FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  Jenny looked up quickly to where Trick pointed.

  “Well, ain’t that a site,” exclaimed Trick, his voice rising from the whisper.

  “Come on, tell us what it is. What’s goin’ on?” insisted T.J.

  “Well, there is a turtledove perched just a foot from the reddest cardinal I have ever seen. Those two birds don’t sit well together, and I’m a wonderin’ what happened to the other dove, ya know, its mate for life.” Trick scratched his head and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  T.J. was silent. He tried to comprehend the meaning of it all.

  “Yep, and they are starin’ at each other now. Must be an omen,” Trick replied with a confused look.

  “Well, as I see it,” T.J. gently added, “the omen is that the turtledove has lost her mate, and that male cardinal at her side now stands for everlasting love…like the red berries from the holly branches!”

  Jenny placed her hands on her mouth. She did not know what to think.

  Trick bent down and picked up his broken cane pole. “Strange to see those birds like that. Never seen anythin’ like that before. We best be gettin’ home now.”

  Jenny nodded at Trick and then reached for T.J.’s arm. The three started upriver with Trick in the rear. When they got to the bend in the river, Trick glanced back to the Injun oak for one last look.

  Chapter 52

  Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois

  Near Bridgeport, Alabama

  November 15, 1863

  Smoke from hundreds of cooking fires hung in the southern pines. The regiment was resting for the day after many miles of marching.

  “Sure wish Jenny and Allie coulda’ seen that cave,” Aaron exclaimed as he handed a piece of hardtack to Will.

  Both boys sat down around a small campfire. The timber cracked sending a spark upward.

  “Yeah, that cave makes the wigwam look small, doesn’t it?” Will replied.

  “Sure does. If that cave was up north, it could hold two dozen runaway slaves!”

  Will’s countenance grew solemn. “Remember when we met Li’l Joe and Blue two years ago?”

  “Yeah, it was a special moment,” replied Aaron. They both thought we were slave catchers because T.J. had a rifle. Funny, we didn’t even know what a slave catcher was back then!”

  Will smiled. “Li’l Joe was so young and scared he could barely speak until Blue came up playin’ the flute and spoke as grand as a Sunday preacher.”

  Aaron peered into the fire. “Do ya’ think they ever made it to Canada?”

  “Sure hope so. They were nice folk,” replied Aaron.

  “Wonder how long they stayed in the Oscar Taylor basement?”

  “I ‘spect it was only a week or so,” replied Will, holding up his haversack. “I’d bet everything in here they made it safely to Canada and that Li’l Joe is there now. Blue just guided him, so he’s probably helping other runaways now.”

  Will looked at the fire. The flames settled down into a vermillion hue that seemed to dwindle in the night. “Well, I’m glad the friends helped both Li’l Joe and Blue. Our wigwam is a special place. Can’t wait to get back there and rest. Sure miss the Pecatonica, too.”

  Aaron stood up and pulled out his journal from his frock-coat pocket. He held it up and nodded at Will. “Better write down what we saw today in my diary before I forget,” he said in earnest. “The girls will want to know about this place, for sure. That little walnut tree over there looks like a good sittin’ spot. Let me know when the hish and hash is ready to eat.”

  Aaron approached the tree, slipped to the ground, and then leaned back comfortably with his haversack braced between his shoulders and the trunk. He pulled out a tiny pencil from his left front pocket. Pausing for a moment to double-check that he was holding his second volume, he flipped to the next blank page and scribbled his notes quickly.

  Sun. Nov. 15

  After breakfast…went about 100 rods west of our camp to explore a cave…we soon found ourselves at the entrance of the cave and there we found the Col. And several of the other officers. I soon made my way into the cave. I found several men in there with candles and it wasen’t [sic] long till I had been in every nook and corner of the cave. Where I first entered there was a small room…then I had to lay down and roll through a small crivice [sic] into a larger room that led to another place of entrance and from that one we made our way through into a smaller room…there was some beautiful crystal stone on top the rooms that was formed by dripping water…After rambling all over the wild mountain we went back to camp—struck tents—and was soon ready to march…Clear and pleasant. 19

  “Hish and hash is ready, Aaron!” Will shouted as he banged his mess pan with his spoon.

