“Tomorrow?”
“Yep. Over yonder a mile or so is a Yankee camp. We is waitin for some reinforcements that be due in by tonight. In the morning we is gonna attack them Yankees. Then we be getting some Union leather for our feet. All we gotta do is shoot a Yank who be wearin our boot size. That is, them of us that don’t catch some Union lead first. Now get that uniform on and I’ll get you some grub. Then you can get acquainted with some a the boys.”
The sergeant walked away and the first thought that rushed to James’s mind was to hightail it into the woods. But he’d never get away on foot. Even on horseback his chances would be slim and it was broad daylight, which left no way of getting to Star. In addition to that, his revolver had been taken, leaving him no way of defending himself. In complete disgust he put on the uniform, which was filthy, stinking of old sweat, and ill fitting. Not only that, but the shirt and the jacket had large holes in the front surrounded by dried blood stains. It nearly made him sick to be wearing a uniform that had so recently clothed a dead man.
Now he was a Confederate conscript when just an hour before he was on his way home to Georgia. He tried to remain calm and think positively with the intention of wining the trust of his new comrades. Then perhaps an opportunity would present itself when night fell again.
To a certain extent, James found it interesting conversing with the other soldiers; listening to their stories about where they were from and why they were fighting. For most it seemed to be a territorial issue. They saw the Yankees as invaders who had to be stopped and forced to go back to where they came from. It was as if they were fighting a war over trespassing. Not one man that James talked to owned more than a few acres of land and none of them owned a single slave. James thought it sad that the average Rebel was drawn into the war because of the rich plantation owners. They were the people with the money, the power, the influence in government, and the people who owned the slaves—people like his father and his uncles. These soldiers were fighting and dying to protect the interests of the wealthy. In truth, the men who filled the rank and file had very little to gain or lose with union or disunion.
However, the wheels had been set in motion and they were all caught up in it now. Many had to admit that the war had started out as an adventure; an adventure they now realized they could have lived without, especially since the revelation that it would be no short war.
Shortly after dark, the expected reinforcements reached the camp. They were South Carolina troops all the way from Charleston. James guessed there must have been three or four thousand, bringing the Confederate force up to roughly nine thousand men. He wondered how many men the Yankees had.
After an evening meal of something that James could not exactly describe, except to say that it might have contained squirrel meat, the troops began to turn in. Most of the conversation had dried up and he suspected that everyone was thinking about what was to happen the following morning. He could not deny that his own thoughts were the same. It was difficult to imagine what it must be like. The closest he had come to the experience was the fight at the train station in Morgantown. He could vividly remember the horror of that morning and he had not even been directly involved. It would be much different to charge an enemy position on the field of combat. It was a given that many of the men in camp that night would die the following day. It was also very possible that he might be one of them.
In spite of the impending threat, James could see that escape from the camp would be impossible. About an hour before sunrise the men began to stir. James could smell coffee cooking; the sound of meat sizzling in a frying pan was mixed with the murmur of quiet conversation. Although he knew that the meal would not make one’s mouth water, he was very hungry and hoped that someone would offer him breakfast. He needn’t have worried because before long the sergeant who had supplied him with the uniform stopped by.
“How’d ya sleep, Georgia boy?” he asked. “I’ve heard a man’s last night on earth he sleeps sound cause there ain’t no worries left to keep him awake.”
“Was last night my last sleep on earth?” James asked.
“Any man who ain’t thinkin so the night before a battle is a fool. Anyhow, I got some grub cookin over yonder and after you’ve et I’ll be takin you over to the major’s tent.”
“Any special reason?” The sergeant stopped and looked at him in a very strange way. It was rather, thought James, the way you might look at a man who is standing on a gallows. “You is bein assigned to the 5th South Carolina. They requested a man for a special job.” James prodded the sergeant for a clearer answer but the man would say no more. When he had finished eating he was taken over to Major Rodgers’s tent and told to wait outside. “Wait here for Lieutenant Trask. He’ll explain things to you.” Then the sergeant said, “So long, Georgia boy.”
One thing that James was completely aware of was just how much his fellow soldiers resented him for being a conscript. They took it as a personal insult if a Southerner didn’t volunteer to defend his country. It was for that reason he was standing outside the tent waiting for Lieutenant Trask. He was being forced to volunteer for the second time in twenty-four hours.
After waiting for about an hour, the lieutenant finally came out of the tent. James saluted without a prompt. The officer ignored the formalities and stepped up to stand so close that James could smell cigar smoke mixed with stale liquor on his breath. He was a large, burly creature with long greasy hair and an unkempt beard. The thing that bothered James most was that he was sure he’d met the man before. Then, when the lieutenant spoke, he was able to place him.
“I reckon you must be the new recruit. Tell me something, boy, do you think you’re too good to join the army or are you jes plain yeller?” There was no mistaking the ogre’s rough voice. It was Virgil, the slave catcher from Greenville, South Carolina; the man James had tied to a tree along with his partner, Henry; the man who swore he’d kill James if he ever saw him again. How terribly true, thought James, that it really was a small world. The only thing left to ponder was whether or not Virgil recognized him. If he did he dropped no hints, which bolstered James’s confidence a little. He did not consider an oaf like Virgil to be intelligent enough to carry off a convincing deception. So James maintained his composure and pretended he had never seen the lieutenant before.
