Later on, Drake insisted on going out and cutting more firewood.
Mrs. Jenkins protested. But when he insisted, she said, “Well, put on some of my husband’s old clothes—you can’t spoil your uniform.”
Drake was soon splitting red oak. It was a job that he didn’t mind. The logs were approximately a foot and a half thick, and he sawed each into two short lengths with a bucksaw. When he had a pile, he stood them on end and with an ax split them into smaller chunks.
“You do that so well,” Lori said. She had put on a heavy coat and a cap that covered her ears and a pair of woolen mittens. She sat on an upturned box and watched him.
“Not much to it,” Drake said. He swung the ax over his head and hit one of the wood cylinders. It fell into two pieces, splinterless as a cloven rock.
“I’ve seen Daddy almost resort to profanity. He can’t do this at all. Has to hire most of it done.”
“I spent two years on a farm. I liked chopping wood better than anything.” Drake thought back to the time when he had learned how to plow and how to milk, and he shared this with her.
“What are you going to do when the war’s over? Be a farmer?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Just trying to make it through,” Drake said.
After he had finished chopping firewood, they went for a walk in the nearby woods. The wind was sharp, and dark clouds rolled overhead, but Drake’s black mood disappeared for a while. Lori was so pretty and so cheerful that he found himself laughing as he had not since the incident of his cowardice.
When they returned to the house, Lori’s father was there. “Well,” he said, after greeting Drake, “it’s time for us to see who’s best at checkers.”
“I thought we settled that last time, Mr. Jenkins.” He had beaten the older man three games out of five. He grinned, saying, “I’d be glad to give you some lessons, though, if that’s what you’d like.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The two men played while Lori and her mother prepared supper.
When they were seated at the table, as usual Mr. Jenkins bowed his head and prayed a fervent prayer of thanksgiving. When he looked up from the prayer, he said, “The cupboard’s a little bit lean, Drake. Food is pretty scarce around Chattanooga.”
“This looks good to me,” Drake said. There was a small platter of pork chops, a few potatoes, some canned tomatoes, and fresh bread. “I guess everybody is on pretty slim rations right now.”
“Well, the Lord will provide,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Help yourself.”
They ate heartily what was there. Tonight there was no dessert. After the meal everyone went back into the parlor.
“Sing something for us, Drake,” Mrs. Jenkins said. She sat herself down at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys. “You have such a beautiful voice. I love to hear you sing.”
Drake grinned. “You wouldn’t like some of the songs. I grew up pretty rough, Mrs. Jenkins. Learned a lot of songs I’d be better off not knowing.”
“We don’t have to hear those,” she said. Mrs. Jenkins was a plump woman with a pretty face and lively brown eyes. “Do you know ‘Lorena’?”
“I suppose every soldier in both armies knows that one.”
“Lorena” was a sentimental tune that was sung around campfires. Just as soon as the army stopped and the campfires were made, you could hear this song floating in the air.
As the piano began to play, the parlor was filled with Drake’s rich tenor.
After “Lorena,” Mr. Jenkins said, “That’s enough of the romantic stuff. That song makes you feel like you’re stuck in molasses—too sweet for me. Let’s have a lively tune, Drake.”
“All right, you asked for it.”
After Drake had sung several rollicking songs, they began to sing hymns. Drake knew some of them from the few church revival meetings he’d attended—mostly looking for the attractive young ladies who were there.
Suddenly he saw tears in Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes. These hymns are real to her, he thought. Glancing at Lori, he saw that she was affected by the hymn singing too. He felt strangely out of place and wondered if he would ever feel at home with godly people. It was a thought that had never occurred to him before.
Finally Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins tactfully left to “wash the dishes.”
Lori and Drake sat before the fire again, and Drake grew unusually quiet.
Lori said, “You’re not saying much, Drake. Is anything wrong?”
“I guess I don’t have much to talk about. Nothing much happens in the army.”
“Then tell me about your life when you were a boy.”
