MAY 1, 1862
A city set upon a hill can’t be hidden. That’s in the Good Book. Somewhere.
EARLY THIS MORNING, we get the call. Decked out in our new uniforms, we stand ready to board a train. All dressed up and don’t know where we’re going. Train after train of troops pass Camp Moore. We cheer the boys headed north to who knows where. A strange excitement and fearful dread of the unknown fills the air.
I take one last look at our cemetery. Today, we leave markers for six brothers of the 27th laid to rest struck down by the measles.
J.A. hangs his head. “Why’d those men die here and not me? I guess on whatever battlefield they bury me, the next man will walk away saying the same.”
I scratch where my wool uniform itches the back of my neck. “Yeah, we’re fixin’ to ride in a pine box, only it has wheels.”
The engine strains up the inclines as we pass Osyka, the first town in Mississippi, my home state. I haven’t been back since late winter of ’59. Funny, I’m here to fight for my home state wearing a Louisiana uniform, under a Louisiana flag, and with men from Louisiana. I have two homes now. It doesn’t matter what uniform I wear—fighting is fighting wherever it happens, gray or blue. It’s just a matter of where a man happens to be born or enlist.
One man yells as we cross the state line, “Hurrah for Missip, the state and county where I was born. I’ll shoot every damn Yankee ass bluecoat I see.”
I ask him, “What county are we in?”
“Pike County. I was raised not far from Holmesville. Why, you know this place?”
“Sure do. My Pa’s family traveled here from Georgia on the Federal Road through Creek land back in ’09. Pa and two of my uncles later went north to Choctaw County. My Uncle Silas and Grandpa Temple lived in Marion County.” I want to visit their graves one day.
The train pours over the rolling hills like Ma’s deer gravy over stewed potatoes. Smooth. The countryside reminds me of Winn Parish. We stop only for wood and water and not for long. We hop off the railcars just long enough to get a breath of fresh air. Some boys puke from the constant swinging motion of the train.
Along the way old men lift their hats and storekeepers throw us candy and bread. Pretty lacy-dressed ladies pitch bouquets of flowers, wave little Confederate flags, and throw us their perfumed handkerchiefs. Young Isham catches a white kerchief with tiny purple flowers, instantly falling in love with the beauty who tosses it.
He yells at the blonde-haired, green-eyed girl, “What’s your name, darlin’?” She blushes and turns away. We get a whiff of her sweet fragrance. We move on with brokenhearted boys who find true love quickly in a simple smile and perfumed handkerchief.
All along the way we sing “The Bonnie Blue Flag that Bears a Single Star.” The young boys gather at every town and try to outsing us. We pass through all the train stations leading to the capital city of Jackson—Summit, Bahala and Hazelhurst, Terry, Crystal Springs, and Byram.
We reach the outskirts of Jackson at 8:00 a.m., Friday, May 2. Colonel Marks announces, “Take a break while the engineers switch locomotives. The one we have won’t make it up the steep hills on the next leg of our ride. Gather ’round men.
“We’re headed to Vicksburg, and the Yanks will soon come our way.” We cheer, but Colonel Marks pats the air for us to stop. “You’re now soldiers in the Army of the Confederate States of America, and I expect you to act like it. You will be mindful of civilians and be ready to give your lives for the good people of Vicksburg. Stay strong, stand vigilant.”
J.A. elbows me. “I like this fella already.”
“Vicksburg, like the Good Book says, is a city set upon a hill and can’t be hidden. The Yanks will try to run us off, but we will make them wish they’d never seen the bright lights of that good haven of God’s people. You men of the 27th Louisiana Volunteer Infantry will arrive first to defend Vicksburg, and by God, we will be the last to leave.”
The whistle blows, and the engine spits steam. We cheer and return to our railcars. A messenger rushes up to hand Colonel Marks several small papers.
He holds his hand up. “Listen to me now, we’ll board in just a minute. With New Orleans in Yankee hands, Baton Rouge and Memphis will be their next targets. We are to proceed onto Vicksburg and prepare defenses. That’s good, but I have news you won’t like. I love that song “Bonnie Blue Flag” and know you do, too. It was written and sung for the first time right here in Jackson City after Missip seceded from the Union.”