“I am not a coward, sir, and I do not think that I am too good to be in the army. I will prove to be a good soldier. But, my revolver was taken away. Could you have it returned to me, sir?”
The lieutenant smiled, showing the brown teeth James remembered having seen before. “You ain’t gonna need a gun, boy. You are gonna be the new color bearer.”
The realization struck like a bolt of lightning. Virgil might as well have handed him a shovel and told him to dig his own grave. The color bearer led the army into battle. He was right out front, waving the flag, the prefect, and the favorite target of the enemy. James had read accounts of battles where as many as a dozen color bearers were killed. What better way to teach a conscript a lesson? There was no way out. James was sure that he would die that morning.
“Move out, Private,” said Virgil. “The regiment is forming up.”
James was marched to the front of the long column of twos. A soldier ran up and handed him a wooden pole with a tattered battle flag attached to it. “Hold it high,” he said.
When the order was given, James started off through the woods leading the column with Virgil on horseback right behind him. As he marched along, he thought of the same things he imagined all doomed men thought about. First was his lovely wife. He knew deep down that she had wished him to stay in Mapletown with her. He also knew that she would never have tried to change his mind. He could see now how selfish he had been and it was very painful to know that he would not have the chance to say he was sorry. Then he thought about his parents and his sisters. Perhaps if he ended up dead in a Confederate uniform they could at least be proud of him. They would never know what he’d been doing sinc
e first leaving home. That was some consolation, he thought.
In seemingly no time at all they reached the edge of the woods and Virgil shouted for the column to halt. James could see across a half mile of open ground—the whole way to the Union defenses. The Yankees were well dug in behind a wall of earth and felled trees. At least six cannons were visible as well as several Yankee flags planted atop the earthworks. Virgil shouted another command, dividing the column of twos with a single column going right and the other column going left.
When the men were spread out along the tree line, Virgil dismounted and walked up to James. “When I give the command you run at them Yankees like the devil hisself is right behind you cause he will be. And you can bet your ass if the Yankees don’t get you the devil will you nigger lovin son of a bitch.”
So there it was. Virgil did remember him after all and he was all set to carry out the threat he’d made a year before. James saw his chance of survival go from nothing to something less than that. Virgil got back on his horse; drew his sword, and James took a deep breath. Then Virgil yelled, “Charge!”
The peaceful morning was decimated by the famous Rebel yell; James took off running as fast as he possibly could. He held the flag high and screamed at the top of his lungs if only to live a moment longer by denying Virgil a reason to shoot him in the back. As he raced across the open field, he could see the blue clad soldiers getting into position. Thousands of rifle barrels were leveled along the top of the dirt wall, the head and shoulders of an officer raising his sword was visible as he rode his horse back and forth behind the line. James’s only hope was to make it to the earthworks unscathed and be taken prisoner.
Halfway to the Yankee line, the cannon opened up, lobbing canister at the attacking rebels. Through the deafening noise, the screams of those hit by flying metal were horribly audible. As they got closer and closer to those hostile muzzles, James felt like every one of them was pointed directly at him. Then, suddenly enough to make it seem almost unexpected, the rifles belched a maelstrom of smoke and fire. James was slammed to the ground as a bullet struck his right shoulder and another hit his left side. He landed hard on his back just in time to see Virgil’s head ripped from his body, throwing him backwards from the saddle. Someone tore the flagstaff from his grip as he ran by, stabbing James’s hands with several large splinters. Although the battle continued on for some time after he was hit, the sights and sounds slowly faded away as he lost consciousness.
SIXTEEN
No More a Rebel Soldier
When James opened his eyes the sun was going down, which meant he had been lying on the field for many hours. It did not take a lot of time to collect his thoughts because there was not a lot to remember. He had charged a Yankee position that morning, and upon reaching a spot within a hundred yards of the line he was shot in the right shoulder and left side. The important thing now was to receive medical attention.
What had begun as a burning sensation was now a deep, aching throb. His throat was parched and he imagined that his agony would decrease greatly if he could just have some water. The battle was long since over but all was not quiet. Everywhere around him were the cries of other wounded begging for help. James could also hear muffled voices; probably stretcher bearers, but he couldn’t tell where they were or if they were Yankee or Confederate. It did not matter to James who it was. He knew his wounds were serious and that he needed attention soon.
Mustering all of his strength he attempted to rise to a sitting position, but the pain in his side was too great. All he could do was lie still, wait, and be grateful that it was not winter lest he freeze to death.
For a time he dozed off, waking after dark when someone kicked the heels of his boots. James opened his eyes and was blinded by the lantern being held over him. “You alive, Reb?” said a voice. With a raspy reply, James confirmed the fact that he was indeed still alive. “Grab his arms, Joe.”