Drake hesitated, then began to tell about his childhood. He had never done this before. He related his hard beginnings and the difficulties of his early years. He fixed his gaze on the fire and spoke quietly, his words punctuated by the popping of the flames as the log crackled.
When he finished, Lori said, “You’ve had a hard time, Drake.”
“Better than some, though,” he argued. “Up until this war came, I was doing fine.”
Lori paused just a moment. “You’re wasting your life, Drake. Do you know that? Everyone does who cuts God out.”
He shifted uneasily, feeling her eyes riveted on him.
“I guess I haven’t thought much about God at all,” he admitted.
Then Lori began to tell how she had found the Lord Jesus and what He had meant to her life. He had known that she went to church, but this was a side of Lori that he had not seen. As Drake listened, he saw that she was sincere in her faith.
“I hate to see you waste your life,” she said again. “Especially with the danger of battle before you.”
Abruptly Drake turned to her. He said almost without thinking, “Lori, have you ever thought of me as a man you might marry some day?”
“Why, Drake—”
When she hesitated, Drake pulled himself together. “I guess not. I’m just not the sort of fellow you’re looking for. I guess Royal’s more along that line.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Lori said, “Drake, I’m not thinking about marriage at all right now—with Royal or with anyone else.”
Glancing at her quickly, Drake saw that she was telling the truth, and that came as a relief. “I guess you’re right. It’s no time to think about permanent things. Everything is all up in the air. We might be in a big battle tomorrow.”
He got to his feet. “I’ve got to get back. Can’t tell you what it’s meant to me, Lori—just getting away from camp for a while.”
“I want to see you do well, Drake. I’ll be praying that God will do something wonderful in your life. That you’ll be safe and that your life will have meaning.”
On his way back to camp, Drake reflected on her words. Bitterly he thought, My life sure hasn’t meant anything up to now. Just playing the fiddle at parties—what good does that do? A man ought to be more than a fiddle player!
13
Prelude to Battle
During the siege of Chattanooga, many of the besiegers were as miserable as the besieged. Private Sam Watkins of the First Tennessee Regiment wrote about the miserable condition of the Confederate troops:
Our rations were cooked up by a special detail ten miles in the rear, and were sent to us every three days; and then those three days’ rations were generally eaten at one meal, and the soldiers had to starve the other two days and a half. The soldiers were almost naked, and covered all over with vermin and camp-itch, and filth and dirt. The men looked sick, hollow-eyed and heartbroken.
Just when our provisions and hunger were at their worst we were ordered into the line. There we were reviewed by the Honorable Jefferson Davis. When he passed us with his great retinue of staff officers at a full gallop, he was greeted with the words “Send us something to eat, Jeff. I’m hungry! I’m hungry!”
September passed with both armies again simply waiting—and growing hungrier.
And then General Ulysses S. Grant was assigned to comma
nd Rosecrans’s army. General Rosecrans quietly slipped away.
General Grant came to Tennessee, and the men saw at once that he was a different kind of general. When he arrived, the call sounded, “Turn out the guard for the commanding general!”
“Never mind the guard,” Grant said, and the guard was dismissed.
Grant rode along the lines of battle, saluting men, and when his cavalcade passed by the Washington Blues, Rosie said, “He don’t look like much, does he?”
Royal, standing beside Rosie, studied the small, nondescript figure of the new general. “He was tough enough to whip the Rebs at Vicksburg, so I reckon he’ll do the same here in Tennessee.”
Rosie continued to eye the general. “Had a dog once that looked kind of like him. He weren’t worth much in the looks department, but he sure was a humdinger on a cold scent. You’d turn that hound loose, and he’d die before he’d quit.” He studied Grant’s bearded face. “I reckon that general there is just about like that old dog of mine.”
That night, talk ran around the campfire about the campaign that was to come.
Ira Pickens remarked, “Seems like I’ve got to where I can smell a battle coming at us.”
Grant had seen to it that the rations had improved, and Ira took a bite of the roast beef that had been issued. “I can’t tell how bad it’s going to be, but I think those Rebs are pretty stubborn over there.”
