packs on their backs, a few goats and an old mule, too.”

  The soldiers remained silent as Putnam revealed what he saw. The tone of his voice changing to one of pity, he said, “Why, that line of poor contrabands has got to be over a half-mile long!” He put down the field glasses and walked over to the soldiers, some of whom were lying flat on their backs with exhaustion.

  “Private Lockwood!” shouted Putnam.

  T.J., who was standing deep in the blue ranks, reached for his rifle and stepped to the front. “Yes, Colonel,” he replied respectfully. “I am here.”

  “T.J.,” Putnam caught himself. “I mean, Private Lockwood, do you still recall what you did during the Freeport fire?”

  “Yes, sir, that was the winter of fifty-seven, almost six years ago.”

  “Is that in your hands the rifle you used to set off the powder kegs from the belfry tower?”

  “It’s a different Sharps, sir! It’s a sniper’s rifle. Captain Taggart convinced the quartermaster to issue me this beauty instead of a musket after I won a shooter’s contest.”

  Colonel Putnam nodded, and then pointing to the church in the distance, he said, “I want to get a read on the distance to that church from here to know for sure how long that line of Negroes is for my report. Do you think you can hit that bell in the belfry down there so I can determine the distance?”

  “Sure…will try, sir. My leaf sight is steady, and the windage should be good with all this dust rising straight up. I will try to get a bead on it.”

  “Come forward then, son, and let’s see what you can do.” Putnam smiled confidently. He patted T.J. on the back and continued. “I have a wager for you. If you can hit that church bell once from here, the regiment will have supper in the town of Ingraham tomorrow. It is about twenty miles from here, and my scouts report there is a barn full of hams, lots of them…enough for the entire regiment.”

  Putnam looked at the men and raised his eyebrow as he scratched his jet-black beard.

  “If you hit it twice,” he said wryly, “we will swim in the clear waters at Hankinson’s Ferry the following morning!”

  All of the men, even the most tired stragglers, stood up now and looked at the Bethel Church in the distance.

  “Come on, T.J., you can do it!” shouted a random member of the Ninety-Third.

  “You are better than Davey Crockett!” cried out another.

  “Do it for the good ol’ Sucker State!” yelled out yet another.

  There was silence now on the ridge line. Sweaty brows were wiped clean as everyone peered in the distance. All ears waited in the quiet as T.J. faced the church.

  Putnam pulled up his binoculars again and nodded at T.J.

  T.J. moved to a spot just in front of the men. He grabbed the visor of his kepi and spun it around so that the brim could not obstruct his aim. Still snugged within the hatband was the oak leaf that Allie had given the boys for courage. It had dried up and crumbled a bit, but it was still visible.

  The breechblock dropped back from the Sharps as T.J. pushed forward the lever that protected the trigger when closed. Reaching into his cartridge box, he pulled out a linen-covered cartridge round, placing it securely in the barrel breech with the conical lead ball facing forward. He pulled the lever upward, securing the round for the final step. He then placed a small ignition cap that looked like a tiny top hat on the cone at the breech above the block where the cartridge was secured. The Sharps was now ready to deliver its load.

  “Sir, I am ready now,” T.J. announced with calm determination.

  “Proceed, Private Lockwood,” Putnam replied.

  T.J. wiped his brow with his left sleeve. Reaching down, he looked to the leaf sight on the breech of the barrel and adjusted it to four hundred yards. There was no wind.

  The double-set trigger clicked once as T.J. rested the Sharps on a sturdy low branch of a small oak tree. He took in a deep breath and placed the bead at the tip of the rifle on the belfry target. The movement of figures around the church did not disturb him. He breathed in and out and then pulled the hammer back to full cock.

  Taking in one last deep breath, T.J. steadied his rifle, pulled the trigger.

  The report of the rifle was followed a second later by the sound of a single peal from the belfry bell, causing the surprised gathering around the church to scatter in all directions.

  On the ridge the boys cheered and immediately pounced on T.J., slapping his back in appreciation. His prized Sharps rifle dropped to the ground with a thud.

  “Boys, hold back!” Putnam announced, “Give way. He has one more wager to go!”

  The throng of blue moved back as
T.J. reached down and picked up his Sharps. He did not grin, but he smiled slightly, the corners of his lips barely rising.

  “Sir, the distance is four hundred yards to that church,” T.J. replied as he stood straight with his hand now on its muzzle. The butt of the gun rested between his boots.

  “My God,” Putnam beamed. “That was the best shot I ever saw. I will include your action in my report tonight. That is the best news. The sad news is that line of Negroes is about a half-mile long. We will meet them soon and share what rations we have.”

  A moment passed, and then Putnam looked down to his knee-high riding boots. He held his field glasses to his side.

  “Well, Private Lockwood, do you wish to try for my other wager… the swim in the river at Harkinson’s Ferry?” Before he could finish the question, several soldiers chimed in words of encouragement for a second shot and the prize.

  T.J. looked at his friends, who stood motionless as everyone waited. “No, sir,” he replied calmly in a low, steady tone. “I don’t want to scare those poor folk again, and sure ’nough, these rivers down here are chock-full of copperhead snakes. I ’spose my luck would run out if I got bit by one.”

  “Yeah, Colonel,” Trick added. “We’d rather swim in the Pecatonica. There ain’t no copperheads back home in Freeport.”

  “You’re right, Private Kane,” Putnam replied. “The copperheads in our state don’t hang around rivers. They hang around the newspaper offices in the big cities. They have two legs, talk like the devil, slander Old Abe, and would like to see the Union and our cause crumble like dust!”

  “Those folks are worse than snakes,” Trick replied.

  Putnam nodded. He walked over to Black Hawk and mounted him.

  The blue lines formed in good order again, and the soldiers descended from the ridge to share their rations.

  Chapter 40

  General John E. Smith Headquarters

  Big Black River

  Near Hankinson’s Ferry