The first man sat the lantern on the ground and took James by the ankles while the second man grabbed his wrists. He could not hold back the screams as the two men hoisted him a couple feet in the air and laid him on a stretcher. The painful ride ended about ten minutes later when he was carried into a dimly lit tent and placed on a makeshift operating table. The Yankee surgeon examined him carefully and said, “All things considered, you’ve gotten off pretty lucky, young man. One bullet cut a deep gash in your shoulder but it did not hit the bone. That bit of good fortune has saved your arm. The wound in your side is worse, but the bullet went straight through and I don’t believe it hit any of your vitals. If I have any real concerns it would be with infection. A bullet has an unfortunate tendency to drive pieces of material from the uniform into the flesh, which can cause serious problems. Your uniform is grade A filthy and no doubt infested with all kinds of germs. I will clean the wounds as best I can and dress them. Then you will be taken by ambulance to the hospital at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri.”
The surgeon administered laudanum then set to work, first removing the splinters from James’s hands. During the procedure he lost consciousness again and when next he awoke, he was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital.
For many days and nights, the terrible journey continued until the train of ambulances reached their destination. By the time James was taken to the ward for enemy wounded he was delirious, suffering from chills and a very high fever. The ward was kept under guard, but very few of the patients had the strength to get out of bed let alone try to escape. The care that James received at the hospital was better than the care at the field hospital and still it posed a real challenge to the medical staff to bring his infection under control. Days became weeks and weeks turned into months. In the end, it was owing to James’s youth and strong will that he was able to survive.
After six months in bed he was finally able to get up and walk around. His wounds had healed, but he was weak from so much inactivity and his freedom was limited to a small fenced in yard behind the ward. Sometimes he passed an entire day just walking the fence line around and around to get some exercise. As he walked he thought about Polly and how she was doing. He knew that she must be frantic with worry wondering what had happened to him. But he was a prisoner of war and not afforded the privilege of sending correspondence.
Then one afternoon, the doctor in charge of the hospital, Major Kendal, came into the ward to see James. After a brief examination the doctor told him that he was no longer in need of medical care. “In fact,” said the major, “you will soon be leaving here for a prisoner of war camp. But that is not really as bad as it sounds.”
“How is that, sir?”
“Last July, the two governments agreed to parole or exchange all prisoners within ten days of their capture. Unfortunately for you, you were wounded or you would have been released long ago. When you get to the prison I’m sure you won’t have to wait long. For that, you will be very grateful. I hear that the conditions are nothing less than terrible.” James thanked him for the care he’d been given as well as for the information.
In November l862 he was transferred along with ten other men to the prison at Camp Douglas near Chicago. Upon arrival, the first thing James noticed was the near criminal lack of heat. One small stove in the middle of a room that measured roughly fifty feet by seventy-five feet did not stand a chance against the frigid air that passed constantly through numerous cracks in the walls. How thankful he was that before leaving Jefferson Barracks he was given a heavy overcoat, compliments of a man who had died from a head wound.
Looking past the cold, a man quickly realized that conditions went downhill from there. Rations were scarce and not fit to eat, usually consisting of a stale piece of hardtack and a rancid slice of beef or pork. Water was adequate for drinking but none for cleaning one’s person, and even the icy weather could not stifle the human stench. But Major Kendal had been right about the exchange program; consequently, the prison was not overcrowded. In less than a week he was taken before Colonel James Mulligan, an Irishm
an and ex-Chicago politician who served as camp commandant.
When James entered the office, he stood at attention in front of the desk and waited for Colonel Mulligan to put down the folder he was reading.
“You are Private Sterling Hargraves of the 5th South Carolina, wounded and captured at Cumberland Gap, Kentucky?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Private, I am sure it will not upset you to learn that you will be exchanged and leaving here in about three days.”
“If you please, sir,” said James. “I do not wish to be exchanged, instead I wish to be paroled and sent home.”
“I see. Am I to understand that you have had enough of the 5th South Carolina and perhaps the fighting as well?”
“Not exactly, sir. The fact is, I never joined the Southern army.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Colonel.
Once again James found himself telling the story, in detail, of his adventures since leaving home in April 1861. In conclusion he said, “My real name is James Langdon and I wish to get to Pennsylvania to see my wife before resuming my mission. I do not consider you to be gullible, sir, and I am willing and able to provide you with names and locations of persons who can verify my story.”
Like the Yankee major in Morgantown, Colonel Mulligan was more than a little surprised. “That is quite a story, young man. Such courage on the battlefield would be worthy of a medal. If your story is true, after all you’ve been through, do you really want to risk your life again?”
“Yes, sir, I do. The history of this country is about freedom and the sacrifices that were made to pay for it. What is the value of my life compared to an entire race of people in bondage? Yes, sir, I will risk my life again.” For a moment, the colonel sat in silence. Then he said, “I will make the necessary inquiries, son, and if I find that what you are telling me is fact, I would offer to you this suggestion.”
A Deeper Sense of Loyalty Page 16