  Aaron snapped his journal shut, placed it in his haversack, and scurried over to his messmates by the smoldering campfire.

  Chapter 53

  Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois

  Missionary Ridge

  November 24, 1863

  Near Midnight

  “Do you see the moon up there?” Aaron whispered so he would not disturb his sleeping comrades.

  Will rolled over on his blanket to get a better view. He grunted, pushed himself up with both arms, and craned his neck. “It’s an eclipse of the moon, he replied. You can see the shadow of the earth covering it so.”

  “Looks like an omen to me.”

  “Oh, Aaron, that’s as much an omen to them as it is to us. Besides, it may be a good-luck omen for you. Tomorrow is your birthday isn’t it?”

  Aaron looked up again. “I suspect it’s a sign for something. Well, I best get down to bed. Today was a busy one. Best get the whole thing in my journal. Tomorrow will surely be a fight. Hope tomorrow isn’t my last birthday.”

  Will settled back down on his blankets and pulled the corner over his shoulders. “Good night, old friend,” he whispered. “Tomorrow will be a happy day for you.”

  Aaron walked slowly over to his bedding so he wouldn’t disturb the others. He grabbed his bayonet, the good old toad-sticker, and flipped the point down. He pulled open the top of his haversack, shuffled his hand around, pulled out a match and candle, and placed them between his feet. He then reached into his pocket and located his pencil again. He forced the tip of his bayonet into the ground, placed the bottom of the candle into the bayonet socket, and then lit the wick. The comrades continued to slumber.

  Tues. Nov. 24

  I was sleeping sweetly last night about 12:00 when the Capt. came around and in a low tone ordered us to fall in as soon as we could…we marched down to the river…and we soon found ourselves embarked on the pontoon boats and under full headway for the other shore…about 300 boats at work…the sight was magnificent…it was just light enough to see them pass to and fro loaded down with bluecoats…the army marched in three columns…we marched forward… through thick brush and mud and water half a knee deep… we came in sight of a big ridge where we supposed there was a host of Rebels…every man bespoke his determination of going to the top…we went on a little farther…met a squad of cavalry…they informed us that…the long lines of Rebs that we seen happen to be Federal soldiers…This news brightened every man’s countenance and there was a look of joy on their faces… 20

  Aaron put down his pencil and looked across the valley toward the slopes of Missionary Ridge. In the dim moonlight, the ridges looked like ominous black silhouettes against a dark-gray sky. He could see thousands of Confederate campfires twinkling like fireflies. He looked at his comrades huddled in deep sleep around him and then gazed down the slope in front of the regiment and mumbled to himself in almost a whisper, “Well, General Bragg, we’ve got thousands of brighter ones in the valley below.”

  The clock had ticked far past midnight. He smiled. It was officially his birthday, and he felt good that he was now twenty-one years of age. Looking at Missionary Ridge one more time, he snuffed out the candle. In a few hours, it would be daylight and the army would move again, so he rolled into his thick wool
blanket and quickly drifted off into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 54

  Missionary Ridge

  November 25, 1863

  The morning mist on the Tennessee River had burned away. The clouds over Lookout Mountain on Missionary Ridge had lifted, too. The day was clear and ripe for battle.

  U. S. Grant and his staff had secured a vantage point near Chattanooga just like they had at Vicksburg. The place was called Orchard Knob. It was located almost at the center of a half circle of mountain ridges once called Mission Ridge by the Indians. From his high position on the knob, Grant had deployed the army again in three sectors. To the right was Major General John Hooker, in the middle was Major General George Thomas, and to the left was his friend, Sherman. General Hooker had taken Lookout Mountain the previous day. It was up to Sherman and Thomas now to attack from the long sweeping ridge where thousands of rebels waited. It was late morning, and the attacks were underway in the Sherman sector where Aaron and Will were located.

  “Gentlemen, it looks like the ball has begun on our left flank,” announced Grant as he pointed to Tunnel Hill where Sherman’s boys were attacking. He placed his field glasses to his eye brows, and paused for about thirty seconds. Keeping his gaze steady, he continued, “Looks like Colonel Loomis and his Twenty-Sixth Illinois are in a fix!”

