FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  “Trick! Patrick Kane of the Ninety-Third! Are you here?”

  Trick was sure now—it was T.J.!

  “T.J., over here! Over here, T.J.!”

  He rose his hand to signal where he was. He could see T.J. thrashing and tripping like a drunkard in the distance.

  “I can’t see you, Trick! Call out for me again!”

  “Over here! Over here! T.J.!”

  T.J. was just twenty feet away now, and Trick could not move. So he pushed his right hand up and waved it as furiously as he could in order to gain T.J.’s attention. The clouds of smoke were lifting now, so he was hoping T.J. could see and find him.

  Surely and suddenly, he could feel a grip on his hand. A drop of blood fell on his face.

  “Help me, Trick! Please help me! I can’t see! Everything is black!”

  Trick looked up from his prone position with horror. T.J.’s eyes were missing, both shot out by a musket ball, exposing oozing clots of blood, dirt, and soot in the sockets. He looked like a monster.

  Trick quickly composed himself, looked away, and took a deep breath. He knew that for his friend’s sake, he could not panic. He did not think of his own wound anymore and thought only about how he could help T.J. Softly he said, “T.J., you are safe now. I’ll be a takin’ good care of ya.”

  Tears welled up in Trick’s eyes as he looked at T.J. and tried to turn on his side. “You can lie right here with me for a moment! We’ll git outa here real soon. We’ll get through this together. Lie down, T.J.…Rest here with me,” he implored.

  T.J. responded, gripping leaves with both hands as he squatted and then crumpled to the ground in silence.

  Trick squirmed and winced from his wound. A flash of red suddenly caught his peripheral vision. He turned and noticed a young Yankee about a rod’s distance away resting at the base of a tree. The soldier had his musket across his lap and was silent. He had a red kerchief wrapped around his neck.

  Pulling with both hands, Trick managed to drag himself across the distance, grunting with each movement. It seemed like an eternity. As he got closer, he called out to his comrade in blue, hoping to rouse him from his sleep. Crawling closer, he shouted, “By jiminy, can you grab my hand and help me?”

  The resting Yankee did not look up.

  Moving closer, Trick grabbed the young lad in blue. The pull caused the young lad to pivot and fall to the side of the tree.

  The boy was dead.

  “My God,” gasped Trick. That young boy could not be sixteen, he thought, as he unknotted the red kerchief and placed it in his teeth. After taking a few deep breaths, he crawled back, wincing in pain with each methodical move.

  “Here ya go, ol’ friend,” comforted Trick as he reached for T.J., “now, just bow your head a bit, and I’m gonna tie this around your eyes.” T.J. bent forward. Trick lifted the kerchief and gently placed it over his eyes, quickly tying a knot behind his head.

  “Trick, where are you hit?” T.J. asked calmly.

  “In my belly a little above my left hip. Don’t hurt much, ’less I move.” Trick gasped as he tried to sit up.

  “Sounds like the armies are movin’ away from this spot. Let’s get to the rear,” replied T.J.

  “I can’t walk, T.J. It hurts a handful when I try.”

  “I can lift you, ol’ friend. You can be my eyes.”

  Trick sat up. A sharp pain shot up from his hip, settling in his right shoulder. He watched as T.J. rose up before him and extended his hand back down to assist him up. T.J. grasped both of Trick’s hands, pulled him up, and then hunched him over. He was now positioned on T.J.’s stout shoulders. As T.J. settled him in, Trick cried out in pain from the move.

  “Best go back to that Champion house we passed this morning,” T.J. said calmly after taking a deep breath.

  “Sounds good,” Trick replied. “Go to the right. I’ll make sure we get there. Just feel for loose rocks, and I’ll help you with the stumps and all. We’ll make it back for sure.”

  The two boys from Buda stepped out of the chaos, proceeding as one person, one human form, best friends who had now given up themselves to the gods of war; never giving in to resting on the bloody battlefield, where buzzards would soon descend in flocks, waiting for the living to pass to eternity before feasting on flesh. Their breaths of determination helped them to carry each other in a different way, step by step, stumble by stumble, and yet still remaining in balance.

  “Trick, remember that three-legged race we won in Buda?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Tell me about it. It will ease my pain as we walk together, my friend.”

