by Murray Pura
8
August 28, 1862
Dear Lyndel,
We are camped in a field of clover thick with grasshoppers—why, one has just hopped onto this page I’m writing on. Somewhere out there is the town of New Baltimore. Everyone is dead asleep. We marched all the way from Sulphur Springs yesterday.
Corinth and I are in the same company now as I was transferred to his because they needed another noncommissioned officer. He foraged a couple of chickens and a knapsack full of green corn and we roasted it all and ate it before turning in about 11:30. Corinth is getting pretty good at this soldier game though I still can’t teach him to call me corporal. Not that I care but the captain does. In any case, the men love him. Not just for his foraging skills. He has a good word for everyone and a slap on the back for each of his comrades in arms. And you were right about the girls. Every time we march through a town he seems to get the most flowers and the most smiles. Once a gal even kissed him. He’s quite the boy.
I decided to get up early and write you this note. My pocket watch says it is 3:30. I expect we will be marching the entire day and I won’t get another chance. I know you told me months ago they would not permit you to receive my letters on account of my being shunned but who else can I talk to about the things that swirl about in my head? And I have a wallet full of three-cent stamps—what am I supposed to do with them if I can’t write my mother or father or you? I intend to send letters to Lyndel Keim until I run out of those stamps, which may not be long because I keep selling them to other soldiers who can’t get their hands on any. Where my mail winds up is in the Lord’s hands. Perhaps the postmaster in Elizabethtown will slip one in your pocket regardless of the rules and maybe you will read it anyway.
I was reading Psalm 91 just before I fell asleep last night. Here is what I think God is saying to—
“What are you doing, Nathaniel?” a voice suddenly whispered.
Nathaniel glanced over at his brother. “Catching up on my mail,” he whispered back.
Corinth was propped up on one elbow. “It’s not even four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“And it’s pitch dark.”
“My eyes are used to it. I can see fine. It’s not a long letter.”
“Who can you write to? We’re shunned.”
“I hope they’ll get my note anyway.”
“You’re writing Lyndel, aren’t you?”
“So what if I am?”
Corinth flopped back onto his makeshift pillow. “You have it so bad. A horse must have kicked you in the head. It’s been more than a year since you’ve seen her. How can you even remember what she looks like?”
“Her hair is red and her eyes are blue.”
“Naomi Miller has black hair and green eyes but I hardly think of her anymore. It’s so long ago.”
“Naomi Miller never held your hand.”
“Is that all? Lyndel Keim only held your hand?”
“And put her head on my shoulder.”
The ring of the bugle cut through the silent dark.
“That’s it,” said Nathaniel. “Up early to march circles around Stonewall Jackson.”
“Or maybe he’s marching circles around us.”
Nathaniel grinned. “Maybe.”
“Corporal!”
Nathaniel jumped up. “Right here, Sergeant.”
“Shake the platoon out. We’ll get an hour’s march out of the morning before we have breakfast.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Nathaniel grabbed his Springfield musket, his unfinished letter to Lyndel, and his Hardee hat. “I’ll make sure the boys are up. Then I’ll come back for my bedroll.”
Corinth rolled up his own bedroll as he listened to his brother calling out names in the dark: “Hey, Nip. Hey, Stewart. Crum. Harter. Rise and shine. Time to find Stonewall and trim his beard.”
Corinth strapped up his knapsack, ran a hand once or twice over his head of tight blond curls, and clamped his Hardee hat on. He stopped a moment and smiled in the dark.
“Naomi Miller,” he said out loud. “Huh.”
The brigade went a mile and stopped for breakfast. Corinth got a fire going for the platoon and Nip, a boy not much older than him from Indiana’s Delaware County, scrounged some flour and baking soda from someone and made flapjacks.
“If only we had honey and butter,” one of the men said, squatting by the fire and eating one of Nip’s flapjacks with his fingers.
Nathaniel nodded. “Or maple syrup.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had maple syrup, Corporal.”
“Why, Ham, tomorrow morning I’ll get eggs, honey, and maple syrup and we’ll have ourselves a feast,” smiled Corinth.
