MARCH 28, 1862
Generals are always happy to point the way to death.
A TRAIN WHISTLES long and loud as we leave the station near Camp Walker. Staff officers and local dignitaries stand tall and proud waving little flags as the rail cars start north. I wonder how many of them will face a bullet.
It’s a seventy-five mile ride to Camp Moore on the New Orleans, Jackson, and Great Northern Railroad. It’s a fine way to travel except they put too many of us on each car. They load us on livestock cars like cattle going to market.
Sarge yells, “It’s an eight-hour trip standing up, unless you all agree to sit down.”
I like the sound of the engine and the clickety-clack of the wheels on the iron tracks. A man can go anywhere in this world he chooses if he just hops a train or steamer. I look across the peaceful countryside. I don’t know where I’m headed, but it means being farther from Susannah. I feel my pocket for the crossed cannons Mr. Wiley gave me and the alligator tooth the Captain gave me on the Yazoo River when I almost got eaten by one. I expect to meet more good people like them on this path.
We pass swamps filled with cypress trees like in McCurtain Creek swamp back home.
A man complains. “What an ugly worthless chunk of land.”
I can’t let that go by. “Beauty can be found anywhere on God’s good earth. Cypress swamp or rocky hillside, Big Muddy or Big Sand Creek, ploughed field or oak forest, beauty is there if you look.”
J.A. laughs. “Amen, preacher.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Once we leave the lowlands, the sweet smell of pine forests fills the air. Seeing farmers working their mules reminds me of why I give myself to this cause. A young boy runs a water bucket to his daddy. He wipes sweat from his brow and takes a long drink. He hugs the boy and rustles his hair. That’s why I’m here.
J.A. licks his lips. “Cool water sure would be good right about now.”
I drift back to those days working the farm with Pa and my brothers. I wish I had one more day in the field with my daddy again. I wander deep within myself to hear Pa gee-hawing the mules in the springtime. He’s smiling, happy to be working. He strains to keep the two mules headed in a straight line.
I can hear him now. “Lummy, walk straight like I plow this field. Watch yourself, and don’t do nothin’ foolish.” Pa had his moments. I just wish he hadn’t whipped us with plow lines to teach us. I’ll never feel good about that. I vow to never do that to my child. Lord, help me.
I remember reaching up to hug him once, but he kept moving. “No time for that, boy, keep plowin’.”
An overwhelming pungent smell shocks me back to the clickety-clack of the train and the closeness of the men.
A city boy with a red ribbon for a tie pinches his nosed closed. “Ooooowee, who shit in their breeches?”
J.A. laughs. “It’s a hawg farm, you dern fool. Nobody shit their britches unless it was you.”
Holding his nose and breathing through his mouth, he doubles over to puke. With tears forming in his burning eyes, the city boy cries, “How do y’all live with that foul smell?”
I grin. “Smells like cash dollars to some folks. Keep breathin’ in and out your mouth like that and you’ll be wipin’ that smell off your teeth.” He shuts his mouth quickly.
“Let me change your thinkin’. You know that good smoked ham your momma cooks for breakfast, bacon fryin’ in the skillet, ham hocks in the black eyed peas, red eye gravy, and.…”
“I get it. I just never knew somethin’ that good could come from somethin’ so stanky.”
A man in the back yells, “Don’t forget about them good ole fried chitlins.”
Another yells, “Yeah, I like ’em boiled up tender and peppered hot.”
J.A. laughs. “Hand slung, stump whooped, and creek washed. Ain’t that right, Lummy?”
“That’s what old Mister Wiley used to say.”
We laugh as the city boy mumbles, “What are chitlins?”
I just let it lay. We slide the big door open, and the smell disappears.
The train stops every ten miles to take on water and exchange the mail. We hop off to relieve ourselves or chance a run to a store. That’s risky business. A few men took their enlistment bounty and deserted. Guards now ride on the top of the cars with muskets. A man could get shot sneaking away to find a biscuit or a plug of tobacco. I stay close to the train.
It’s funny how easy I find myself doing what I’m ordered to. Pretty much a loner most of my life and living under Pa’s heavy hand, I never liked being bossed. Most times I bucked Pa when he bore down on us boys too hard. I guess if you don’t feel bullied, you don’t mind doing what you’re ordered to do.
I can hear Mr. Wiley’s words. “Do what you’re told, and you’ll do more of what you want.”
