HALFWAY UP THE STEEP MOUNTAIN road, Moses Washington turned his head to look back on the Army of Kentucky, a blue column two miles long, laboring behind the 100-man Keyport garrison that Gentry had volunteered for battle. The first half of the column were Negro regiments. The Keyport men were at the head of the column because their seven-shot carbines would be potent weapons in a skirmish with a Confederate patrol.
The continuing drought had left a layer of dust an inch thick on the road, and the soldiers’ marching feet stirred it into a haze that hovered around the column in the fierce summer sun. Washington’s throat felt raw. He gulped from his canteen and heard Captain Simeon Otis call, “Save your water, men! We’ll need it up ahead! The creeks are all dried out!”
Captain Otis was on a fine white stallion, well above the dust level. He had not been inhaling half of Kentucky’s topsoil for the last six hours. But he meant well. He had given them a speech that was practically a sermon this morning before they started their march. He had told them they were going into battle. They were going to get a chance to prove they could fight as well as white men.
Otis had received a telegram from Colonel Gentry three days ago ordering them to join the Army of Kentucky on the march into Virginia. Otis made it sound as if they were going to get to Richmond ahead of General Grant. When they reached the column, a colonel had ridden up to them and cursed for a full minute. He said
there was no way they were going to let them take their horses on this march. There was barely enough water for the men—and the officers’ horses.
So here they were, infantry. Jasper Jones, Washington’s New Jersey sidekick, was marching next to him. Only half Washington’s size, Jasper was having trouble with the forty-five-pound pack on his back. “At least I don’t have to worry about drinkin’ my water,” he said. “I finished my canteen an hour ago.”
Washington gave him a swig from his canteen. “You gonna write that letter to juicy Lucy?” Jones asked.
Last night, they had run into Colonel Gentry in their roadside camp. He had asked Washington if he answered Lucy’s letter. Washington had been too busy drawing rations for his men to think about it last night. Now, with nothing on his mind but putting one foot after another, he doubted if it was a good idea. He did not want to get involved with a slave nigger. Lucy’s heart was warm and tender. But there was no point in encouraging her to think he had fallen in love with her.
“You ain’t gonna write her?” Jasper said. He knew Washington well enough to read his silences.
“It’d just lead to trouble for both of us. She might follow me to New Jersey.”
“How do you know we’re ever gonna see New Jersey again? I don’t like the look of this country we’re marchin’ into,” Jasper said. “I sure hope we don’t have to go up one of these hills to kick some Confederates with rifles off it.”
Washington said nothing but he mentally brushed aside Jasper’s words. Jasper had been worrying about what the white man was going to do to them since they volunteered. So far the man had turned out to be pretty fair, especially Major Stapleton. There was an officer who really cared about his men. He had made sure they had the best food and medicine in Hunter County, Indiana. He had spent hours and hours training them to be
cavalrymen. It was not his fault that they were fighting as infantrymen. Washington wished Stapleton was around to give them some advice. He had thought it over and decided he did not believe Lucy’s story that the major had switched to the rebel side.
Washington could not imagine himself getting killed in a battle. In their two dozen fights with armed deserters, a few bullets had whistled close. Other men had been hit. But he simply could not believe a bullet was going to turn him into a corpse or one of the gasping groaning wounded. It had something to do with seeing himself as a good soldier, tough enough to fight, smart enough to duck.
“Write the girl a letter, Moses,” Jasper Jones said. “It won’t cost you nothin’. Won’t even have to pay to mail it. Colonel Gentry’ll deliver it. Maybe it’ll bring us luck. I got a hunch we’re gonna need it.”
“How come you’re suddenly so worried about her?”
“I heard what Gentry told you. That girl’s been fightin’ the war for us while we sat on our asses eatin’ good in Indiana.”
“You think it takes guts to be a spy?”
“Sure as hell does. Sometimes they hang spies. Write Lucy a letter. She deserves it.”
Lucy a hero? A female slave nigger a hero? Washington scoffed at the idea. But Jasper had gotten him thinking about that night with Lucy. He heard her saying, I loves you, and promising to pray for him. He was going into a battle. Bullets would be flying close to him. When they stopped marching to eat dinner, Washington pulled a piece of writing paper out of his pack. He had been meaning to write his parents a letter. He’d take care of Lucy first.