  “Is that the Loomis from Chicago, the Democrat?” asked Parker as he peered through his field glasses.

  “Yes, it is, Captain. We call him Old Hindquarters, nicknamed by Lincoln years ago when he ran for senator against Douglas.”

  “With all due respect, sir, why did Lincoln name him Old Hindquarters?” Parker replied. The other officers turned to Grant, curious to hear his response.

  “Well, as Lincoln in his great wisdom could see even back then, Loomis doesn’t know his headquarters from his hindquarters!”

  The staff erupted in laughter. Grant kept his composure. Every officer now peered to the left flank to see where Loomis had stalled.

  Grant lowered his field glasses and calmly stated, “General John E. Smith’s division is close to Colonel Loomis.” He waved to a mounted orderly nearby who was waiting anxiously to get into the action. The young officer rode his fidgety horse over to Grant and saluted.

  “Lieutenant, take this order to General Sherman. It informs him, if practicable, to advance the Second Division to support Colonel Loomis at the white house at the base of Tunnel Hill. Let him know it is called the Glass house.”

  “Yes, sir!” the rider exclaimed as he snapped a salute. The horse and rider then disappeared into a cloud of dust.

  Suddenly, a long rattle of musket fire could be heard in the distance. Puffs of white smoke from the rebel cannons atop Tunnel Hill were followed by loud retorts that echoed across Orchard Knob. Grant trained his field glasses on the action. Lowering them, he turned to his officers and demanded, “Who ordered those men up the hill? These attacks are to be coordinated, and I see two lone regiments stalled at the top of that hill!”

  Parker raised his field glasses. “General, they look like Pennsylvania regiments.”

  “Someone will pay for this,” Grant replied. “I will not sacrifice our men like this. They must not advance unless it is by brigade, division, or corps. Do you understand, gentlemen?”

  They all nodded.

  Grant looked back at the ridge and shook his head. “Well, I hope General Smith can get Loomis out of his fix.”

  On Sherman’s left flank, the Ninety-Third Illinois was in the valley waiting to advance. They were hidden in a small forest of pine trees and scrub that skirted a large meadow between their location and Missionary Ridge.

  Colonel Putnam and Black Hawk were ready. Old Put, as the boys now affectionately called him, advanced out of the tree line on his black war-horse and rode slowly down the length of the regiment. He thought that maybe this challenge would be their greatest yet. He rode with his back stiff like a Roman general ready to wage battle on far-off fields. His dark eyes and black beard contrasted smartly with his deep-blue uniform. The boys felt confident looking at him.

  “Boys, General Smith has ordered us to advance to the mountain,” he announced. “When we mustered in at Fort Douglas, we stood one thousand strong. You have honored our state, wives, sweethearts, and families by your glorious actions on the field of battle. We are less than three hundred now.” He paused, noticed Aaron and Will, and nodded to them as he rode by. “Boys, this is our day. We are the remaining ranks of the Ninety-Third and have a duty to those who have fallen before us. We, along with our brother regiments, are proud to be called the Old Ironsides Brigade. It is a right affirmation of what we have done and what we will continue to do.” Putnam reached the end of the line and turned Black Hawk back again. He remained silent until he reached the center. He pulled out his sword and pointed to the ridge, and with a rising voice that all could hear, he shouted, “Let’s give those rebels hell!”

  The Ninety-Third in perfect chorus gave three “huzzahs” and moved out of the tree line.

  Putnam and Black Hawk were in the lead. In the distance was the dreaded mountain just one-half mile away. They would get there in quick time.

  As they approached, the image of the ridge got clearer. They spied Union soldiers at the base of the ridge, advancing through the passing waves of smoke. The steep ridge immediately to the right looked like a saddle with a hole—the railroad tunnel—in the center. Confederates in butternut and gray swarmed over the depression in the saddlelike mountain. They were moving fast in anticipation of the rush of Yankees.

  Confederate batteries boomed from the horn and heel of the saddle, causing missiles to explode randomly over the advancing boys in blue. Slightly to the left was yet another battery positioned on a spur that jutted into the field before them. Near the base of the hill was the white house.