  Trick tightened the kerchief on T.J.’s head again and replied, “That fourth of July was a dandy. Remember, we were just about ten years old, I reckon, when Mister Mayor announced that a nickel would be given to both winners…And you know who won, crossing the finish line first with a leg tied to each other? That was us, T.J.! We sure made a good match in that race!”

  T.J. stopped momentarily and shifted Trick’s weight again over his belt so as not to lose him. The movement caused Trick to grunt and catch his breath.

  “Keep going, T.J. I can hold onto your shoulders a little more tightly. Put me down if you are feelin’ like a mule with me.”

  T.J. turned his neck to listen more closely as the groans from the wounded began to rise up around them. The battle, though, seemed to be fading away as if moving into the distance.

  “I see a house on a hill, T.J., not much farther to go. Just about the distance between the wigwam and my fishin’ hole.”

  “Thanks,” replied T.J. with a heavy breath. “Keep on with the story.”

  “Well, as we know, what’s true back then is as true right now. You were like a beanstalk, and I was about the size of a plump farm dog standing on his hind legs!” T.J. chuckled.

  “And what the townsfolk didn’t know is that we practiced for two weeks before that race. And when we lined up for that race with the bands playin’ and all, you could see the young uns and old folks chucklin’ at the sight of us! A beanstalk whose left leg was tied to the right leg of, well…me! And what a sight we were!” Trick grunted and winced. His eyes began to tear up a bit from the story. He wiped his eyes with his right sleeve while holding T.J. firmly with his left arm.

  “And when the pepperbox pistol fired once, we took off like we were one…like a white-tailed deer jumpin’ in the woods. With each step we shouted to each other one-two, one-two, one-two to keep our feet in step, never looking back, and finishing the race…the strangest-looking pair to ever win that race in Buda! In fact, those chucklers and doubters who felt sorry for us immediately cheered and ran over to us! We were town heroes that summer, for sure! The one-two shouts we practiced a long time. Remember, T.J.?”

  T.J. smiled.

  “Hey, T.J., I can see the white house on the hill. You can put me down now.”

  T.J. groaned and outwardly sighed, not from the burden on his back, but with the remembrance of the famous Buda race and his lifelong friendship with Trick.

  The Battle of Champion Hill had ended.

  As the last wisps of gun smoke drifted away, the dead could still be seen clinging to the places where they gave up their spirits. Mangled bodies lay in clumps at the base of the hill. Trick tried not to look at them. The sun was descending now, and the boys worked their way up the hill to the Champion homestead. The echoes of cannons were lost now to distant hills, and the pitiful cries of wounded soldiers were no longer.

  They could hear no calls for water.

  No forlorn cries for Mother.

  Chapter 42

  Champion House

  May 17, 1863

  Night had fallen upon the house.

  In the dining room just off the front parlor was a large table that could seat the whole Champion family with ease at Christmastime. In fact it served as the centerpiece of gatherings for many happy occasions. The battle had changed its purpose now, and the table felt the brunt of an army surgeon’s saw
that quickly, cut, cracked, and separated mangled limbs from the wounded soldiers. Forty hours had passed since the first shots were fired. The battered legs and arms, testimonials to the terrible destruction, were tossed through a window into the darkness and landed, one by one, on a gruesome, tangled heap.

  Because amputation could not mend their wounds, Trick and T.J. were spared that treatment. Instead they lay on cots outside under a large oak tree. It had rained briefly in the morning, but their clothes were dry now. The Third Brigade’s surgeon had passed through early in the morning during the rainfall and looked at the boys’ wounds. He said T.J. would live, never to see again, but Trick, with his gut wound, would not make it through the month. That realization hit both of them hard. Yet despite their grief, they were thankful that they were still together, a comfort in what they saw as Trick’s final days.

  The big oak tree where they lay was cordoned off by the surgeons for soldiers with gut wounds, a sort of departure point, a dying place for these mortally wounded unfortunates. About fifty were gathered there around the tree with Trick, all waiting for judgment day. Many clutched their Bibles, and a few read loudly into the night. Under the tree, bayonets, which once proudly snapped onto the muzzles of shiny muskets, were now used as cradles for bright vigil candles, casting strange shadows in the branches above. The toad-stickers, as they were jokingly called on the march, were spiked point down into the ground by each cot, the sleeve of the bayonet now facing upward so a candle could be placed where the musket muzzle had been. And as the lights flickered in the night, the groans and moans subsided with each hour. Some of the men slept for the night, others for eternity.