Dear Lucy:
We’re marching off to fight a battle. Colonel Gentry told me about your bad luck. But at least
now you’re a free woman and can begin to think about living like one. I hope you feel better soon.
Your friend,
Moses Washington
He put the letter in an envelope and went looking for Colonel Gentry. He found him in a circle of officers, eating hardtack and cold beans like the rest of the army. Washington saluted and said, “Here’s that letter for Lucy, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Moses,” Gentry replied. “I’ll see that she gets it. How are your men doing in this heat?”
“No one’s dropped out so far, Colonel. But we’re mighty low on water.”
“Everyone is. All the mountain streams have dried up in the drought. I’ve never seen anything like it. No rain for sixty days now!”
“We gettin’ close to these rebels?” Washington asked.
“We’ll be there this time tomorrow. I’m afraid it’s going to be bloody. I hope you and your boys do well.”
“We’ll sure try, Colonel.”
Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Washington and his men, still marching at the head of the column, saw the white buildings of Saltville in the distance. It took them another hour of slogging up and down some smaller hills to get close to the town, which was perched on a ridge at least 500 feet above the road. By this time everyone was desperately thirsty. Almost every canteen was empty. They told themselves there would be wells in the town where they could drink their fill.
Then they saw the Confederates. They were in a series of forts on a hill overlooking the road. Their red battle flag with its white stars and blue cross was flying over the topmost fort. As the column approached, a cannon boomed in the lower fort and a ball hissed over their heads. Craaack! Rifles crashed a second later. Their aim
was better. A half-dozen men cried out and crumpled into the dust. Craack! Another blast of rifle fire hit the column and more men went down.
The column disintegrated. Men ran off the road and threw themselves flat in the grass. Washington and Jasper Jones and the others from Keyport stayed in the road. “What’ll we do, Moses?” Jasper shouted. He was scared.
Washington stayed calm. He was still convinced no bullet could hit him. Craack! Another volley laid more men low. Captain Otis and other officers rode up and down on their horses, shouting, “Fall back! Fall back!” They retreated down the road, leaving the wounded behind them.
Washington thought that was wrong. He stepped out of the column and called to Captain Otis, “Shouldn’t somebody get them wounded boys out of there?”
“They’ve got the road covered!” Otis shouted. He was scared silly.
“I’ll go back with ten men and get them,” Washington said.
Otis shook his head and rode for the rear of the column. Craack! Another volley from the Confederate riflemen. By this time they were out of range and the balls whistled over Otis’s head. He flattened himself on his horse and galloped away. Some of the wounded staggered to their feet and followed the column down the road. About a half-dozen lay there, dead or too badly hurt to get up.
After retreating about a half mile, The Army of Kentucky halted. Wild confusion reigned. Some officers ordered their men to form a battle line. Others insisted their companies should stay in the road. Captain Otis ordered everyone to load his gun. Washington didn’t know what was going to happen next, but he started to fear the worst. Beside him, Jasper Jones was saying, “Jeeesus, what a mess!”
About a hundred yards away, under a big chestnut tree, the general in charge got off his horse and started talking things over with a half-dozen colonels. Colonel Gentry stood outside their circle, as if he knew a one-armed man had nothing to say about how to fight a battle.
“I sure hope we don’t have to go up that hill,” Jasper Jones said.
“Can you think of another way to get at them rebels?” Washington asked.
“Starve them out,” Jasper said.
“Real good. While we die of thirst down here on the road. We got to get rid of them so we can get water, fast,” Washington said.
Sure enough, within a half hour the Army of Kentucky was in line-of-battle formation, ready to go up the hill. In the center, the 125th Indiana Colored Volunteers were in a compact column. Ahead of them were Moses Washington and his 100 Keyport troopers. They had orders to blaze away with their carbines as they got close to the fort to keep the rebels’ heads down. On either wing, two more black regiments were in the lead, their white colonels and officers determined to be the first over the walls of the rebel forts. That was what Captain Otis told Washington and his men, anyway, before they formed up for the charge. Behind the blacks came two ranks of mostly white soldiers in long lines that curved at both ends.
In the rear were a half-dozen light cannons that teams of horses had dragged up the mountains. The guns flung a round at the enemy fort. Firing uphill, the artillerymen’s aim was atrocious. The black iron balls vanished over the top of the mountain. They fired another round with the same result. “Can’t they hit anything?” Jasper Jones said.
