And There I’ll Be a Soldier

by Johnny D. Boggs

  No sergeant tried to squash the excited whispers ripping down the lines.

  “It will be my honor, men, to lead you into battle.”

  Already most of the soldiers had started cheering.

  “For honor!”

  Hats soared into the air.

  “For Texas!” Even Ryan found himself screaming.

  “For glory!”

  * * * * *

  “Arkansas?” Harry Cravey sat on his bedroll, long legs extended, shaking his head. “Arkansas?”

  Gibb Gideon slapped Cravey’s back. “I’ve been there. It’s full of mosquitoes, just like Houston. Only difference is there’re no shrimp and the trees are a lot bigger.”

  “More Yankees there, too, I reckon,” Sam Houston Jr. said.

  “Yankees are here.” Cravey sniffed, and Ryan realized that Baby was crying. “Not more than fifty miles from here.”

  Ryan wet his lips, tried to think of something to say.

  “Yeah, and all those Yankees in Galveston are doing is sitting and crabbing, I warrant,” Matt Bryson said. “The Yankees have already taken Fort Donelson up in Tennessee, opened up the Cumberland River for those Northern despots. Van Dorn’s marching to whip the Yanks and hold onto Arkansas, maybe recapture Missouri. That’s where soldiers are needed.”

  “Besides,” Gideon said, “I’m sick of all those shams we’ve been fighting. It would be nice to fight someone in a blue uniform, and shoot real lead balls at the real enemy.”

  “It would be nice,” Little Sam added, “if we had uniforms.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Gideon fired back, his face lighted with amusement as he brushed imaginary lint off the sleeve of Little Sam’s coat.

  “You don’t need uniforms to kill Yankees.” Matt Bryson’s exaggerated impression of Sergeant Rutherford’s drawl made everyone in the tent laugh. Except Baby Cravey.

  “Well, I didn’t sign on to fight nobody in Arkansas.” Cravey leaped from his seat, wiping his eyes. “I was told we’d just defend Texas.” He slammed his hat against the center pole, and stormed outside.

  Ryan started to go after him, but Little Sam stopped him. “Let him go, Ryan. He’ll be back.”

  “He better be,” Gideon said.

  * * * * *

  That evening, Harry Cravey returned. He said his mother made him come back, but he sure didn’t see any reason he should march off to Arkansas when there were Yankees only fifty miles south.

  “Let yellow fever kill them,” Matt Bryson said. “I’d rather kill them with buck and ball.” He patted the stock of his musket.

  * * * * *

  They drilled on the sixteenth, all day, and again on the seventeenth, but only that morning. Afterward, they retired to their quarters to prepare for one more glorious ball.

  * * * * *

  Although Captain Ashbel Smith himself ordered Ryan to leave the Miremont, saying that this social was to honor the fighting men of the Second and that a Houston band—and only a Houston band—would play that evening, Ryan brought the violin, secured in its case, anyway.

  He stood back in Perkins Hall, searching for Irene Vardakas, but did not see that Greek goddess. He hadn’t found the courage to ask Matt Bryson about her, and Matt was busy trying to match Gibb Gideon at the kegs of ale in the corner. Instead, Ryan smiled at his mother and father.

  “I dare say you have grown some,” Josiah McCalla said stiffly, nodding in approval. He wore a blue and white checked shirt to show his patriotism. His breath smelled of rye.

  Thinking of nothing to say, Ryan merely nodded.

  “Are you going to play?” his mother asked. Tears welled in her eyes, but Ryan tried not to look at them. She pointed a gloved finger at the case.

  “No,” he finally answered, swallowing, and bringing up the case and handing it to his father. “I was hoping … hoping you might … keep it safe … till I get back.”

  Reluctantly his father took the case, and Ryan prayed that his father would not remember that he had bought the violin in New York and that, even though its maker was a Frenchman, it might be considered Yankee, and thus unacceptable to find shelter in the McCalla home.

  “I thought …” His mother paused to bow to Matt Bryson’s father, exchange some pleasantries with Mrs. Bryson, and then returned to her conversation with her son. “I thought you were in the regimental band, that you needed the violin in place of a bugle.”

