MARCH 30, 1862
Be better than your father was, whether he believes that or not.
J.A. SLAPS A mosquito. “March is gone with the cool weather.” They were so bad at Camp Walker we slept close to the fire hoping the smoke would keep the clouds of pesky devils away.
The night before we left, J.A. tried to cheer us up. “Listen, y’all hear that?” He kept looking around like a wild animal was sneaking up. We couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.
Finally I asked, “Hear what?”
“That tiny bell ringin’.”
“What bell?”
“The little bell them skeeters ring when it’s time to pick you up by the shoulders and carry you off for their dinner.” We all laughed but drew closer to the fire and kept swatting. City boys who’d never slept out were miserable.
It’s good we left the swamps and New Orleans. We hear the Yanks’ll try to take her soon. We’re not ready for a fight. Some of these boys never even fired a gun. I’m ready to face the enemy but need training as much as anyone. We’re told equipment and food is already getting scarce. The Confederate war effort is strained, so we’ll have to make do with sticks for muskets and no uniforms.
Officers assure us. “Just hold tight, help’s on the way. They’ll come through, eventually.” Sarge lets us hunt for anything resembling meat. We can’t go for deer or squirrels. We don’t have a long gun between us, and I’m not using my pistol loads. I can get meat without a gun.
We club a hog and bring back a scrawny beef cow. We cut a pole to carry the pig and lead the cow into camp. The city boys gag as we farm boys make quick work of the butchering.
J.A. crows like a rooster. “Hot damn! Fresh meat in the pot tonight.”
Bless those boys who came before us and left camp better than they found it. Nearly every tent has plank floors and mosquito bars. But camp life is no party. We drill long hours, and we’re jammed together eight to a tent. But that’s not the worst part. Trains pass through all hours of the night, shaking the ground so hard it rattles the bones. The brass keeps us close to the tracks to discourage deserters and thieves and in case we need to move quickly to go face the enemy.I guess it’s a soldier’s right to gripe, as long as an officer or Sarge isn’t within earshot.
Once the day’s marching and drilling is done though, we dump all our rations in the pot together and share the meal. We tell stories and bad jokes, guess at the future, and sip acorn coffee the caretakers taught us to make. We tell ourselves it’s good because there’s nothing else to drink but water. It’s tough smelling the real thing coming from the coffee house by the tracks. Doesn’t matter, we ain’t got a nickel between us to spend on that. What little silver I have I hold for necessities or send home.
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APRIL 1ST, AND I’m now a soldier. We receive news that Richmond will up our pay from eleven to thirteen dollars. We’re happy as dead pigs in the sunshine. I guess President Jeff Davis can’t let the Yankees outdo the Confederate States of America. Two dollars a month difference could cause a man to consider a blue jacket. And two dollars Yankee is worth more than the same in Reb dollars.
I’m just happy to get paid.
It’s sobering to see the small but growing cemetery. Nearly every man glances at the carved wooden markers. We don’t stare long. What a man gazes at too long he may become. The first man buried there was accidentally crushed by a train car the second day Camp Moore opened. What a shame. A man comes to gain glory on the battlefield only to have his light go out for somebody’s dumb mistake.
J.A. puts his elbow on my shoulder. “Sad ain’t it? Bein’ buried so far from home.”
“Yeah, but we signed up for this.”
J.A. rubs his chin. “We did.”
“When my Granny Thankful died, I stood with my ma, who held Granny’s hand as folks paid their respects. They said the strangest things like, ‘Don’t she look so good?’ I wanted to shout, ‘Heck no, she don’t look good! What dead person ever looked good?’ I just kept quiet.”
A drum beats in the cemetery. J.A. sips his acorn coffee. “Another soldier put under the dirt. Wonder what it was this time?”
“Measles. Good men leave home only to be killed by an enemy they can’t shoot at.” The camp flag snaps in the breeze. “They’ll never know what we’ll do to free the South.”
J.A. drains his cup. “Yeah, and I don’t want all this trainin’ just to be shipped home in a box or laid in a shallow grave here.”