The whistle blows, and the engine fires up again. Boys race from every direction to catch the slow-moving train. A long-legged man runs from behind a shack pulling up his britches, yelling, “Don’t leave me!”
When we grab his hands, his britches fall down around his ankles. He doesn’t have any drawers on. As we pull him into the car, we pass a small crowd of nicely dressed well-wishers waving flags. Boy, did they get an eyeful of Rebel behind! Gray-haired ladies cover their blushing faces with fans and gentlemen hope their wives don’t see them laughing. Sarge just shakes his head.
We keep the big door open as we pass sandy creeks and sweet cedar breaks. I’d give anything for a drink from one of those cool fresh springs bubbling up in the woods. Next stop I’ll ask if we can get water.
We stop in a larger town called Independence. Sarge shouts, “That’s why we’re fightin’, men. Independence! To be free of the Yankee invader!” I question that.
We detrain and get water. It’s good, even if it is from a horse trough. Nothing I ain’t never done before.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “J.A., Independence is a good name for a town. A good word, too, except everybody won’t be free unless the bluecoats win. Mister Wiley told me to always be sure I know why I’m fightin’ and if it’s for the right reason.” He doesn’t say anything.
As we leave, pretty dolled up ladies wave their handkerchiefs and cheer us. Well-to-do men raise their right hands in solemn approval of men willing to die. Like generals, they’re all too happy to point the way to death.
I watch Negroes load seed bags and shovel horse apples off the streets. I cringe when someone shouts, “Niggahs, niggahs everywhere. Niggahs and flies, I do despise. When I see a niggah, I’d rather have the flies.” I’ve heard that song just about one too many times. He throws a rock at a couple slaves. I want to throw him off the train.
“We’re off to fight so’s you can have a home, and you don’t even give a shit. If it wasn’t for y’all, there’d be no war.”
I start to slap the hell out of him, but J.A. grabs my arm. “Don’t.”
I whisper, “So why don’t we just set ’em free? Those fancy town houses were built on the backs of slaves. There’s too much about this that just ain’t right.”
J.A. squints. “I don’t disagree.”
Susannah comes to mind—her velvety skin, pretty face, and how we’ll start a beautiful family when this war ends. My heart beats in time with the clickety-clack sound of the railroad track. Thinking about Susannah always brings peace to my soul. It doesn’t last.
A man yells, “Niggah town!” Fortunately, the train picks up speed after the mail pouch is tossed on board. We pass a church with the Ten Commandments posted in big letters out front.
“Thou shalt not kill,” a city boy reads softly.
J.A. asks, “So, boys, what’s the Good Lord gonna say about killin’ them Yanks? Will that send us all to hell or what?” Men turn my way. Some heard J.A. call me preacher. Some know me from preaching Mr. Wiley’s funeral.
Sarge cuts in. “Hell no, God’s on our side. We were just mindin’ our own damn business, but the Yanks think they got the right to interfere.” I agree with Sarge in principle but not subject.
I clear my throat. “My Uncle Silas, who fought with General Jackson at New Orleans, said that’s why we ran the British off in the Revolution and again a second time. This ain’t no different if that’s your reason for fightin’. Anythin’ else is just spittin’ on the Constitution.”
Sarge rolls what I said around in his head unsure of how to respond. “Lummy, you’re a prayin’ man. Give up some words to the Lord before we reach Camp Moore.” I don’t pray long.
I think about Grandpa Cloud who came from the old country. Those old tales keep my life going in a good direction as much as praying. My life never has run in a straight line. Seems it’s a family trait. Uncle Silas told me Grandpa Cloud crossed the ocean in 1665 and became an indentured servant in Virginia. He worked his way free from that bond and purchased a fair amount of land. I’m indentured now, too, but for the right reason?
Those stories built strong convictions in us Tullos boys about being free from the lordship of another man. Cloud passed down the truth that, “There is no Lord, except in Heaven.” There’s something strangely spiritual about being free, and our family certainly is stubborn about it. Too much authority leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Traveling deeper into this part of the South where people are even stauncher on slavery, my convictions are changing. For the better, I believe. I’m not my Grandpa Willoughby who owned slaves. Neither was Pa, thank God. We pass by the Liberty House of Prayer at the edge of town.
I elbow J.A. “Ain’t that somethin’? Liberty and Independence mixed with a house of prayer in a new nation keepin’ people as chattel. That don’t square. Not everyone’s gonna have liberty when this thing is over.” I may not know where I’m going right now, but I do know what I’m leaving behind. I can see J.A.’s wheels turning.