  “We have our own instruments,” Ryan lied. “For the band. And the regiment is supposed to get bugles and drums …”

  His father cut in: “You can’t kill Yankees with a cello, Reine.”

  “It’s a violin, Josiah.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” His father looked away, staring across the hats of straw and felt and dresses of lace and silk, toward the tables lined with kegs of Peter Gabel’s brews. He tucked the case underneath his arm, then announced: “I will take this to Randall, have him keep it in the phaeton.” Randall was his father’s manservant. Josiah McCalla strode off.

  “Have you been eating well?” Reine McCalla asked her son.

  He choked back a laugh, and bobbed his head. “‘Bab—um … Harry Cravey’s turned into a pretty good cook.”

  “And are your bowel movements regular?”

  “Mother!” He blushed, realizing anyone near him had heard his shout. Lowering his voice, he announced sternly: “I am almost eighteen years old.”

  Her reply came equally rigid. “You will turn seventeen in June.”

  “Well …” He gave her a smile, and she returned one just as forced.

  The band had started playing “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,” and he was about to ask his mother to dance, when a towering figure came between then, and he heard the legendary Sam Houston’s voice.

  “Missus McCalla, I see your husband has left you defenseless against the masses. Would you honor me?”

  He watched his mother’s bow, then, mouth open, stood amazed while the leviathan swung his petite mother onto the floor.

  When Ryan turned back, Irene Vardakas stood in front of him. He almost staggered backward.

  Smiling, she stepped closer. “You are not playing tonight,” she observed.

  “I don’t even have my violin,” he said. At least he thought he said that. Whatever had sprung from his mouth, she seemed to understand, and tilted her head toward the crowded floor.

  “We didn’t get a chance to dance last time,” she said.

  “We must rectify that.” How he managed to find those words, he didn’t know.

  She smelled of peach blossoms. Her blue silk skirt rustled as they waltzed—or tried to waltz. Ryan bumped into Lieutenant Simons of Company K, and that could have been disastrous because Simons’ right leg had been amputated just below the hip after taking a musket ball during the Mexican War. Ryan stopped, horrified, but Simons stayed the course and never even slowed down. Irene squeezed his hand, laughing, and they resumed their dance. At least twice, Ryan was aware that his own brogans were atop Irene’s feet, yet she never complained.

  When the band finished Foster’s song and went straight into “Buffalo Gals,” Ryan stayed on the floor, and led Irene again around the room, until Matt Bryson tapped him on his shoulder.

  “Mind if I cut in, Ryan?” he asked.

  Ryan stepped away, started to retreat, then stopped. He stood in the center of the dance floor, waiting until Matt Bryson led Irene back toward him. When they started to pass, Ryan tapped his friend’s shoulder.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  He had to give his friend credit. Matt almost doubled over laughing, then slapped Ryan, hard, across the back, and walked toward the kegs, leaving Ryan to finish the dance with his Greek goddess.

  * * * * *

  “Second Texas, fall in!” The bellow echoed across Perkins Hall.

  Ryan
had just handed Irene a glass of punch. Now he turned, confused. Citizens hugged the walls, leaving a cavernous space in the center of the hall where its patrons had been dancing.

  “You heard the colonel!” Sergeant Rutherford stood inches from Ryan’s face. “Fall in! Move, you petticoats. Move!”

  Ryan turned, hurried, still confused, maybe even a tad frightened. Have the Yankees left the island, brought the war to the mainland? He moved behind Little Sam, saw Gibb Gideon weaving, heard him complaining between burps. They moved together like a train, found Captain Ashbel Smith waiting, and then lined up in their proper places. Other non-commissioned officers echoed Sergeant Rutherford’s shouts, until at last the full company had assembled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Colonel Moore shouted. He was smiling. That meant, Ryan hoped, that they were not about to engage the Yankees in battle tonight. “The ladies of this wonderful city have a gift for these fine young men I will soon have the honor of leading into splendid battle.”

