by John Holt
“Come on, sir,” taunted the Sergeant. “Get up.”
Miles stood up slowly, and brushed the blood away from his eye. He turned to face his opponent, his arms held high. The Sergeant moved forward. His advance was stopped by a left hook into the body, and a right jab to the face. The Sergeant staggered backwards only to be pushed back towards Miles by Corporal Thompson.
The two men locked together trading blow for blow. The blood from the cut above Miles’ eye was trickling down the side of his face, and neck. He pushed the Sergeant away, with a hard left to the body. The Sergeant threw a left hitting Miles in the chest. Miles returned with a left and a right to the Sergeants’ head, causing a cut above his ear.
Both men were breathing hard, and were now quite tired. The Sergeant paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “Had enough” asked Miles.
“I was thinking of asking you the same question,” replied the Sergeant.
Miles shrugged and smiled. “Pretty much I’d say if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh well now I’d say that was fair enough,” replied the Sergeant. “You know for a Reb you’re a pretty good fighter.”
Miles wiped his hand across his face, spreading the blood seeping from his forehead. Then he smiled. “For an Irishman, you’re not so bad yourself.” He then walked over to the Sergeant, and put his arm around the man’s shoulders. “I have to say I’d rather have you as a friend than an enemy.”
“Right enough, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “And I’d rather be serving under your command, than fighting you.” He reached for his coat, and took out a small flask from one of the pockets. “Let’s drink to that shall we?” He offered the flask to Miles. “Perhaps we’ll have another lesson another day.”
Miles started to laugh. “Sergeant you don’t need any lessons, you are already proficient,” he replied. “Now, about that drink?”
* * *
“That’s a nasty looking bruise, Captain,” said the Colonel looking at Miles’ hand. “And that’s a fairly deep cut above your eye. You should get it seen to.”
“Oh it’s nothing,” said Miles dismissively. “It’ll be fine, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the Colonel replied. “What actually happened?”
Miles put his hand up to his face. “Oh nothing really, I was just foolish I suppose,” he started to explain. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going. I slipped and bumped into a door.”
“A door, really,” replied the Colonel, trying to suppress a smile. “I wonder if it was the same door that my Sergeant walked into. Incidentally did you meet up with the Sergeant as I had suggested?”
“Oh yes sir we made contact with each other,” replied Miles.
“That’s good,” said the Colonel, now with a beaming smile on his face. “Was he able to teach you anything?”
Miles looked at the bruises on his hands. “I think you could say I learnt a lot from Sergeant O’Reilly.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Captain,” said the Colonel. He paused for a few moments. “Captain, you may or may not be aware that there has been some talk amongst the men.”
“Talk sir, about what?”
“You being from the South,” the Colonel replied. “A few of the men felt that it was strange to say the least.”
“Oh yes, sir, I’ve heard some of it at first hand,” Miles answered. He gently rubbed the side of his face. “Sir, you know why I’m not fighting for the South. What more can I say?”
“I know what you have told me, Captain. You don’t agree with the South’s thinking. I understand that.”
“I don’t agree with the South leaving the Union,” Miles explained. “And furthermore the South cannot win this war. It was foolish to ever start it.”
The General heaved a sigh. “You may well be right, Captain, but the men are shall we say, uncertain of you.”
“Uncertain,” repeated Miles. “In what way are they uncertain?”
“Captain, I wonder if you will be able to fire on your fellow Southerners,” the Colonel said. “In battle would you be able to shoot to kill?”
Miles thought for a few moments. “Colonel, I have to say I cannot give you a true answer to that question.” He paused for a few moments. “I like to think that I would do my duty. But if it were someone I knew then I have to say I could have a difficulty.”
“I think that maybe we could all have that same difficulty, Captain,” the Colonel replied. “I have to admit that I might have a similar problem in similar circumstances.”
“Thank you for your understanding, sir.”
“That’s alright, Captain,”
Miles rubbed his jaw once again. It was still badly swollen, and very sore. “The Sergeant and I had a long discussion about the very same subject, sir,” he said. “And I think we came to an understanding.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said the Colonel. “Now Captain, about the other matter that we discussed before.”
“You mean the protection unit for the President?”
“Yes Captain, correct. Do you think you could form such a team?”
Miles thought for a few moments. “Yes sir I think I can,” he replied. “I would need a few things though.”
“So what would you need, Captain?” asked the Colonel.
“Firstly I would need Sergeant O’Reilly,” Miles began. “And then Corporal Thompson, and finally Trooper Crawford.”
“Strangely enough, Captain, I already knew that,” said the Colonel. “I wonder why?”
* * *
Chapter Ten
June 1861 – The First Skirmish
So the States were at war. After month after month of rumor and endless talking, it had finally come. Not that there were any obvious signs of being at war. The South prepared and waited, and waited, and waited. But the war never came. There were no attacks, no battles. Thousands of young men hurried to enlist, anxious to do their duty for the South and waited to be sent off to battle. Several more States ceded from the Union. Nothing much else happened, and life went on very much the same as ever.
