A saffron light filtered through the evergreen trees’ bowing branches as I continued my journey toward the unknown. I always relished a ripe, earthy scent of pine; it mixed pleasurably with all other fragrances in nature. The wooded landscape I now traversed seemed pristine in sections, particularly where larger portions of the ground hibernated beneath a carpet of desiccated pine needles. Just above my line of sight, a family of sparrows flittered between the trees’ snarled limbs. Based on the sun’s current trajectory, I estimated this day had almost reached its twilight hour. Cords of muted sunlight still sprinkled intermittingly through the hardwoods’ leaves, varnishing their edges in gilded shellac. I paused to glance at a sky unmarked by clouds, yet an odd mustard-colored mist hovered above the treetops.
To a casual observer of nature, all else seemed as it should’ve been, but a part of me sensed that something was awry. Between the perfumed winds of pine and cedar, I detected another odor that registered as foreign. It was like inhaling plumes of metallic smoke, not yet potent enough to make me gag, but certainly detectable within the woodland’s denser pockets. A crackling uproar soon added to this peculiarity, but it was not thunder. I began to scan my surroundings more guardedly, while simultaneously observing an army of black ants swarming over my shoes in route to destinations privileged only to them.
With caution as my only guide, I progressed along a sloped clearing, passing a few critters going about their foresting chores dutifully. A squirrel nibbled hungrily on an acorn beside a live oak, while a muskrat scurried for coverage at the sound of my approaching footsteps. If an invader were to be found in this habitat, these denizens certainly would’ve rated me as the offending source. I progressed farther into the thicket, occasionally hindered by vines and the brambly terrain underfoot. I soon came upon another grove of trees that appeared, at first glance, to be suffering from a tarry blight. The trees’ bark was visibly desecrated with oblong black marks across their trunks, and continuing upward into the lower branches. As I edged closer to inspect the gashes, I realized that this was not a disease unique to these woody plants, at least according to nature’s design.
After I traced my hand over the charred bark of one sapling, I detected a minie musket ball lodged into the wood. The lead projectile had split away the bark at its point of impact and still felt lukewarm between my fingers. Then, I inspected the other trees and realized that they were all tattooed with the remnants of a gunfire skirmish. Another thunderous clap echoed just beyond a line of trees, and I then determined the origin of this racket. A yoke-colored mist clung to the leaves with the stringiness of cobwebs. This waft of gunpowder poured through the foliage, serving as a caveat to the musketry and artillery at large.
Although a mêlée of grave proportion was obviously being waged along the forest’s environs, I walked deeper beneath the trees’ perpendicular shadows. With each proceeding step, I listened to the din of gunshots and cannonballs fracturing the air’s tranquility. Eventually, I came upon another section of the glen that seemed as though it might’ve served as a respite for those who scouted this land before me. I crouched down beside a pine tree’s rotted stump and surveyed the area. Strangely, I felt insulated from the friction here, and had I sought a place of refuge in light of what awaited the occupants beyond this timberland, I couldn’t have selected a more strategic spot.
About fifty yards from where I stooped, I noticed a somnolent figure bent on the soil beside a cluster of pinecones. At first, I didn’t attempt to startle him, as I couldn’t predict his full state of mind. But after careful scrutiny I observed that the man appeared alone, and ostensibly discombobulated in his surroundings. He wore a dark blue sack-coat of wool that was heavily muddied, and a pair of sky-blue trousers with an equal amount of earth crushed into the fabric. Because a layer of grime covered his face like a mask, his features were barely visible to me, but I estimated that he was a young fellow, perhaps not much older than eighteen years of age.
After a few moments, I decided to approach the ephebe, while being mindful that he remained motionless enough to be asleep, save for an occasional twitch of his leg. I managed to maneuver myself within six paces of his position. I clearly discerned that he was an infantry soldier of the Union Army. A ragged kepi was set on his bended knee. I noticed the number 304 stitched in amber piping on the headgear’s horizontal visor. He carried no visible weapon, which was nearly suicidal under the circumstances. I, however, already envisioned the youth toting an 1861 Springfield rifle at some point before his separation from his regiment.
Our introduction now became just a formality, for I already recognized this soldier as Private Henry Fleming of the Northern Army. As I approached him, he offered no response, yet his eyes remained fixated on me as if I wore a uniform of the Confederacy. “Hello,” I said, waving my hand as if brandishing a white flag. The youth reposed in silence. Perhaps he was still trying to ascertain my intentions. Since I was visibly unarmed, it seemed as if he cast more puzzlement in my direction than any show of apprehension.
