Echoes of Dark and Light

by Chris Shanley-Dillman

  He dropped down on a log, using a stick to stoke the charred firewood remains. The brush of oxygen flared a spark to life, glowing bright red among the gray and black ashes. “I guess I felt a bit irked at first, getting landed with you. Nothing personal of course,” he quickly added.

  “Of course.” I sat down on another log, grimacing at the rock-solid , intense blandness of the hardtack.

  “It’s just that Frank, my last tent mate, and I had become good friends.”

  “Where is Frank?” I gave up on the hardtack and stuffed the offensive so-called food back in my haversack.

  “Killed. October 10th in the Battle of Blue Springs. Took a musket ball right in the chest.”

  Hardtack caught in my throat and I almost choked. Reality seeped back into my brain. With my world changing so fast the past couple of days, I’d almost forgotten that thousands of people were dying. And not just nameless, unknown faces; someone’s son or brother or former tent mate and friend.

  “Anyway,” Toby continued, “you’ll learn soon enough how a guy feels torn about making friends around here. On one hand, despite being surrounded by thousands of men who are continuously in your face and you feel like you’ll never get a deep breath for all the oxygen being depleted, a guy can start to feel a bit lonely. But on the other hand, chances are better than good that the guy standing next to you will get shot or stabbed or blown up or consumed by disease, and it’s hard to open up when you know he’ll probably soon turn toes up six feet under ground. So maybe you can understand how a fellow could act a bit standoffish.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to absorb his words. “Well, don’t bother trying to making friends with me; I keep to myself.”

  He smiled complacently, as if I were some naive child.

  Grrr. Aloud I assured him, “I like my privacy.”

  “Hmm, don’t we all. Anyway, you’d better change into uniform. I’ll show you where to put your stuff, then I’ll introduce you to a few fellows before we hit the sack.”

  I crawled into the cramped tent on his heels. He shifted and shoved his bedroll over to one side and then sprawled out, his feet sticking through the front. He motioned to the empty space next to him. “You can throw your blankets there.”

  As if I couldn’t have figured that one out for myself. I dropped my pack in the corner, dumping my new uniform on top. I bent down to untie my boots, but hesitated when Toby propped his hands behind his head to wait for me. He crossed a booted foot over his bent knee and proceeded to pick stones out of the crack forming in the soul. As if feeling my eyes on him, he paused and looked over at me.

  “What?” Realization slowly replaced his confusion at my hesitation. “Oh, you’re the bashful type.” He snorted, but started to crawl out of the tent. He paused at the opening. “Don’t worry, Bobbi, after sleeping nose to nose, and using latrines elbow to elbow with a thousand other guys, you’ll get over your bashfulness. But tonight, I’ll humor you.” And he closed the tent flap behind him.

  “I seriously doubt that, Private Dove,” I muttered under my breath. I shucked my shoes and dropped my trousers, clumsy in the limited space. Toby did have a very good point though. Keeping my secret in such close quarters would surely prove challenging, to say the least. But so far so good, and I did love a good challenge… most of the time. I shrugged into the stiff, unfamiliar uniform, and retied my own boots, tucking the new ones into the bottom of my pack. I pulled on the new blue cap with the yellow bugle adorning the top, indicating infantry division, and felt a small spark of pride in the crisp uniform. I’d also felt, as I pulled on my cap, that my hair had grown during my travels, now dusting over my ears and collar. I made a mental note to do a self-trim first thing in the morning. I didn’t need anything feminizing my looks in the least bit. No need to put any ideas into the men’s minds that would be hard to stamp out later. For now, I tucked the rouge red hairs up under my cap, and then crawled out of the tent.

  Toby waited for me, sipping on a cold cup of coffee. At the site of me, he rose and smiled. “Heck, Newbie, you could almost pass for one of us now.”

  “Newbie?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Get your hackles down, Rivers; it’s just a term meaning new guy. And you can’t dispute me on that. Here, let me help.” He scooped a handful of old ashes from the fire pit and tossed them at my new jacket.

  “Hey!” I objected fiercely, brushing the soot from my clothes, leaving grimy streaks.

  “Now you’ll blend in better.” He grinned at me and motioned for me to follow him.