  Suddenly, a bouncing cannonball tore a limb off of a soldier, passed through the belly of a comrade behind him, and tore the leg off an unsuspecting boy in the last rank. Blood splattered wildly before the boys. Everyone thought of running back to the forest. Another shot zipped by, causing the Ninety-Third to stop in their tracks.

  Putnam turned and pointed to the burning white house.

  “To that battery on the double-quick,” he shouted. Black Hawk reared up on his hind quarters and dropped into a full gallop. Within minutes the remaining ranks made it to the battery. They advanced to a small depression in the meadow and fell prone, firmly grasping their muskets. The white house was still at a distance but could be plainly seen. They continued to hug the ground as the fury of lead droned above them.

  After a few restful minutes, Putnam proceeded ahead to a small thicket to await orders from the commanding officers who he thought were gathered there. He dismounted and tied Black Hawk to a small scrub oak. A staff lieutenant familiar to Putnam approached and saluted.

  “Colonel,” he said excitedly, “General Matthies reports that there are two regiments up on the ridge already. They are unsupported and are taking heavy casualties. Most of their officers are dead.”

  “What regiments are they?” asked Putnam directly.

  “The Twenty-Seventh and Seventy-Third Pennsylvania, I am told,” was the reply.

  “And who sent them up there?”

  “It was Colonel Loomis, sir!”

  “Loomis, Loomis,” Putnam said slowly. “I know a Loomis. Is he from Chicago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He is in the shelter of those trees, sir.”

  Putnam’s eyes glared furiously as he remembered his confrontations with Loomis: at the Tremont Hotel where Loomis insulted Lincoln and from the Freeport Christmas ball where he threw him out the front door into the snow. He thought of the insulting remark Loomis had made to General Smith’s son, and his temper began to flare. He stepped out of the ravine and walked deliberately toward the trees where the lieutenant had pointed. Within moments he was there.

  And there he was, a little slimm
er than Putnam remembered, but still the arrogant, little man with side whiskers.

  Loomis saw Putnam coming. The memory of the Freeport ball incident flashed in his mind, and he backed himself up against a small pine tree for protection.

  “Loomis, I ought to grab you by the collar again!” Putnam shouted as he got closer. Two large sergeants with bayonet muskets in hand quickly stepped in front of him and blocked his path to Loomis.

  “Settle down, Colonel,” Loomis replied in a cocky tone. “We are in the same army now, and we have to work together today.”

  Putnam took off his campaign hat, wiped his brow, and placed it squarely back on again. He took a deep breath to settle himself down. “Did you order those Pennsylvania regiments up the ridge?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” he replied. “As ranking officer on the field, I borrowed them and sent them up.”

  “Borrowed them! Borrowed them!” replied an agitated Putnam. “What do you mean borrowed them?”

  Loomis smiled curtly, stroked his muttonchop whiskers, and then pointed to the mountain. Cannons and muskets were echoing loudly down the slope. “Those boys up there wanted to make the attack, and I did not want to spare my own. Settle down, Colonel. We will support them in good time.”

  “Good time! Why aren’t you supporting them now, you coward?” He stepped toward Loomis who quickly backed toward the tree again. Anticipating Putnam’s move, the guards immediately stepped toward Putnam, blocking his path again.

  Loomis smiled, and in a very calm voice continued. “Now, Colonel, since you are here, and I am ranking officer on the field, I order you to support those Pennsylvanians.” He grinned.

  “I will not take any orders from you, you coward. I have already received orders from General Matthies that the Ninety-Third support those boys, and he has sanctioned it.”

  “Well, then, good Colonel,” replied Loomis grinning, “be on your way. Please do visit me in Chicago when this cruel war is over.”

  Putnam stared at Loomis and said nothing. He looked into the eyes of the guards, who showed no emotion and strode away. He looked at the tunnel where the Pennsylvanians were and wondered how he would make it up the steep slope with Black Hawk. There was a dense forest in front of them with felled trees strategically intermingled to obstruct an advance. The rebels cut even more timber at the summit so the batteries would have a clear shot at the Yankees with their deadly canister.