At this instance, I witnessed a fresh wound on the side of this soldier’s head. He futilely tended to this abrasion by massaging his fingers against his scalp, almost as if to suture it with the threadwork of his hair. Despite his efforts, a crimson secretion gushed conspicuously between his fingers and spilled upon the pine needles on the ground beside him. It appeared that Henry Fleming already had his emblem of valor set in place, and I had no intention to cast any aspersions on him for it.
“Looks like you’ve got a nasty head wound,” I said. “Do you need any help?”
The youth continued to fuss over his torn scalp, perhaps imagining the superficial cut more lethal than it actually was because of the sheer volume of blood present. By now both his hands were thoroughly lacquered in a burgundy color. When Henry finally spoke to me, his voice was even greener and unproven than I calculated. “I can git along fine by me lonesome.”
“It seems that you lost your regiment, but at least your wound doesn’t look so bad. Head wounds tend to bleed quite a bit.”
“Can’t never tell with these here things,” the youth insisted. “But I got no cause to be fixin’ this out here in th’ open. Most likely gonna git shot with ‘nother ball of lead unless I git a-skedaddlin’ soon.”
I suddenly felt comfortable enough to join him on the ground laden with pinecones. “No hurry on my part,” I said. At my current range, I easily distinguished his cut as a blow from a blunt object, such as a rifle’s barrel. But as we both knew, the soldier’s account of events wouldn’t lend itself to accuracy. After all, no honor could have been merited for him among his friends if the truth leaked out.
While I reclined beside him with no particular agenda in mind, I sensed him studying me like a book with big words. For a minute or so we both sat basking in the lull that suddenly encapsulated the forest. Save for a chorus of insects, no other noise disturbed us until the youth spoke again.
“Yeh don’t look like yer from th’ blues or grays,” he muttered. “And yeh talk in a kinda off-puttin’ di’lect.”
“I’m not a soldier for either the North or the South,” I explained.
“Then what by thunder yeh doin’ tramping ‘round these hillocks fer? Don’t yeh know we’s aimin’ to git th’ rebels?”
“I’m aware that things are pretty terrible out here on both sides.”
“Dat ain’t nothin’ close to tellin’ of what I gits a gander at. But if yeh ain’t a’fightin’, then I s’pose I can see to keepin’ yeh company fer a spell.”
I noticed the blood beginning to coagulate around the youth’s wound, which I surmised was rendered fifteen minutes from the present time. Since he now perceived me as a civilian with even less combat experience than himself, I sensed a bit of coerced confidence infesting his tone.
“What’s yer business in this fracas if it ain’t fer killin’ grays, stranger?”
“This may sound like hogwash to your ears, but I just may not know the answer to that question right
now. Did you ever go out walking somewhere, not really thinking about where you’re heading, and then suddenly find yourself in the middle of some random situation scrambling for your life?”
“Sounds like a dang fool’s errand if yeh be askin’ me,” the youth chortled. The callow soldier continued to stare at me as if I might’ve been a specter following him since his last interaction with the tattered man. A lump the size of a musket ball seemingly lodged itself in the center of youth’s throat, but it was a ruminative period of silence for us both. “Yer a tad long in the tooth for infantry,” he gathered. “But I s’pose yer in it now until findin’ yer way back to….”
“Up north,” I clarified. “Not too far off from your neck of the woods.”
“By Gawd, I don’t remember tellin’ yeh where I’s from.”
“You didn’t have to tell me,” I explained, motioning to his forage cap. “I recognized your regiments’ insignia—the 304th out of New York.”
“Be jiminey, ain’t dat a dang natural wonder? World ain’t so big on th’ outside after all. What’s th’ odds of me a-runnin’ into a neighbor down here in th’ smack middle of Virginia?”
“It’s not bound to happen more than once,” I assured him. I then realized that I hadn’t yet introduced myself to the youth. I told him my name, realizing that it wouldn’t have any more or less significance to him than all the other surnames he heard in recent weeks.
“Pleasure makin’ yer company, Cobbs. Private Henry Fleming here. I might be lookin’ a tad green, but yeh’d be as dumb as a lame ass fer thinkin’ I ain’t had my share of red.”
“By the looks of your wound, I think you’ve already seen quite enough of that.” The blood dried in parallel stripes across the youth’s cheek and neck, trailing into his coat’s wool fabric.