  Still disgruntled, but secretly admitting that the soot streaks had removed the blaringly obvious newness of the uniform, I fell into step beside him.

  Many of the tents we passed by stood dark and quiet except for the deep rumbles of snoring, and I began wondering if our greeting committee ought to wait until morning. As if reading my doubts, Toby spoke.

  “I know most folk have hit the hay, but Preacher and the boys are night hawks; they’ll still be awake.”

  “Did you say ‘Creature’?” I asked, aghast. He calls a friend Creature?

  He laughed. “Creature, that’s a good one. Naw, his name’s Preacher, with a P, or at least that’s what we call him. Actually, I don’t know his real name for sure. Rolf or Ralf or something. But everyone just calls him Preacher.”

  “How come?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, grinning, his teeth catching the light of a campfire.

  Once again, his southern accent plucked at my curiosity. What would induce a southerner to fight for the northern army?

  “Toby?” I asked, cautiously.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’re you from anyway?”

  “Don’t tell me that you don’t recognize an authentic Texas accent when you hear one.”

  “If you’re from Texas, why aren’t you fighting for the south?”

  “Now, Private Rivers, that’s a mighty personal question for someone who claims wanting to keep his distance, isn’t it?”

  My face burned and I appreciated the darkness. “Just making conversation,” I grunted. “I don’t care where you’re from or why you’re here.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  Grrr. I really felt like yanking off my new cap and smacking him across his smug smile.

  “This way,” he said, pointing to the left.

  This Preacher fellow’s campfire was one of the few left burning in the deepening darkness. Three young men sat companionably around the welcoming warmth. As we neared, they glanced up with smiles and greetings for Toby. The one in the middle offered us seats and I gladly sank down on a log.

  At first glance, the three guys appeared identical in their matching uniforms and shadowed surroundings. On closer examination, individual traits began to emerge, like the short wiriness of the guy with the straw-like hair on the left, the pudgy, vacant-eyed look of the guy on the right, and the tall, gaunt thinness of the fellow in the middle. His round spectacles reflected the light of the fire and brought on a heavy wave of homesickness for my little brother Robby.

  The fellows studied me with curiosity.

  “Captain wanted me to introduce my new tent mate. Private Bobbi Rivers just joined the 27th. Bobbi, meet Kenny, Preacher, and Woody.”

  I nodded to each in turn, mentally repeating their names in order to remember them better.

  “So, what crazy notion prompted you to join up voluntarily,” asked Kenny. He pulled off his cap and scratched his fingers through his dry, kinky hair causing it to look even more like straw.

  “God has sent him to us for a special reason, known only to Him.”

  Oh, so that’s why he’s called Preacher.

  Preacher pushed his glasses up with a forefinger. “I would like to invite you to our worship service on Sunday mornings,” he continued. “I’ll introduce you to our minister. He really knows his Bible.”

  “Preacher is real nice,” broke in Woody. “You might not have guessed, but that’s a nickname. My name, Woody, i
s a nickname, too.”

  I smiled at his childish enthusiasm. “Really? How did you get your nickname?”

  He swelled in pride. “My cousin gave it to me. He says I’m as thick and dense as a soggy piece of driftwood.”

  My mouth fell open in shock at the cruel mockery, so innocently repeated as praise. I quickly turned to Toby for confirmation.

  “I know, I know,” he spoke in an undertone. “I once tried to explain, but he just didn’t get it. The guy is just too dang proud of that nickname. And I guess it isn’t doing any real harm.” He shrugged.

  I shook my head and glanced back at Woody. His eyes crossed slightly, but his smile shone with an eager and genuine friendliness from his homely face.

  “Well, Woody, it’s nice to meet you. So, how do you keep busy around here?”

  He stood up straight and proud, and recited, “Private Woody McDowell, groomsman and cook for the 27th Infantry of Michigan Volunteers.” He sat back down with a grin.

  “The infantry has horses?” I asked, confused. “I thought cavalry did the horse thing.”

  Kenny pulled his cap back on and said, “The infantry officers ride horses. That’s also who he cooks for, the officers, not the horses.”