  The hall fell silent. Four women walked onto the stage and slowly, ceremoniously unveiled a silk flag. In that instant, all the trepidation Ryan had felt vanished as he gazed upon the Texas flag. On this one only olive branches circled the single lone star with the word second over its top and texas below. He felt pride. His right arm raised, and he cheered. The yell bounced off the rafters and balconies, matched by hurrahs and huzzahs from the other enlisted men of the Second Texas Infantry.

  When the din died down, Captain Ashbel Smith stepped forward. “If it pleases the colonel, might I ask an old friend to address our troops before we depart for glory?”

  Moore nodded, but whispers raced through the crowd of soldiers and citizens as Sam Houston stepped in front of the battle flag.

  “Well,” Little Sam whispered, “here’s where my father gets hanged.”

  Yet Sam Houston did not speak of the great mistake, of Yankee supremacy, of sinking into fire and rivers of blood. He did say that the North had an almost endless supply of resources, that the South, or at least Texas, already was feeling the bite of the blockade. He also warned that the South could be split easily—the Union victory at Fort Donelson was evidence of that—and that the Mississippi River was key to the entire war.

  Always the statesman, ever the general, he said that the best way to win the war was to control the West, stretch the Union resources thin, hold out until the people in the North—the voters—grew sick of war, of death. Let England and France recognize the South. Let the Union negotiate a peace.

  “Understand, brave lads,” he said, “that I can never be against the Union. I am for peace. But I honor you as you honor me. You are, by luck and God’s will, Texians. You will fight bravely. You will bring triumph to our state, to the Texas name.” He was walking off the stage, through the door, but talking as he moved, his ancient body tired but towering, his voice strong. He stepped onto the floor, walked to the assembled troops, nodding as he passed the officers, heading straight for Ashbel Smith and Company C.

  “I am not shamed by having my name, my namesake, attached to this regiment.” He paused long enough to shake Ashbel Smith’s hand. He turned, stood beside Rutherford—even the sergeant looked like a dwarf next to Sam Houston—and, eyes glistening, he continued.

  “My own son, a boy I love dearly, is committed to your cause, and I am committed to my son.”

  Little Sam let out a sigh of relief.

  “Be strong, you men of the Second Texas. Be valiant. Know that my eyes and, above all, my prayers will follow you.”

  More applause, and Sam Houston tucked his cane underneath his arm, and held out his hand. Gibb Gideon shook it, and then Houston reached into his pocket and withdrew a plug of tobacco. Gideon glanced at it, uncertain.

  “It is not much,” Houston said, “but a chaw of tobacco got me through many troubling and difficult times.”

  Harry Cravey stared comically at the plug Houston gave him. “You’ll learn the habit, son. Just don’t swallow the juice.”

  Matt Bryson thanked the general, and shoved the quid into his trousers pocket.

  Like Cravey, Ryan could only stare at the brown plug Sam Houston placed in his hand. “Your mother will say it’s a nasty rote, son, and she’s right. But we men are known for having a myriad nasty consuetude.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ryan slid the tobacco into his pocket.

  “No, Mister McCalla, thank you.”

  Now Sam Houston stood in front of Little Sam.

  “I’m out of tobacco, Son,” he said, but gold coins jingled in his hand as he fished them out of his pocket. Little Sam cupped his hand, and let the coins drop in. Ryan couldn’t believe it, but tears rolled down Sam Jr.’s face. “Don’t spend that money on corn liquor, Son. Nor on some lovely Arkansas belle.” His voice lowered. “You might need it. Remember that in case …” He cleared his throat, turned abruptly, and, using his cane again, made his way back to Captain Smith.

  As he raised his hat, cheers roared, and Ryan would have sworn the roof of Perkins Hall lifted six or seven inches.

  * * * * *

  To the sound of “The Girl I Left behind Me,” Ryan climbed into the car. He walked behind Little Sam to the back of the coach, leaning his musket against the wall beside young Houston’s, and shrugging out of his haversack. He sat next to the window, pressed his head against the glass, and looked outside.

  For a half hour he did not move. Not even when the train began pulling away from the station. Silently he watched the city pass slowly.

  “Is she out there?” Little Sam asked.