“Where you gonna find all that?” Ham was licking his fingers. “You’re mighty sure of yourself.”
“I have a nose for forage. If it’s in Virginia, I’ll find it.”
“Likely Stonewall has it in his kit.”
“Then I’ll borrow the fixings from him and invite him to a sit-down meal.”
Ham laughed. “I believe you mean it.”
Corinth put his hands on his hips. “An hour’s truce is all I need. We could end the war with a good meal. The Rebs’d realize there’s no sense in going on fighting when we all could be sitting down and eating instead.”
The platoon laughed. The sergeant began pouring mugs of what he called his rough coffee, smiling under his large black mustache. “Well, that’s something to look forward to, Private King. I hope you can deliver on your promises.”
“Oh, that’s strong brew, Sergeant!” One man shot to his feet, his face twisted and turning red. “Hot as a stove and sharp as a bayonet. What did you put in it?”
“Same as always, Private Jones. Generous measures of rock, sand, and Pennsylvania coal. And some of that good black grease the wagoners slap on their wheels.”
“Don’t joke. I believe what you’re saying when it hits my stomach.”
“Who’s joking? What else does the army give me to make coffee with? When they get us out marching again you’ll be glad you had a cup. It’ll keep you ramrod straight. You can’t never fall down when you’ve had a shot of Tippecanoe County coffee.”
A man got up and stowed his cup in his pack. “You’re saying not even a mess of minie balls could knock me over, Sergeant Hanson?”
“That’s what I’m saying, Corporal Nicolson.”
“You reckon I’ll ever get a chance to find out?”
“Well, Corporal, if we keep marching long enough I expect we’ll wind up in Stonewall Jackson’s kitchen before the year’s out. He might take offense and then you’ll have your hat full.”
It was a long day of marching and Nathaniel noticed they were soon on the Warrenton Turnpike. After a while the brigade was ordered off the turnpike and stood waiting in the heat with their columns pointed toward Manassas Junction. Men gulped from their canteens and put wet cloths under their tall black hats. The breakfast had worn off and he knew the troops were famished. Still there was no movement forward and no order to forage for food. Finally General Gibbon had an ox killed and the meat given out to the regiments and their companies. Nip and Corinth started roasting the platoon’s beef before the fire was little more than a few smoking sticks.
“You’re in an awful hurry,” grunted Ham, squatting far away so that he didn’t feel the heat.
“I know enough about the army,” Corinth replied, laying out the slabs of beef on rocks, “to know we’ll no sooner start eating than the captain will tell us to start marching.”
“Sergeant Hanson!” the second lieutenant yelled, reining in his brown mare.
The sergeant had been poking a large chunk of beef toward the flames that had suddenly burst upward from the wood. He jumped to his feet and saluted, leaving the beef to sizzle. “Yes, sir.”
“Have the men fall in. We’re getting back on the Warrenton Turnpike.”
“Any idea where we’re headed, Lieutenant Davidson?”
The offic
er shrugged. “I hear we have Stonewall surrounded. Who knows?”
“What about the ox meat, Lieutenant?”
“Eat it. Quickly.” He galloped off.
“I knew it,” groaned Corinth.
“Take your knives,” said Nathaniel. “Cut off a portion and swallow it whole if you have to. It will be hours before we get a chance to eat again.”
Nip made a face. “It’s not cooked.”
“Wave it over the flames once or twice. That’ll have to do.”
Ham crammed a huge piece in his mouth. “Rare, smoked, roasted,” he said around his chewing. “I’ll take it anyway it comes.”
“Fall in! Fall in!” thundered Sergeant Hanson, a strip of undercooked beef in one hand. “We’ve got a lot more marching to do before your mother kisses you goodnight.”
“Where are we headed?” asked Corporal Nicolson, wrapping raw beef in a piece of paper and stuffing it in his pants pocket, the blood quickly seeping through the paper.
“I told you before. Stonewall’s kitchen table. Are you ready for the sweet potatoes and greens he’s got spread for you?”