  “Us lowly enlisted men have to cook for ourselves,” Toby added.

  “All men are the same in God’s eyes,” Preacher informed us.

  “Not in the general’s eyes.” Kenny turned to me to explain. “General Burnside is in charge of the Army of the Ohio, which is us.” He waved a hand around to include the entire camp.

  “Though a word of advice,” Toby nudged my boot, “not everyone here is someone to buddy up with. There’s one or two fellows to steer clear of, including Kenny’s twin brother.”

  “Identical twin,” Woody added. “Kenny and Kevin look exactly the same!”

  “Well, we did until Kevin broke his nose in a fight. Now that’s the only way most folks can tell us apart.”

  “That and the fact that Kevin would rather plant his fist in your face as give you the time of day.” Toby grimaced and rubbed his jaw.

  “But even Kevin isn’t as bad as Jimmy,” Woody warned, solemnly. “He’s a real bully.”

  “Jimmy’s the leader of that group of troublemakers,” Kenny explained. “A grown man who still takes pleasure in picking on other people. And my own twin worships the ground he walks on.” He glanced at Preacher and jumped in as Preacher opened his mouth to protest. “Not worships, sorry, wrong word. How about really admires and supports?”

  Preacher closed his mouth, momentarily subdued.

  Toby shook his head at his friends’ quirks, and then turned to me. “Anyway Bobbi, it’s best to just avoid Jimmy and his entire gang.”

  I nodded, planning on doing just that.

  A blaring bugle pierced my ears and wrenched my sleeping brain. I jerked upright, my heart pounding, my hands clasped to my ears trying to block the noise. My eyes darted around the dark, unfamiliar space as I grasped for a clue to my surroundings.

  The bugle finally ceased, the notes lingering in the air. A low chuckle took its place. I tried to focus in the gloomy shadows, making out the blurry outlines of Private Toby Dove. Memories of the previous day overflowed and I slumped back on my bedroll with a groan.

  “What the heck kind of torture was that racket?” I mumbled.

  “That,” Toby explained while pulling on a boot, “is reveille, used to wake the camp at the very early hour of six a.m. Get moving; we’ve got role call in ten minutes.” He pulled back the tent flap, letting in a dusty beam of early morning sunlight.

  I followed him outside on my hands and knees, and then rose stiffly to my feet. I’d fallen asleep in my uniform last night, too tired even to remove my muddy boots. As I struggled to stretch my muscles in the glowing hint of dawn, I saw the added wrinkles and rumpling only helped to remove my stigma of being the new guy. My empty stomach grumbled for attention.

  “What’s for breakfast?” I bent over to stretch my back.

  “Whatever we can find in our haversacks, but first is role call. I’ll show you where to form the line, but first I have to find a friendly tree.”

  Sounds like an excellent idea. But he started off in the opposite direction from where he had pointed out the latrines to be last night. “Hey, I thought the latrines sat over there.”

  He turned around to face me, walking backwards. “Yeah, but if you can imagine thousands of guys visiting those trenches every day, you’d understand why I prefer to go this way.” He turned back around and slipped into the growing crowd emerging from the tents.

  The unwelcome image popped into my head and I quickly forced it out. Yeah, right, okay then. I picked a separate direction and went of search of a tiny pocket of privacy for myself, not an easy task. I’d been worried about the whole public privy thing, but by the look of things, Toby and I weren’t the only ones avoiding the latrine.

  Toby waited for me at our tent, and together we started out for the drill grounds. I pulled my jacket closed against the early chill, but the brightening sun’s rays promised a beautiful, warm October 31st. The camp looked completely different in the light of day, and my eyes popped from one bustling sight to the next. In my wild attempt to capture every detail, my gaze crossed over Toby. Oh. I realized I hadn’t gotten a good look at him in the light of day either. Hair as black as a raven’s feather, curled to his collar. Thick matching eyebrows, and long black lashes framed deep, molasses brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with humor and mischief. His prominent nose sat a bit too large on his oval face, but his high cheekbones and chiseled chin evened it out. A wide mouth that tended towards smiling revealed even, white teeth. His ramrod-straight back suggested a streak of stubbornness. Although a tad on the skinny side, his tall frame supported wiry muscles, and once again I had trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride. I ran my eyes back up to his face and found him studying me with a surprised grin on his face.