The colonel of the 125th Indiana Volunteers gave them a version of Captain Otis’s speech. He told them they were going to show the world what black soldiers
could do in a battle. He talked through his nose the same way Captain Otis did. He had the same funny shine in his eyes.
“What a lot of horseshit,” Jasper Jones said as the colonel drew his sword and trotted to the head of the column.
A cannon boomed and the whole line surged forward, cheering. Captain Otis strode beside Washington and his men, waving his sword. They were still a long way from the lower fort when the wall erupted in a sheet of flame and smoke. Bullets hissed everywhere and men screamed in pain and went down in the drought-brown grass. Others toppled without a sound, unquestionably dead.
“Forward boys, show everyone—” the Indiana colonel shouted.
Two bullets hit him in the head, tearing off most of his face. He fell backward onto the grass and the already thinned front ranks faltered, terrified by the sight.
“Keep going forward boys!” Captain Otis shouted. “We’ll be on top of them in no time.”
Those were Otis’s last words. Again the Confederate fort erupted with flame and smoke and a half-dozen bullets thudded into the captain’s body. He toppled without a sound. The men near him shuddered and groaned. Some cried to Jesus. What kind of a battle was this? Washington wondered. You got killed before you could fire a shot at your enemy.
“Forward! Forward!” shouted the Indiana regiment’s major, a fat, stumpy man. He looked terrified. He was not going forward. He was whacking men with the flat of his sword, trying to get the line moving again. Everyone was frozen with fear. Another blast of gunfire killed the major and at least thirty of the Indiana Colored Volunteers.
“They’re crazy!” Jasper shouted. “These white men are goin’ to kill us all!”
“Come on!” Washington said, breaking into a run. Most of the Keyport troopers were dead or wounded. Washington shoved that fact out of his mind. They were proving they were soldiers. They were ignoring bullets, dead colonels and majors and captains. They were driving home the attack. That was what war was all about.
Another eruption from the Confederate fort. Something smashed into Washington’s chest. What the hell? he thought. Were these rebels throwing rocks? He wanted to keep running forward. But his legs refused to obey him.
“Moses!”
Washington turned and saw Jasper Jones on his knees, clutching his belly. Dark red blood spurted around his fingers. Simultaneously Washington realized something strange had happened to his chest. A pain worse than anything he had ever experienced in the prize ring was taking root there. He put his hand on it and the hand came away wet with blood. Jasper got blurry, as if someone had turned him into a smudged photograph. Cheering white soldiers ran past them into the smoke shrouding the battlefield. That was the last thing Moses Washington remembered for a while.
Blam Blam. What was that noise? Gunshots. Single gunshots. The pain in Moses Washington’s chest was worse. It jangled through his whole body every time he breathed. Blam Blam. He raised his head and saw about twenty Confederate soldiers on the far side of the battlefield, shooting the wounded men lying there.
“Here’s ’nother one!”
“Send him to nigger heaven!”
Blam.
They were shooting the wounded blacks. They walked past the white wounded without touching them. Jasper Jones was lying only a few feet away from Washington. He was curled up on his side, his fingers still clutching his bloody belly.
“Jasper,” Washington whispered. “They’re gonna kill us.”
He took a better look at Jasper. He was dead. For another five minutes Washington lay there, breathing in small gulps to reduce the pain, trying to figure out what to do. His shirt was soaked with blood. He felt so weak, he was afraid he’d fall down if he tried to run.
Behind him he heard someone shout, “Stop! Stop! I demand you to stop!”
It was Colonel Henry Gentry. He was on a big black horse. He was all by himself. There was not another federal soldier in sight. Several of the Confederates walked toward him, their rifles leveled on their hips.
“What’n hell do you want?” asked one of them, a short red-faced boy. He did not look more than fourteen years old.
“I want to see Colonel Jameson. I’m a friend of his mother’s. I’m Colonel Henry Gentry.”
“You wait here. I’ll see what the colonel says.”
The boy vanished into the fort. A wounded white soldier rolled over and cried, “Water! Jesus won’t someone give me some water?”
One of the Confederates handed the man his canteen. The wounded soldier gulped it greedily. This Confederate was not a boy, though he was almost as short as one. He had a scraggly brown beard.
“What you tryin’ to do? Stop us from killin’ these niggers?” he asked Gentry.
Gentry said nothing.