The marching continued for hours. Nathaniel found that thinking about Lyndel, or what he remembered of the face and smile that passed for Lyndel, made the walking go by more quickly. It was something he had been doing for more than a year. Not just entertaining a few thoughts now and then that flitted in and out of his head. He strove to recall all the minutes of all the hours they’d spent together, the buggy rides, the meals at her mother’s dinner table, every word she had spoken, every movement of her face and hands, no matter how slight. He found he became so immersed in his memories that the miles peeled away under his boots.
When the 19th Indiana entered a strip of forest and cannons rumbled like a thunderstorm a little ways off, his green eyes suddenly focused as he quickly glanced around him.
“You just come back to us from Lancaster County?” smiled Corinth as they marched.
“What was that I heard?” asked Nathaniel.
“Artillery. Or a storm brewing up. Take your pick.”
“Which direction is it coming from?”
A sudden shriek made the brothers and the troops in their regiment stop marching and look up. Treetops exploded and rained down bark and branches. More shells struck the trees and spat wood splinters and the soldiers ducked and cringed. The air filled with whistling and howling as artillery fire kept crashing in. One cannonball hit and bounced and plowed a long rut along the side of the road, coming to a stop just by Corinth’s left boot. He and Nathaniel looked at the ball and then at each other. Corinth’s grin broke through the fear tightening his young face.
“Pretty big marble to play with, brother,” he said.
Lieutenant Davidson came racing along the turnpike on his mount. “Get off the road, men! Move into the trees on the Douglas Brawner farm here! Stay in your platoons and companies and keep your heads down! General Gibbon has Battery B up after them!”
Nathaniel and Corporal Nicolson and Sergeant Hanson yelled at the men to get into the trees north of the road. They crouched there as shells continued to fall. Then the fire slackened as Rebel gunners engaged the Union gunners. Suddenly the firing swelled again as more Rebel cannon sounded as if they were firing at the Union guns from a different direction. This went on for ten minutes or more before Davidson came galloping along the turnpike once again.
“General Gibbon has sent the 2nd Wisconsin up the slope to the farmhouse!” he shouted. “They’ll put a stop to Johnny Reb’s artillery! Just stand at the ready!”
Corinth said softly, “Listen. I can hear the skirmishers.”
The crack-crack-crack of musket fire came to them through the trees.
“Just like a few Fourth of July whizbangs going off,” responded Nathaniel, also speaking as if it were important he keep his voice low.
Suddenly the musket fire broke open into one loud roar. A few moments later there was another explosion of massed firing. Half a minute later another thunderous crash of gunfire.
“That’s volley fire,” hissed Sergeant Hanson who was nearby. “The 2nd Wisconsin has run into something more than a few cannoneers with popguns.”
The volley firing continued without letup. Nathaniel found his mind was split into three parts: one part focused on the fighting going on up the hill, another worried about a blister that had developed on his left heel, the third part lingering on thoughts of Lyndel, who was smiling at him and offering him a bowl of corn on the cob. He ignored the thoughts about the blister and went back and forth between Lyndel and the musket fire.
“Steady, men, steady!” It was Lieutenant Davidson yet again. “Our regiment is ordered forward to support the 2nd Wisconsin on its left! Colonel Meredith wants every man to do his duty by the Union and in honor of the great state of Indiana!” He drew his sword and pointed up the hill through the forest. “Form line of battle! Advance!”
“Corporal Nicolson! Corporal King!” shouted Sergeant Hanson. “Shake out the platoon into line of battle! Shoulder to shoulder with our company and our regiment!”
“Line of battle!” yelled Nicolson and Nathaniel at the same time. “Let’s go, boys! Advance with the regiment!”
They went about three hundred yards through the trees, Corinth on Nathaniel’s right, Nip on his left. The smell of burnt powder became stronger and stronger. Once the regiment broke into the open the grass sloped up to a house and several farm buildings and clouds of white and gray smoke, where the 2nd Wisconsin was holding their ground and firing into another bank of smoke lit yellow by the flashes from Rebel muskets.