  “Who?” Ryan asked, not moving his head from the glass.

  “That handsome woman you were dancing with last night.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, do you see her?”

  “No.”

  “She’s out there. Keep looking.”

  He bit his lip to keep it from trembling. He couldn’t tell Sam Jr. that he wasn’t looking for Irene Vardakas. He was just looking at Harris County, Texas, his home, the place where he had grown up, the only real place he had ever known, watching it roll away.

  Feeling that he would never see it again.

  Chapter Twelve

  February 6–18, 1862

  Western Missouri

  6 Febr., ’62

  Dear Maryanne:

  I take pencil in hand hoping you and your family are well. I received the lemon cookies that you sent for Christmas, and suffice to say they have all been devoured by now. I think they were gone within hours after they arrived. Thank you.

  Well, I don’t know if the news gets to Unionville from Platte County, but .…

  Maryanne, this is the fifth time I have tried to write this letter. The first time I was writing Mother, but I just can’t tell her about all the horrors I have seen. So I have been trying to write you. I just have to tell somebody, somebody who does not wear the mark of the Eighteenth Missouri.

  Our leader, Colonel Morgan, is a scoundrel. He should be hung. He has been collecting fees and tariffs from the citizens here that we are supposed to be protecting, and cares not one whit if they are for the North or favor the Southern cause. Two nights ago, while I was walking from church, a woman spit on me and called me “trash.” At first, I thought that she was one of those slave-lovers with all of her brood riding around wearing bushwhacker shirts and armed with dozens of pistols, but she said that her son wore the blue with Col. Sigel, but that I was a disgrace.

  The thing of it is, Maryanne, I could not argue with her.

  Do you remember Parker Pruitt? Does his daddy know that he is dead? We killed him. Well, Col. Morgan killed him. Executed him without a trial or anything. He was supposed—I mean Parker Pruitt—to have been shot by firing squad. And I was part of that squad, but, praise God, we did not pull a trigger. But Col. Morgan did. Shot him and the captain of that bunch of Methodist ruffi
ans from Keytesville. I cannot write of what our colonel did to the bodies. I wish I could forget that horrible scene.

  There are good men in our regiment, Maryanne. Please know that. We are not all murderers and thieves and rapscallions. Sergeant Masterson, tough as he can be, is an honorable man. So is our captain, Jacob Clark. And many others hate what we are doing, but we are told that we are soldiers and that we must follow orders, even when they are issued by a fiend like W. James Morgan.

  Our chaplain—you’ve heard him, that Methodist circuit rider—well, he preaches fire and brimstone like a Baptist and his sermons are more blood and thunder than just about anything I have ever heard.

  We have chased some enemy. I do not count our capture of poor Parker Pruitt and his captain. Yet we have not fired a shot in battle yet, and the only casualty we can boast of is that two days back, Petrus Folker lost his hat. The wind took it off. The Rebel bushwhackers we were chasing, one of them lost his hat, too. So I guess that battle would have to be called a draw. Petrus picked up the Reb’s lost hat as a replacement to the one the wind blew away. It does not fit, but he wears it, anyway.

  Two regiments from Wisconsin arrived late last month, and they dress and march and act a lot more proper and military than we do. Yet I heard one of them say that he had heard of the Eighteenth Missouri all the way back home. I lack the courage to ask him what he had heard, however, fearing the worst.

  I hear that the citizens of Weston and Platte City have written to Jefferson City and St. Louis and even Washington City demanding satisfaction. I …

  I did not write about Platte City, did I? Mayhap you heard that the city burned. We burned it. As far as I know, nobody was hurt badly during our action, but, can one not be hurt by watching his or her home go up in flames, flames set by their fellow Missourians? When I returned to Weston, reeking of smoke, I threw up.

  Because of what I had done.

  I was not alone. Boone Masterson—he is Sergeant Masterson’s cousin—cried. Just bawled like a baby. I heard that the captain of Company D procured a keg of whiskey and gave it to his soldiers so that they might drown away any memories of that horrific scene. I do not imbibe, Maryanne, but I was tempted to drink John Barleycorn, if my comrades of Company D would let me, until …