“We took a blood oath. Every nigger we see in a blue uniform is gonna get kilt,” the veteran said.
The boy emerged from the fort. “Colonel Jameson says he’s got nothin’ to say to you!” he called. “He told me to tell you he’ll see you in Indiana!”
Gentry turned his horse and started down the hill. Moses Washington realized the one-armed colonel was his only chance. In Keyport he had seemed like a pathetic
imitation of a soldier but he had come up here to try to stop the killing. Maybe he would help him.
Washington sprang to his feet and staggered after Gentry, calling, “Colonel!”
Gentry looked over his shoulder and slowed his horse. Washington clung to the pommel and they went careening down the hill. Washington’s feet dragged on the ground but somehow he kept his grip.
“Hey!”
“He’s got that nigger!”
“Kill him!”
The shouts were followed within seconds by a scattered volley. The bullets whistled high and only inspired the horse to increase his speed. In sixty seconds Gentry was on the road, heading for the Union camp. A few more bullets followed them but they were soon out of range. In another two or three minutes Union soldiers were helping Washington into a hospital tent, full of groaning men and cursing doctors.
A white-bearded doctor gave Washington a half-glass of whiskey. Two orderlies jammed a rag in his mouth and held him down while the doctor probed for the bullet with some sort of long wire. The whiskey did not do much for the pain, which was ten times worse than the original wound. Finally the doctor growled, “Got it,” and held the bullet in his bloody fingers for Washington to admire.
“You’re one lucky nigger,” the doctor said. “It missed your lung and didn’t break any bones. You’ll live if it doesn’t get infected.”
The orderlies bandaged the wound and Washington stumbled into the hot July sunshine. A swirl of darkness forced him to lean against a tree. Around him lay about two hundred wounded men, screaming and moaning for water. Washington realized he was desperately thirsty himself.
“Moses!” It was Colonel Gentry holding out a canteen.
There were tears on his face. “They shot us to pieces,” Gentry said.
Washington realized the colonel was talking about the Keyport troopers. He swigged from the canteen. It was brandy. “We done our best, Colonel.”
“I know you did. If only we had a better general. I told him a frontal assault was crazy. I wanted to send a flying column up the road to seize Saltville. That would have given us water—”
“Wish we’d done it, Colonel.”
“Can you come with me? I want you to tell General Burbridge what you saw.”
Washington felt too weak to walk more than a step but he managed to follow Gentry down the road to where General Burbridge was standing with his colonels. Gentry said he had rescued a witness to mass murder. He wanted Burbridge to file charges against Adam Jameson and every other officer in his command. He wanted them prosecuted after the war.
“Get out of my sight, Gentry,” General Burbridge said through gritted teeth. “Haven’t I got enough to worry about without you making me responsible for a lot of wounded niggers? This is your mess as much as mine. I don’t think you’ll telegraph Lincoln about it.”
Gentry turned away from this humiliation as if Burbridge had kicked him in the stomach. For the first time it dawned on Washington that the man really cared about black people. “I’m sorry Moses,” he said as they walked slowly back to the hospital.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, Colonel. I knows it wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m still sorry,” Gentry said. “Sorry as hell.” He gave Moses the canteen full of brandy and wandered into the trees.
At sundown the Army of Kentucky retreated. Moses Washington spent the night in a jolting wagon with about two dozen wounded blacks who had been lucky
enough to stagger off the battlefield. Every rut in the road sent a bolt of pain through his chest. Only one of the wounded belonged to the Keyport troop. They had been wiped out almost to the last man. Washington grieved for Jasper Jones. They had been friends since grammar school. Jasper had been his cornerman in his prizefights.
“Oh why did I ever leave Mas’r?” cried the soldier next to Washington. The doctors had cut off his leg below the knee. He was a typical slave nigger, ready to crawl back to the plantation.
Wait a second, Washington thought. Once and for all he was banishing that idea from his mind. Every time he thought about the way he had used that phrase to make himself feel superior, his chest seemed to hurt worse. Slave or free did not make any difference to those Confederates who had vowed to kill every colored man in a uniform. Moses Washington was part of their fight for freedom now.
This change of mind made Washington think of Lucy. They had whipped her almost to death because she had stopped being a slave nigger and tried to win the war for her people. Washington told himself he was going to write her a real letter soon. He was going to tell Lucy that her people were his people now.