“Double quick! Let’s go!” came Lieutenant Davidson’s voice. “Up the hill to the left of the brave Wisconsin boys! Go, go!”
Nathaniel moved out ahead. “Up to the fence on the crest, platoon! Heads down! Move, move!”
Corinth raced out ahead, taking the lead. The regiment half-ran up the field after him and clambered over the gray fence, re-formed, and began to advance toward the Brawner farmhouse. Corinth was still at the front. Nathaniel felt an odd sensation that made him look twice at a fence and some haystacks less than a hundred yards ahead. One moment it was just the haystacks and the long fence. Then it was a crowd of men in gray uniforms raising hundreds of muskets, the barrels pointed at the 19th Indiana.
“My boys!” Nathaniel cried out. “Corinth!”
But the volley fire came before hardly anyone saw what was happening. Nathaniel heard the zip-zip of the balls tearing past and saw his men fall, some with short, startled cries of pain and surprise, others dropping in silence. The Rebels had their ramrods out and were quickly reloading, one eye on what the Indiana regiment was going to do.
“Platoons, steady! Company, steady!” they heard Lieutenant Davidson’s shout. “Aim low! Aim low or your shots will go over their heads!”
Nathaniel lifted his musket without thinking and aimed at the men staring at him across the grass.
But they are Americans too, came a quick thought.
“Fire!” yelled Davidson.
On Nathaniel’s right and on his left the Springfields cracked and spewed smoke and sparks. The noise deafened him and closed up his ears. Men in gray dropped like sacks. A few of the faces looked surprised. Then the Rebel muskets were pointing at him again. The gray line burst with smoke and flame and the zinging sound of near misses made Nathaniel’s ears pop open once more.
“Indiana will respond!” Davidson thundered. “Reload!”
Nathaniel was still not thinking, only reacting. Nothing seemed real or normal to him, though far back in his mind an image of Lyndel still flitted, and that image seemed more actual to him than the muskets and the firing and the rip of the balls over his head.
He placed the hammer on his Springfield at half-cock. Dug a paper cartridge from a leather cartridge holder on his hip and bit off the twisted end. Poured black powder down the barrel of his musket. Tore the ball free of the paper wrapping and pushed it point up into the muzzle.
Took the metal ramrod from its slot under the barrel and shoved the bullet all the way down until he felt it was seated firmly on the powder charge. Slid the ramrod back into place. Cocked back the hammer all the way on his weapon. Plucked a percussion cap from a box in a pouch on his other hip. Jabbed the cap onto the nipple underneath the musket’s hammer. Imagined the hammer striking the cap and making it burst, shooting a small streak of flame into the barrel and the powder. Imagined the explosion and the ball being thrust forward at high speed at the men facing him—some young, some old, some bearded, some clean-shaven.
Then he pulled the trigger and the cap spat, the barrel boomed, the musket stock kicked back sharply into his shoulder, and smoke blocked his sight. When he could see clearly a moment later a tall youth in a farmer’s broad-brimmed hat, directly in front of him 60 or 70 yards away, clapped a hand to his head, dropped his musket, and fell backward without a cry. The gray men raised their barrels at him again and he saw the black holes of the muzzles while he half-cocked his own, pulled another cartridge from his holder, bit off the end, and shook in the powder.
“What secesh regiment is that?” he heard Ham shout.
“See their colors?” Sergeant Hanson was ramming a bullet into his musket. “Them’s not just any old johnnycakes we’re fighting. That’s the Stonewall Brigade itself. You see those flags, Corporal Nicolson?”
“I see them, Sergeant.”
“I guess we found our way to Stonewall’s kitchen sooner than I thought.”
“I’m still on my feet, Sergeant.”
“You can thank God and Tippecanoe County coffee for that.”
Gunfire drowned the men out. Nathaniel glanced at his brother while he was reloading. “You all right?”
Corinth’s face was going gray from powder residue. He bit off the end of a cartridge and spat out the paper. “Hot work. Just like harvest and Daddy in a mood. Only I’m praying now too. Don’t pray much at harvest time.”