We cheer, “Hurrah for Missip!”
Colonel Marks raises his hand, and we quiet down. He checks to see if an officer of higher rank is listening. “I hate to speak unkindly of a fellow officer, even if he is wearin’ that blue suit. But that son of a bitch General Benjamin ‘Beast’ Butler ordered all copies of that song burned. Mistuh Blackmar was fined five hundred dollars for publishing the sheet music and anyone caught singin’, hummin’, or whistlin’ it will be fined and or subject to imprisonment. Since they’re bein’ persecuted, let’s sing loud enough for ole sour ass down-in-the-mouth Beastly Butler to hear us all the way to Vicksburg.”
J.A. huffs, “General Benjamin ‘Beast’ Butler ain’t nothin’ but a bully hidin’ behind sewed on gold bars on his shoulders. Put him with some of us, and he’ll get his ass kicked. Then he’ll run home cryin’ to his momma.”
Colonel Marks grins. “Well said, Private. I’ll ask him to come for a polite visit.”
A young boy strikes up the song with a fine tenor voice, and we all join singing so Butler can hear us. Colonel Marks motivates his men well.
After the engines are switched, our cheering, singing, and flag waving dies down. We sing until all board, and then weariness takes over. We start west for Vicksburg with the train passing through Clinton, then Bolton’s Station, and over the Big Black River to stop and pick up mail at Edward’s Depot. We have to tear out a few bridges so the smokestack can pass the closer we get to town. It takes two days to make the forty miles. The train is so heavily loaded the locomotive can barely pull the hills.
The crowded conditions wear on us. Some boys climb on top of the car to the hurricane deck for fresh air only to find sparks and smoke not to their liking. The extra room is good reason to stay in the railcar. J.A. comes back. He was gone only an hour up top but looks white as a sheet.
“What happened?”
He’s shaking like a leaf. “I was tryin’ not to breathe in that dang black smoke when I saw a shiny piece of metal comin’ straight for my head. I ducked just in time, but it hit the train and left a big gash. It could’ve taken my head off.”
J.A. sits down and passes out.
We reach Vicksburg Sunday, May 4. It couldn’t have come any sooner. We make camp by the tracks about a mile from the river to get organized. We set up tents and collapse to rest. Roll call comes at 8:00 p.m., but I don’t wake in time. For that, I get extra guard duty.
We make permanent camp a mile downriver and name it Camp McLauren, for our lieutenant colonel. We don’t stay there long either—too many mosquitoes like at Camp Walker. Some boys have symptoms of malaria already. To make things worse, measles follow us here, and several men are sent to the hospital in Clinton.
On the 13th we’re ordered to relocate camp on a bluff in a cotton field. This drier ground with fewer mosquitos catches the cool evening river breezes. We cut brush to shade the sick not sent to the new hospital in Vicksburg. I’m a bit envious of the men who get to go in town, even if they are sick. I want to see the city soon.
I stand back and take it all in. “It’s a sight, ain’t it, J.A.? Twelve hundred men digging earthworks, building stockades, walking post, and hauling supplies.”
“It is that.”
Sarge marches by. “Before you go to work, if you got any extra clothes or things you want sent home, now’s the time. You’ll be movin’ around a lot, so totin’ a bundle with you just won’t do. You got ten minutes to sort through your stuff and throw it on the wagon. Don’t worry, it’ll get where you’re sendin’ it. Move it.”
I didn’t bring much, didn’t collect anything since leaving, and want no more than necessary to carry in my haversack.
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BUILDING DEFENSES SUITS me fine. The engineers use their instruments and calculating books to have us level the ground for cannon emplacements. If we’re not using picks and shovels, we’re guarding railroad bridges from Yank cavalry roaming the countryside. We work day and night in shifts, even Sundays, so when it comes time to rest, few men want to go in town or do anything but eat and sleep.
For oversleeping again, J.A. and I catch extra guard for a week on the road that leads south. About noon, a well-dressed gentleman stops to grease a wheel. His little girl, maybe ten, scampers over to us. She has the prettiest blonde hair and sky blue eyes. She reminds me of my sister, Saleta.