After our duties are done, several of us go to the graveyard to ponder the possibilities. The mood is quiet as death itself. Someone starts a hymn, another tears up, but most whisper they just want to go back home. I’m at ease with men honest about their fears and judge no one for theirs. A bottle is passed around. The whiskey helps us lose the worries for another night, until the sun rises to remind us we’re just one day closer to fighting.
I wonder where I’ll be laid under the dirt.
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MOST DAYS WE get a little free time from drill and camp duties to read newspapers, play cards or dominoes, or write a letter. Reading reports of terrible battles in the newspaper makes me think about my own soul.
I kick J.A. at morning coffee. “Hey, boy, it’s Sunday. Let’s go to church.”
“I guess I better. Hearin’ you read about all them men killed in battle, I better make sure you’re good with the Lord, you wicked sinner.”
“I’ll be right behind you at the pearly gates or the dungeon door of hell.”
A Baptist pastor breathes hell fire down on us in the morning, and a Methodist preacher brings us peace and hope in the evening. The best part is we’re outside and not in a church house. As we sing, birds join in the chorus. Trees sway in time as a gentle breeze leads the dance. I find some comfort in the Sunday services, but mostly I enjoy time alone with Creator down by Tangipahoa River.
J.A. and I sit by the cook fire after Sunday evening service talking about home. Isaac from Winn Parish bursts out of a shop across the tracks. “Y’all ain’t gonna believe what she told me! She said I’d be home by June and….”
J.A. asks, “How much?”
“Two dollars.”
J.A. throws a stick at him. “Two dollars? What a waste of damn good money. You’ll wish you had them two dollars when when your brogans wear out.”
I stir the fire. “Damn, Isaac, for two cash dollars, I’ll tell you anythin’ you want about your future and give you a dollar back.”
He gives me a dirty look and runs to tell someone else.
J.A. gets up. “We got a couple hours before dark. Let’s go wash clothes and get a bath in Beaver Creek, set a couple of fish traps in the Tangipahoa River.”
While our clothes dry, I lie down on the soft white sand and look up in the sky. “J.A., this ain’t so bad.”
He throws a rock in the river. “And a few perches won’t do the cook pot no harm.”
Across the sandy river, the oaks drip with Spanish moss. It reminds me of ole Miss Lucille’s long curly gray hair. Years ago, she lived with us and loved me like a grandson. She wasn’t our slave. She lived with us because Grandpa Willoughby pawned her off on Pa when he and Ma moved north to Choctaw County. She’d cook me popcorn and put black pepper on it. She’d set me on her lap and sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
Pa taught us to respect our elders no matter their skin color. Pa gave her her freedom papers just before she died. I was only ten. I cried when they covered her simple box with dirt in the little Negro cemetery down the road. She’s free now, safe in the arms of the Good Lord.
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MARCHING AND DRILLING, marching and drilling. Taking orders and giving none. That’s a soldier’s life. I’ve found muscles I never knew I had with all the “one foot in front of the other” Sarge barks out. It never takes long after supper to fall soundly asleep nestled in our tent.
Most of us had good shoes when we arrived, but they weren’t made for marching. J.A. found a discarded pair of boots and tore off the soles to tack on to his. The ones Mr. and Mrs. Davis gave me are holding up fine so far, but soon I’ll be doing the same. I hate to spend ten dollars for a new pair of shoes. Thirteen dollars won’t go far if prices keep rising like a creek after a spring rain.
We train hard and catch on quickly. In just a few days, we learn to straight line march and make turns. With new companies arriving, the 27th Louisiana Volunteer Infantry regiment looks more like an army every day. Our ranks swell to full complement by month’s end.
Sunday after service, I stumble upon a wild rose bush at the edge of the parade ground the same red color as the camp flag. “Now wouldn’t these flowers look good in Susannah’s hair?” I know it sounds like a story in a book, but I’m determined to not forget my wife.
I turn my head and cry. “Why in the hell did I ever decide to do this?”