Royal chewed thoughtfully, looking across the lines to where the Confederate army was settled into position on the high ridges. “I don’t see how anybody can climb up Lookout Mountain to attack them. The Rebels got their guns aimed right down at us.” He looked to his left. “And there up on Missionary Ridge, it’s just about as bad. Pretty hard to fight a battle uphill, I’d say.”
“Well, I don’t reckon we’ll try to go right up the hill,” Ira said. “Maybe we’ll try to flank ’em—get around one side or the other.”
Drake sat back away from the fire, thinking as he ate. He had not made one remark about the military situation since he had run away.
As the men talked cheerfully, he thought again of Lori’s words on his last visit. Most of the young men in his squad were Christians. One or two were hard cases, as in any army, but they were more Christian than most groups. Looking about at their faces, he thought, If they get shot and killed in this battle, they’ll be all right—if what the preachers say is true. I don’t know about me, though. I guess there’s not much hope for a fellow that’s lived like I have.
Soon after the meal was over, Walter Beddows piled some more wood on the fire, and the talk turned to religion.
“I heard a preacher say one time,” Ira Pickens commented, “that any soldier got killed fighting for his country would go straight to heaven. What do you think of that, Professor?”
Every eye turned to Royal. He was the only one of the group who had attended college, and he was considered the final judge on matters where education was concerned.
“I’m no preacher—” he shrugged “—but I don’t think that’s true.”
“Why, of course, it ain’t true,” Rosie piped up. “We’re fighting for one side, and the Rebels are fighting for another side. We can’t all go to heaven —somebody’s on the wrong side.”
Royal said quickly, “I don’t think that’s the point, Rosie. Men have fought in all kinds of wars all through history, but the Bible says it’s not a matter of who we die for that settles that question.” He hesitated. “The Bible says, ‘You must be born again.’ As long as we get that right, I know we’re all right when we die.”
One of the new members of the squad, a squat, bearded man named Tyrone Johnson, asked, “But what’s that mean, Professor? I heard it all my life, but I still don’t understand it.”
“As I say, I’m no preacher, but I can tell you what that means,” Royal said. “It means that all of us sin against God. Then when we die, we have to stand in judgment for our sins.” He looked at the fire and then around at the faces highlighted by it. “But Jesus came so that we wouldn’t have to face a God of judgment. On the cross He took all of our sins on Himself. That’s why He died, Tyrone—so we could get forgiven and be what the Bible calls ‘born again.’”
Tyrone clawed at his whiskers. “I don’t see how that could be, though. Don’t see how a man dying thousands of years ago has anything to do with me.”
“I don’t understand it all either,” Royal admitted, “but I know the Bible says that when we believe in Jesus and call on God to forgive us, then somehow His blood washes us clean.”
Tyrone’s blue eyes glowed in the firelight. “I heard a song about that. Something about being ‘washed in the blood of the Lamb.’ Is that what that means, Professor?”
“That’s what it means, Ty. When Jesus died, somehow He made it possible for us to get our sins forgiven. That’s what I’m hangin’ onto.”
One by one several soldiers around the fire talked about where they stood. The squad had seen battle, but death in all of its ugly forms still lay before them, and most seemed well aware that they might soon be standing before God.
Drake took no part in the discussion, but the talk troubled him. It was all piling up—first, Lori’s talking about his need of God, and now most of the squad seemed to be saying the same thing.
Later on, when many of the men had gone to bed, Rosie plumped himself down by Drake. “I don’t think my liver is acting right,” the lanky soldier complained.
“It didn’t seem to hurt your appetite any.” Drake smiled, amused again by his friend’s many ailments. “You ate enough of that roast beef to supply the whole squad.”
“Well, a man in my pitiful condition has to keep his strength up.” Rosie held his side. “Somehow my liver don’t feel right.”
“I don’t think your liver’s there. I think that’s your heart.”