The stagecoach began to operate once again, although there were some restrictions on travel. There was talk of blockades being imposed on a number of Southern ports. There were also shortages of some provisions, but generally life continued pretty much unchanged.
Perhaps it was going to be all right. Perhaps there would be no war. Perhaps they were worrying for nothing. Perhaps the North was too afraid to actually do anything. After all they had suffered a humiliating defeat at Fort Sumter hadn’t they? Maybe Lincoln would do nothing. Maybe Jefferson Davis had won without a single shot being fired.
And so the speculation went on. At every street corner where two, or more people met up, there would be the same questions asked, and the same doubts would be raised. The more States joining the Confederacy, the more confident the South became. The North would do nothing. Indeed, the consensus was that the North could do nothing.
Though the Confederacy had bombarded Fort Sumter more than two months earlier, signaling the start of the Civil War, there had been few additional clashes. Month after month went by, and anticipation of what was to come, grew and grew, but still nothing happened.
Nowhere was the sense of anticipation more acute than among the soldiers themselves. In camps scattered throughout the land the soldiers waited in their own way. Whilst some became more and more afraid as time passed by, others became more emboldened. Many became impatient, anxious to get on with it. They were keen to fight. They considered that the sooner it actually started the sooner it would be over.
Still others were philosophical about the whole thing. Perhaps it had never meant to be. What was to come was to come. There was nothing they could do about it. Some prayed. To some prayer wasn’t necessary, right was on their side, and so they would prevail. Many believed that the war, whenever it came, would soon be over. Others were convinced that there would be no war and they would soon return to their homes.
Still t
he waiting continued.
* * *
“June 1st 1861 – We are encamped just a few miles outside of Phillipi. We expect to face our first battle in this war any day now. The men are anxious for the battle to commence. Although some are saying that the Yankees won’t come. For my part I am ready for whatever the future brings.”
* * *
In the soldiers’ camps, rumor mills whirred. There were wild claims from both sides. Each side claiming they would win the conflict, and win easily and soon. It was nothing but propaganda, and unfounded bravado.
“The Northern papers say the Yankee army will celebrate the 4th of July in Richmond,” Tom Davis suddenly announced.
“How’d you know that?” asked Will Cantwell. “You got Yankee friends?”
“He ain’t got no friends, no how,” suggested Dan Taylor laughing.
“No I don’t have no Yankee friends,” Davis replied sharply, and looking contemptuously at Taylor.
“So how come you know so much then?” Will retorted.
“It’s all here, in this here letter I got from my pa,” replied Davis, holding up the letter. “It come today. He says that the Northerners are already celebrating and holding victory parades.”
“Well I hear’d different to that,” said Dan Taylor, trying to sound knowledgeable. “I hear’d that someone in the 1st Virginia Cavalry had written that two Confederate soldiers had been able to hold off several hundred of the opposing army. And just the day before his own camp had expected a skirmish, but the Union soldiers never showed up, they were just plain scared. So what d’you think of that then?”
“Why I don’t think nuthin’ about it,” replied Will Cantwell dismissively. “I reckon it’s just a pack of lies, and I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Well I guess we’ll know soon enough,” said Tom Davis. “They say the Yankees are just a few miles north of here.”
“Well I still say they ain’t gonna fight,” said Dan Taylor. “When they see us they’ll just turn tail and run, you’ll see. They won’t be blue-bellies anymore, they’ll be yellow bellies.”
“All right lads, that’s enough,” said the Sergeant. “Best you get some sleep. It’ll be a busy day tomorrow I can tell you. But if you fight as well as you talk we have nothing to fear.”
“So what do you say Sarge about these here Yankees?” asked Dan Taylor.
“What I says is this me lad,” replied the Sergeant. “Them Yankees will be here, you mark my words, but if you does your duty and you fight hard like, then those Yankees will soon start a running.” He paused for a moment smiling at the thought. “So you all turn in now, and be ready and waiting for the morrow, all refreshed like.”
“Will you tuck me up, Sergeant?” quipped Dan Taylor, a wide grin on his face.
“I’ll give you tuck me up me lad,” replied the Sergeant, smiling back.
* * *
Captain Jacob Thackery had been ordered to make camp at the bend of the Tygart Valley River, just a few miles to the south of the small town of Philippi, to await further orders. He and his men had been there just over a day and a half, with no indication as to when they could expect any impeding action. The men were getting bored and restless. And now they were becoming despondent. They knew that one battle had already taken place just a few miles to the north, in the town of Grafton. It was here that the Parkersburg-Grafton Railroad joined the Baltimore & Ohio, the only continuous east-west connector between the East Coast and the Ohio River and the states of the Old Northwest. Confederate troops commanded by Colonel George Porterfield had been sent to try to hold the rail lines. The action had not succeeded and it had been necessary for Porterfield to withdraw his troops.