J.A. asks, “And what is your name, pretty girl?”
“I’m Lucy, and that’s my father over there.” He waves.
Lucy has the sound of a little bird as she shares news about the city. She’s smart, mannerly, and sweet as molasses. “Father will take me up on Sky Parlor Hill after he finishes his business. You can see fifty miles into Louisiana on a clear day. Y’all should come with me some time. I’ll bring some of momma’s sugar cookies for you.”
She smiles as the river breeze gently ruffles her golden curls. She has the face of an angel and the refinement of a courtly lady. This is reason enough to defend Vicksburg.
I smile. “We would be honored, at your convenience.”
J.A. laughs. “And at Sarge’s convenience.”
“I’d feel safer with a big, strong Confederate soldier guarding me.” She bats her eyes.
I have to know. “Where did you learn to speak so well, my little dear?”
She blushes red with a pearly smile. “At the all-girls academy. My daddy says it’s not right that only boys get an education. My heart hurts, though. On my way to school, I pass by the poor children who can’t afford school. I hope to be a teacher one day and help all children get an education, poor or not, and even the Negro children. It’s right, do you agree?”
“I do.” Maybe that’s a reason to let Vicksburg fall. I keep that to myself.
Another soldier on duty asks, “What? You want niggahs to read and write?”
I whisper, “Back off.”
I pick a wildflower. “A pretty flower for a prettier flower. That makes two.”
She blushes again. “You are quite the gentleman, suh.”
Her starchy skirt ruffles as she gracefully skips toward her daddy’s wagon bounding up on the seat as he gently pops the mules with the reins.
J.A. kicks the dirt. “Sure miss my boy, Richard. Mary Jane wants a girl just like Lucy when I get back. I wish I could hug my boy’s neck.” He pulls me to the side. “I gotta ask, do you think them little niggah kids ought to learn to read?”
My anger flares, but I quiet my spirit. After all, he’s the best friend I have here. “Damn, J.A., everybody should get the chance to learn to read, don’t you think? Heck, readin’ makes the world better ’cause it helps us understand each other better.”
He nods.
“And about that word niggah. You do know what it means, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “A niggah acts like he ain’t got no trainin’, like he’s stupid, doing stupid things ’cause he don’t know any better. Truth be told, J.A., there’s more niggahs in this white man’s army than I ever seen colored black folks back home.”
J.A. rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t argue with that. How’d you come to that understandin’?”
“You agree the Good Lord knows what he’s doin’. If he does, then he places people when and where he wants them, where they’re born and to who, even what color. Knowin’ that I didn’t have a choice in the matter, I could’ve been born slave or free, black just as easy as white. That bein’ true, I best treat folks like Jesus said, like I want to be treated, or it won’t go well for me. Jesus came to set the captives free, not chain ’em.” I let J.A. sit with that for a minute.
I whisper, “The Lord said in Psalm number twenty-four that the earth is His and everything in it, the world, and they that dwell therein. So if the Lord owns everythin’ and all the people in it, it ain’t mine. It’s all His, especially human bein’s.”
I point to a slave washing an officer’s shirt. “If that man belongs to the Lord, how can another man own him unless he steals him from the Lord? He surely didn’t buy him from Jesus.”
J.A. puts his finger to his lips.
I quiet down. Nobody heard me. They will someday.
He watches the wagon go up the hill. “I’ve thought about that before. Some folks back home set their niggahs free before the war. I guess that’s what Jesus was talkin’ about. Our Pa never had slaves. He just wouldn’t have it. But what can I do to make things better?”
Here’s my opportunity. “Tell you what. Let’s stop sayin’ niggah. Let’s just call Negroes by what they are—a man, woman, or child—and by their names, what you say?”
“You’re serious, ain’t you?”
“Damn straight. We’re better men than that.”
We watch until the wagon crests the rise with little Lucy waving furiously.
“I can do that, but my reasons for bein’ here ain’t to set the darkies free. Nawsuh, just take a look into the sky blue eyes of a little blonde curly-haired angel like that one, and you know why you’re defendin’ this town.”
I look into the eyes of the slave washing his master’s shirt, and my reasons for fighting this war change.