Rosie looked surprised. “Oh, then I’m having heart trouble instead of liver trouble. I have noticed lately that it’s beating sort of irregular. Maybe I better go to the surgeon again.”
“I don’t think he can help you. Maybe you better eat some more supper.”
“Aw, don’t be making fun of my ailments, Drake.”
The two sat in the firelight awhile longer. Finally Rosie shifted uneasily. “All this talk about gettin’ saved—it kind of bothers me.”
Drake looked over at his friend. “To tell the truth, Rosie, it makes me a little nervous too.”
“You think it’s right what the preachers say about heaven and hell?”
“I don’t know. But it’s bad news for us if they’re telling the truth.”
“Reckon that’s the gospel.” Rosie looked into the dying fire. The coals were almost golden. Picking up a stick he stirred them and watched the sparks fly upward. He looked beyond the sparks and said, “I reckon somebody made all them stars up there— they didn’t make themselves. It makes you think, don’t it?”
“Sure does.” He saw that Rosie was truly troubled. “Maybe you better talk to one of those other fellas about gettin’ saved.”
Rosie shook his head. “Naw, I reckon that wouldn’t be rightly fair to the Almighty.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, it don’t seem right. A fellow lives a pretty bad life, then—when it comes time maybe to end it all, like in this battle coming up—he goes running to God like a whipped puppy. Nope, I’ll wait until it’s all over—then I can meet God on a little better terms.”
Somehow Drake felt this idea was wrong, but he had no answers. “We’ll just have to see what it’s like after we die, I guess. But these fellas—” he waved a hand toward their sleeping squad members “—they all seem so sure that they’re going to heaven. Wouldn’t be a bad thing to know you’d be all right, would it, Rosie?”
For once Rosie seemed to have forgotten his ailments. He sat hugging his knees, staring into the fire, and saying no more. But his face wore a worried expression. The two men had been friends for years. They knew each other’s shortco
mings. Drake was convinced that neither of them had any hope of heaven.
Now, as the guards called out faintly from the picket lines, the lonesome, mournful air about Rosie in turn made Drake feel almost desperate.
Still, there seemed nothing he could do. “Let’s get to sleep,” he said. “Maybe when we get through with this battle, we’ll be able to go to church and find out about this religion thing.”
The Jenkins house was packed almost to the walls. Soldiers from the Washington Blues were everywhere. Mr. Jenkins had decided to have Drake’s whole squad in for a meal, and now, looking around, he wondered if he had gathered enough food for this hungry group.
His wife and Lori scurried around in the kitchen. They had scraped the bottom of the barrel to find enough food, but fortunately they had one pig left. Mr. Jenkins had slaughtered it just that afternoon, and now the whole house was rich with the odor of pork chops, sausage, and frying ham.
Then Mrs. Jenkins said, “Well, it’s all ready. Let’s get it on the table.”
“I’ll ask some of the men to help us,” Lori said. She stepped into the parlor and said, “I need a little help setting the food on the table. Any volunteers?”
Instantly Rosie said, “I was a waiter once, Miss Lori.” He grinned broadly, his homely face alight. “Let me help you.”
“I’ll help too,” Royal spoke up. He pulled Drake to his feet. “Come on, Drake—let’s earn our keep.”
The three men went into the kitchen and, in a series of trips, loaded down the dining room table with platters of pork. Mrs. Jenkins had opened jars of home-canned vegetables, and soon the table was covered.
When all was ready, Mr. Jenkins said, “Now, let’s get around this table, ask God to bless this food, and eat it.”
The soldiers gathered around, some fifteen of them, and bowed their heads.
“It’s good to have all of you young men here,” Mr. Jenkins said. “I wish we could’ve had the whole regiment in, but this is as many as would fit.” He bowed his head then and said, “O God, we thank You for this food. We thank You for these young men who have left their homes to serve their country. We thank You for their lives, and we ask that You draw every one of them to Yourself—that not one of them would go into battle unsaved. We ask this in Jesus’ name.”
Battle of Lookout Mountain Page 10