* * *
Thackery sat by the fire listening to the harmless banter of his men. He found it all highly amusing, but he said nothing, and merely listened. Clearly it wasn’t true that the Yankees would be in Richmond in a few weeks time, and it wasn’t true that they would turn tail and run. And it certainly wasn’t true that two Confederate soldiers had held off a Union force of several hundred. He knew that the battle that had started in Grafton would continue around Philippi when it was good and ready, and not a moment sooner, and he also knew that the Yankees wouldn’t run. They would stand and fight, and fight hard.
He looked at the men and shivered, not with the cold, but with a sudden foreboding. How many of them would still be there in another twenty-four hours? Dark thunder clouds were forming, and a strong breeze was blowing across the river. Then the rain started, lightly at first, gradually becoming heavier. He wrapped his coat tightly around him and entered his tent. He lay down on his army cot, and tried to sleep.
* * *
Surrounded by the hills of north central Virginia, the village of Philippi sprawled pleasantly along the eastern side of the winding river. In common with other small villages, Philippi had its school and its simple frame church, its bank and tavern, its cobbler, harness-maker, blacksmith, and carpenter. Scattered along its principal street were the general stores. Here the villagers not only came to purchase everything from ploughs to peppermints, but to accumulate bits of news and local gossip.
On the southern outskirts of the town were the tannery, and the towering gristmill that stood on the river bank. The pride of the community was the massive two-lane covered toll bridge that crossed the river a short distance north of the gristmill. Such was Philippi, seriously minded and quiet, neither rich nor poor, getting up early in the morning, working on week days, and going to church on Sunday.
Suddenly in the spring of 1861 everything was to change. With the approach of war the citizens of this quiet community became abruptly aware that no longer could their bridge be regarded merely as an object of pride and convenience. Its very presence, lying as it did at the gateway to the south, became a menace to the safety of the village, for official eyes were now turned toward Philippi. Generals of the North and of the South recognized the importance of this bridge so necessary to each side and for all of its giant's strength and size its very life was now in jeopardy.
* * *
It had been almost three years since Thackery had last been in Philippi. At that time he had been visiting an old friend of his father, Jed Forrester. He lived alone in a small homestead on the edge of the town. This time though it was to be very different. This time he was there to do battle.
Philippi was a small town with a population of less than five hundred people. In recent days that number had increased considerably with the influx of a small Confederate force, of about eight hundred men that had been withdrawn from the town of Grafton. Another two hundred, including Thackery’s men, were positioned south of the town.
To the north a force of fourteen hundred Union soldiers, under the command of Brigadier General Ebenezer Dumont had begun entering the town under cover of darkness. The inexperienced Confederate volunteers had failed to establish picket lines for perimeter security, choosing instead to escape the cold rain and stay inside their tents. Slowly the Union forces made their way towards the Court House. They were seen by a Confederate sympathizer, Mrs. Thomas Humphreys. She hurriedly sent her young son on horseback to warn the Confederates. As she watched she saw Union soldiers stop the boy, and order him down from his horse. She took her pistol and fired a shot.
Philippi – June 1861
The Union forces began firing their artillery, awakening the sleeping Confederate soldiers. After firing a few shots at the advancing Union troops, the Southerners broke lines and began running frantically to the south, many still in their bed clothes.
* * *
Thackery woke with a start. It was now raining heavily, and lightning lit up the sky. There was a cold wind from the east. His hands hurt with the cold.
He could hear the gunfire coming from the north. He could hear people crying out and screaming. Suddenly soldiers began running out of the woods. The trickle became a steady stream.
“Run. Run for your lives,” yelled one young trooper, blood
running down from a wound in his arm. “Yankees.”
“The blue bellies are coming,” yelled another. A shot ran out and the soldier fell to the ground. More shots and two others lay dead.
Thackery looked back into the trees and there, a short distance away he could see the blue uniforms heading towards him. He quickly rallied his men and joined the retreating soldiers in the direction of Huttonsville, where they would re-group.
* * *
Aaron Thackery took off his eye glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. In fact he was always tired of late. Stress he supposed. Not surprising really, not that life was that difficult, not considering there was a war going on. That wasn’t the problem though. Oh no, it was Emily. She looked so pale these days. Old Doctor Philips had said that it was probably a virus, and that she needed to rest, and he prescribed some tablets.
Aaron knew better however. It was no known illness, nothing that you treat with medication. Rest wasn’t going to help in this case. Emily’s condition was purely due to her son being away at war and not knowing when, or if, he would be home again. For a few moments he stared into the fire. If only there was something he could do, something to relieve her fears. Then he looked back at the letter that he was holding. Maybe it would help.
The door suddenly opened. He looked up as Emily came into the room. She had been crying, again. Something she did quite often these days. She slowly walked over to the fireside and sat down next to Aaron.
He smiled at her and held up the letter. “It’s from Jacob,” he called out. “It just arrived. The young boy at the Telegraph Office brought it over a few moments ago.”
Emily looked at the letter, and then at Aaron. “Read it to me would you please,” she said.
Aaron looked at Emily and placed his hand on her arm. “He is well,” he said.