“This ain’t nothin’,” he uttered. “Stick at my side if yeh wanta watch me wallop ’em all. I’m readying to lick ’em good now.”
By the gritty glare in Henry’s bloodshot eyes, I gathered he meant every word of his boast. Before another word exchanged between us, we distinguished the pops of Springfield rifle shots clapping against the distant trees. The youth’s steadfast stare toward the rising drafts of smoke indicated that he had other business to attend.
“I guess you’ll be rejoining the other blues soon,” I said.
“S’pose I must. Lollygagin’ ’round here sure ain’t helpin’ our cause none.”
“Before you go, Henry, I was wondering if you could help me figure something out. You’re in a position now where you can just walk the other way. Heck, I bet you wouldn’t even be missed by the regiment.”
“They’s hangin’ deserters, Cobbs. ’At ain’t no way fer a man to turn toes up.”
“But you’re not afraid of that,” I inferred. “You’re after something else—something you can’t harvest back on your mother’s farm in New York.”
Henry remained ponderous as we listened to a nest of finches chirping in a nearby tree. I decided to use this interval as a means to probe into some of his most fortified thoughts. “No man wants to die in cowardly way,” I started, “but there are soldiers out here who’d be willing to hand over their lives this very second if they reckoned they’d be remembered as heroes.”
“Few men got ’nough courage stewin’ in their guts fer this kinda killin’,” he remarked solemnly.
“But you’re ready to make them all think otherwise, aren’t you, Henry? You don’t want to be remembered as a coward. Maybe that’s the cruelest thing you can ever call a man.”
“I git yer meaning, Cobbs, and I sure know what it’s like to git yer heart all palpitatin’ on bein’ a hero like I read in my schoolbooks back home.”
“It’s a glamorous promise,” I agreed. “I’m inclined to believe that we fight such battles in life, not necessarily with a rifle and bayonet, but we all hope to make a mark in the sand sooner or later.”
“Shucks,” exclaimed the youth, “I don’t git all dat fancy thinkin’, Cobbs. But I gotta ‘nough know how to give yeh something worth tellin’ folks back home. Yeh can take it from th’ woods if yer runnin’ th’ other way. Ain’t nothin’ brave ‘bout dying with yer guts all floppin’ out yer belly. I’ve seen plenty to rattle me good. By ginger, my ol’ pal Jim Conklin jest got his, and ain’t nobody puttin’ coins on his eyes neither. No, sir, he jest died like they alls do—and not lookin’ any braver for th’ trouble.”
“And yet you’re still fetching to go back,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid to die out here in these woods like your friend, and maybe a few hundred others like him today?”
“Nothin’ wrong with gittin’ spooked by it I s’pose. Blue or gray, we’re all jest aimin’ to see ’nother sunrise. Anyone spoutin’ otherwise jest don’t know what th’ dickens they a-sayin’.”
“We’ve always been told that fighting a war is about valor, Henry. From the earliest battles right up until the last, I suspect the commanders will still be telling the boys that the cause is more important than their own lives. Is that what you’re feeling right now?”
The youth glared at me as if I packed his wound with salt. Maybe he thought he finally found someone out here more untested than him. Despite his age, I couldn’t look at this soldier and declare that I had any more insight about the significance of human life. No matter what I said to him, Henry Fleming was ready to earn his reward, if such a thing truly existed in the camouflage of this wicked wilderness.
Whether it was right or wrong for me to do so, I decided to offer a prophecy to this youth that I already knew as truth. “You’re going to survive this war,” I told him. Henry nodded his chin once as he regained his stance on this glade of pinecones. It was his simple way of thanking me for recognizing something within him that he was just beginning to understand. The gangly soldier kept his hand clasped against his temple as he started off through the woods, using the sound of the clashing artillery as a compass toward his chosen destiny.
I spent a few seconds, lingering among the pinecones and perhaps even wondering what I had ever accomplished that might’ve been deemed as heroic. Being young, as I now realized, was not so much about one’s age as much as it was about being shielded from the malice churning in jaded hearts. In this way, men perished in combat long after the musketry silenced, and boys like Henry Fleming surrendered their thoughts to savagery in an intrinsic quest to stay alive. In time, the woods pleasant symphony encapsulated my thoughts, once again shielding me from the shrill blasts of rifles and field guns.
Somewhere behind the timbered cloak where I waited, the primitive groans of dying men echoed in my mind. Strangely, I found the courage within myself to walk away from the ongoing gloom.
Chapter 19
8:18 A.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 18