  “What?” I asked with suspicion.

  “You have red hair.”

  “Yeah, so?” I prepared myself for a rude poke of fun at the color or an unwanted nickname.

  He shrugged, forcing his smile to relax though he couldn’t erase the glint from his eye. “I just didn’t notice in the dark last night, that’s all.”

  I tried to let it drop, but he’d put me back on edge, again. I hurried to catch up with him.

  He led me to a clearing where thousands of men gathered in groups, some talking, some still yawning the sleep from their eyes. At the arrival of the non-commissioned officers, the groups straightened up into lines, ready for role call. I stood stiffly next to Toby as the 27th regiment’s first sergeant walked down the line checking names from his list.

  Toby leaned in close and whispered, “That’s First Sergeant Barlow. He’s a decent fellow and pretty good poker player. You can tell he’s a sergeant by the three V-shaped stripes on his sleeve. The diamond above the stripes means he’s a first sergeant, and the blue color of the stripes distinguishes infantry.”

  I added this to my mental storage file on army information, wondering how I would ever keep all of the ranks and insignias straight.

  “Private Toby Dove,” Toby reported to First Sergeant Barlow.

  The first sergeant checked off Toby’s name and then paused with a sly grin. “Hey, Dove, you feel up for a round of poker tonight? I’m feeling extra lucky this week.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Toby agreed with a grin. “But as for your lucky streak, prepare to kiss it goodbye.”

  Barlow snorted in disagreement as he stepped over to me.

  “Private Bobbi Rivers,” I said, stumbling over the unfamiliar title.

  “Yes,” Barlow nodded, flipping to the end of his list. “Captain Truckey told me you’d joined the 27th.” He checked off my name and then met my eyes with a wily gaze. “How are you at poker, Rivers? Any good?”

  I glanced at a grinning Toby, then turned back to Barlow. “I’ve won a few hands. Why?”

/>   “We’ve room for another tonight, if you’re interested,” he offered with raised brows.

  I debated the offer, needing to keep to myself, yet also needing to find clues to my brother’s whereabouts. I quickly made up my mind. “Sure, I’ll play.”

  “Great, see you tonight.”

  I had to interact with people, had to ask questions, otherwise I might as well be searching for my brother with my eyes closed. I just had to be careful; nothing personal would get through my carefully guarded barriers. Besides, a game of poker would be fun.

  Toby nudged my arm. “You coming?”

  Once again, I hurried to catch up with Toby. “What’s next?”

  “Breakfast, then sick call—”

  “Sick call,” I interrupted. “What’s that?”

  “Just what it sounds like. Anyone feeling cruddy reports to the hospital tent. We haven’t engaged in any battles recently, but there’s always someone with scurvy, a mild case of influenza or accidental sprains, strains, knife and bayonet wounds and the like.”

  Soldiering seemed a dangerous occupation, even outside of battle. In my hurry, I tripped on a pile of firewood and almost dove headfirst into a campfire. Toby reached out a quick hand to grab my arm and pull me clear.

  I decided not to write home about the bland and boring breakfast, just another aspect of military life that I had to get used to, and fast. Following breakfast came something that no matter how many hours required, I don’t think I could ever get used to doing. Not that it posed a difficult task; just the opposite, and my mind quickly numbed with boredom. Drills. Hours of drills. Marching drills in squad formation, marching drills in battalion formation, rifle loading drills, rifle cleaning drills, maneuvering drills, parade drills, injured soldier drills, attack drills, retreat drills, bayonet drills, defensive drills, offensive drills… In between drills, squads kept busy collecting firewood, digging latrine trenches, searching for fresh water sources, guard duty, camp clean up, and clearing ground for roads and more drill area. I used to think I had strong, toned muscles, but by the end of the day, every inch of my body ached with weariness, and my stomach growled for anything, even the unappetizing hardtack. I longed to collapse on my bedroll and sleep for a week. But I couldn’t. I had a date with a swarm of sweaty soldiers for a poker game, and my first chance to ask about Robert.