  “T.J., you OK?” Trick grunted as he turned in his cot.

  “Just fine, Trick. Can’t see nothin’, but from the chirpin’ out there, I ’spect we’re deep into the night.

  “I don’t wanna die yet,” Trick sobbed as he held his left sleeve to his face to wipe his tears. “I never wanted to hurt nobody. I just wanna fish on the Pecatonica.”

  “We’ll be back soon. You jist wait and see. There ain’t nothin’ gonna keep us from goin’ home, you see.”

  Trick sobbed louder now. “I don’t wanna go home in a box, T.J.. I wanna catch one last cat in the river. Wish to see the girls and the wigwam one last time.”

  Suddenly, a soldier appeared at the foot of their cots. But, because of the darkness, Trick could not make out the soldier’s features. Instead of moving on, the soldier stayed where he was. Alarmed, Trick shouted, “Who are you, and what do ya want, soldier? Show your face in the light, or I will draw this toad-sticker on you!”

  The soldier hesitated for a moment and then replied, “Bet you coulda used that ol’ sticker on the Pecatonica last summer!”

  The voice sounded oddly familiar. T.J. sat up in his cot and cocked his head, trying to place it.

  “Step up so we can see you!” Trick grabbed the bayonet vigil light and raised it as the soldier slowly advanced. He gasped in surprise when the soldier’s face came in view.

  “Who is it, Trick?” asked T.J..

  An astonished Trick stared at the soldier, unable to speak. He could not believe his eyes. For a moment he wondered if his wound was causing him to hallucinate.

  “Trick, who is it? Tell me!”

  Trick thrust the bayonet back into the ground.

  “It’s Allie, T.J.! For cryin’ jiminy, it’s Allie!” He turned and sat up as best he could, managing a smile despite the pain from his wound.

  T.J. grinned ear to ear and sat up in anticipation of a kiss and a hug.

  “Shh! Keep your jabbers quiet!” Allie whispered as she placed her forefinger on her lips. “You’ll wake up the whole Union army if ya keep it up!”

  The boys were happy to hear her drawl again. She walked between the cots and sat next to Trick, placing a hand on the knee of each boy. She then became somber as she looked at T.J.

  “Allie, where’d ya git that uniform? Did ya steal it?”

  “Shh! My name ain’t Allie. It’s Albert…Albert Cashier!” Allie said. Trick noticed her long hair was gone and that she did look like a man… sort of.

  “Right after you boys joined the Ninety-Third, I reckoned I could fight the rebs, too, so I joined the Ninety-Fifth in Rockford. Jenny cut my hair. I borrowed Colonel Putnam’s hat, and I mustered in. That’s jist about everythin’.”

  Trick scratched his head and replied, “So they think you are a man? You mustered in as a man?”

  “Rightly so,” Allie replied softly as she held her forefinger to her lips again. “Now, where are ya’ll hit?”

  “T.J. lost his eyes. The surgeon says I’m a gonner ’cause I got hit in the gut,” replied Trick sadly.

  Tears welled up in Allie’s eyes. Her thoughts drifted quickly to the joyful days on the Pecatonica when she first met T.J., squirrel rifle in hand, and Trick with his cane pole. She remembered how they grinned at her when they first met, and the frolicking on the riverbank and in the wigwam. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, and she quickly wiped it away so Trick could not see.

  “You boys will make it home soon. Best not be thinkin’ of bad things. It only makes it worse.” Allie walked away from the cots in toward the direction of the Champion house where a small oak tree stood. The limbs of the sapling were closer to the ground and within reaching distance.

  “Where ya goin’, Allie?”

  Allie turned around quickly and defiantly stared at Trick, her hands on her hips.

  Trick quickly added, “I mean where ya goin’, Private Albert Cashier?”

  Allie did not reply. A few minutes later she returned to their cots. As she sat down on the edge of T.J.’s cot, Trick saw that she was carrying something.

  “Friends, now I want ya to do somethin’ that you might think is odd, but I want ya to promise me you’ll do it…every mornin’.”

  Both boys replied in unison, “We promise!”

  Allie pulled out a bottle from her knapsack. She continued. “Gramma Lucy once cured a Winnebago Injun who got in a fix with a Potawatomi brave. The wound in his gut was an ugly thing, and no doc in the county would help the poor soul. Well, he made his way to Gramma Lucy’s cabin, and she nursed him with some Irish whiskey. She poured a shot of it every day on the wound, and sure ’nough, it fixed him up!”