He changes the subject as we pass a bakery. “Boy, would you smell that! Them sweetbreads sure make a man’s mouth water.”
Two dark-skinned beauties hang laundry on the side of the last big four-columned house. They smile. I wave. Their beauty makes my heart sing for Susannah.
J.A. pokes me. “You best quit that, boy. Some of these boys will knock you nekked and hide your clothes just for gawkin’ at them girls.” I don’t want any trouble, but they’re a nice reminder of my Susannah.
We finally reach Tangipahoa Station. Not much of a town, just a few fine homes, a water tower and fuel depot for the train, a stand for the mail, a loading dock for cotton farmers, a general mercantile, and four liquor stores. Whiskey sellers flock like buzzards to hand out little sips.
Sarge yells, “Go ahead, be a fool and get a bayonet stuck in your ass. Any questions?” The whiskey merchants back away insulted but still hold their bottles high.
The engine eases slowly up the track to Camp Moore where there’s more of a town than Tangipahoa and a field of tents, but no men.
We de-board quickly. Camp Moore has a few shops, quarter master and commissary buildings, a few eatery shacks, a soda fountain shop, coffee house, and a butcher. Everything a soldier needs to spend his army pay fast. They’re close by, so the smells of coffee and other delights can waft into the tightly packed rows of tents. Other than that, Camp Moore looks to be deserted. I expected hundreds of men to be here.
There’s also an establishment where a man can get his likeness put on tin. I’ll get two once I get my uniform—one for Susannah and the other for Ma.
“Ain’t got much to leave behind if I’m killed. A picture’s better than nothin’.”
J.A. elbows me. “Shut up, Lummy, you ain’t gonna get killed. I ain’t gonna let you.”
A group of men march stiffly to the train, trying to make an impression. The lieutenant waves his hand in the air. “Welcome, men. We’re the caretakers of Camp Moore. We guard what’s left when soldiers get shipped off to parts unknown. We’ll get you settled in tents over there, and then we’ll eat. Glad you boys are here.”
We’re the only regiment in camp and still three companies short of a full compliment. The lieutenant takes Sarge to the side to give instructions.
A caretaker says, “Damn happy to put an eyeball on you gents of the South. Ain’t had no company for pert near four months. Them shops over there just closed up, that is, ’til they heard you was comin’. It’s been pretty slow out here. Let’s celebrate your arrivin’.”
Making sure no officers are looking, he shoves a jug under my nose.
“My stomach ain’t settled enough yet. Thanks just the same.” He goes on down the line handing the jug to anyone who’ll take it. Some do, watching out for Sarge. I want a good start as a soldier of the Confederacy, and being drunk on the first day ain’t the way to do it.
I don’t care much for whiskey. I ain’t against taking a snort or two, but more than that is trouble. At the very least, it gums up a man’s thinking. Besides, I’d probably like it too much and wind up like Ben. But I do enjoy sipping my brother Elihu’s fine muscadine wine on occasion.
Officers shout orders, and camp becomes a beehive of activity. Waiting to be assigned a tent, I think about muscadine grapes hanging in big clusters high up in the trees back home. Clusters of men mill about bragging about what they’ll do to the Yanks. Like ripe muscadines hitting the ground in fall, we’ll soon be soldiers good for the falling, too. The blood red color of Elihu’s wine makes me think it won’t be long before ours is squeezed out in the Yankee grape press. I can’t think on that now. I get settled in my tent not far from Beaver Creek and write Susannah a letter.
Camp Moore
March 29, 1862
My loving sweet wife, I pray this letter finds you well and in good spirits. Things are much better since we left that swamp hole Camp Walker. The land here reminds me of home, but nothin is so pretty to ever compare to you my darlin.
This ain’t much of a place to look at, and there won’t be much to do but fish in the Tangipahoa River. It reminds me of when we sneaked off to swim in the Big Black.
Men from cities and farms all over Looseana are here. We live in crowded tents, but we make do. The food ain’t too bad, but it don’t compare to your cookin, my darlin.
I found some medicine that cures sore eyes. Is Old Bart still havin problems? Tell him to ask Mr. Davis for Mitchells Eye Salve. If he ain’t got it, he can order it.
Keep me in your heart and picture my face in your mind. Always have a prayer on your lips. I’ll write as often as I can. It would do me good to get a letter from you soon. My heart aches for you. A few lines will revive my spirit. Love to you and all I hold dear there.
Your faithful husband,
Lummy