  The boys cocked their heads.

  “Now, take off that kerchief, T.J., and, Trick, you pull up your shirt.”

  The boys responded. They settled back on their cots, grunted, and exposed their wounds.

  “Now, this is gonna hurt a bit, but you gotta keep doin’ it every mornin’. T.J., I’m a dousin’ your stitches first.” She poured a shot of the whiskey, distributing it on both suture lines.

  T.J. crossed his arms and pulled upward, gasping, but he did not scream.

  She then turned to Trick, drew another shot in the glass, and poured it in his wound.

  Trick kicked his feet, turned on his side, and coughed deeply, almost gagging from the pain.

  “Looks like that rebel ball cut ya good, Trick, but at least it moved on. Ya won’t be takin’ that lead back to Buda! If it a hurts too much, drink a little nip before ya pour. If ya run out soon, make sure ya git the good stuff, ya hear!”

  The boys rolled around, grimacing, which caused their cots to squeak. They settled down in a few minutes, but both sweated profusely from Allie’s medicine.

  “Got somethin’ else for ya.” She reached into her knapsack again and pulled out oak leaves that she picked from the Champion house sapling. She grabbed Trick’s black hat and T.J.’s kepi, placing a small green oak leaf where the crumbled brown ones had been.

  “Trick, do you remember the time you climbed the Injun oak and… slipped and fell in the river?”

  “Sure do, Allie—Albert.” Trick grinned. “I fell off that ol’ oak and hit that river like an elephant. Didn’t hurt much. Us friends all had a good ol’ laugh about it!”

  “Do you remember what I said to you, Trick?” Allie plac
ed her hands on both of their shoulders. “Remember when you were movin’ up that Injun oak, and I said, ‘I’ll be patient if ya just hang on’? Well, I’ll always be patient—you friends just hang on now!”

  The boys nodded, feeling much better than before.

  The cot creaked again. It was time for Allie to return to her camp. She thought a good-bye kiss would help them but couldn’t, even with the shadow of darkness. It was too risky. She did not want to reveal herself in the slightest, so she walked a few feet away and turned to the boys for one last look and waved.

  “Have ya seen Will and Aaron?” she asked.

  “Saw them right before the charge, but reckon they made it and are near Vicksburg now,” T.J. replied.

  Trick nodded. “They ain’t on this hill, that’s for sure.”

  Allie’s smile was awkward now. Tears welled again in her eyes. She quickly wiped them with her sleeve so none of the other soldiers would see. Looking back at the friends one last time, she turned slowly to the west and then vanished into the darkness.

  Chapter 43

  Vicksburg

  May 18, 1863

  The rebels felt safer now.

  The battered Confederate army under General Pemberton had retreated in haste and rested behind the Vicksburg entrenchments, which snaked deep and far around the town. The fortifications weaved from their highest point, at two hundred feet, through ravines, cane breaks, brush, and trees and continued for seven circuitous miles. One hundred twenty-eight pieces of artillery extended along this line; thirty-six were heavy siege guns. The most famous of these Confederate guns, “Whistling Dick,” threw large shells two feet long that screamed with fury across the skies and caused ghastly destruction as they bounced through columns of men, ripping off limbs, decapitating heads, and roaring to rest in the rear of the rank and file.

  At key points along the line, the rebel engineers had constructed nine important forts, redans, or redoubts, as they were called, which served as the strongest gathering points for defensive action. These points, conversely, were gathering points for attacks by the Yankees since the breaching of any one of these points could cause a major weakening of the defenses and an eventual collapse of the rebel defenders. In that scenario thousands of Yankee troops would pour through the gap in the line like water through a dam break. Because of the importance of these forts to the overall defense of the line, all were constructed tall, typically twenty feet high. Behind them shooting platforms were placed for the rebel defenders to stand or kneel on. In the front of the forts on the attacking side was a deadly ditch about eight to ten feet deep and as much in length. The attackers then would have to cross this dry-moat depression before climbing up the wall of the fort. From the base of the depression at the wall, the attacking columns would have to jump, scratch, and crawl about five feet up out of the deadly ditch and then continue at an angle to the top of the fort for about another thirty feet. If they could do this and live, they would be eye to eye with the defenders.