MAY 17, 1862
Old men brag. Old women nag the braggers. Until the gunboats appear.
OVER THE NEXT few days, troops pour in from all over the South, besides the thirty-five hundred just in from Louisiana. Weary and sick men arrive who fought at Shiloh Church, the bloodiest battle of the war yet, the papers say.
Sarge keeps us moving, working, lifting, and digging. I’m leaner and more sinewy than if I was working on the farm. Not so for all. Some men down with measles, mumps, or a bad case of the screamers look like skeletons. They’re a pitiful sight.
Sarge marches over. “Yummy, take the sick to the city hospital. The wagon’s over there.”
I give him an uncomfortable salute. It’s a risk, but I figure if a man’s going to get sick, there’s not much he can do about it. I wear a rag over my nose and mouth the whole time I’m gone. Young Billy Dixon is fortunate to have the measles leave his body two days after getting a bed. Most aren’t that lucky. Some don’t come back from the hospital at all.
Thankfully, I’ve been spared any sickness, and it’s not because of my undying good looks. Disease cares not for who you are, where you’re from, or how rich your daddy is. I’m careful how I handle food and latrine issues. We each pay Doc Simpson a dollar a month to keep us well. That’s quite a bit for a poor soldier, but it’s worth staying healthy. It’s hard to get medicine, and when he finds it, it costs more these days.
Some of the city boys whose lily-white backs have never seen the sun also don’t know a man shouldn’t drink water near latrines. Sarge constantly has to remind them. A drink of what appears to be cool fresh spring water can turn a stomach into a roaring fiery cannon exploding from your hind end. They call it the screamers. Their backs peel in the sun and backsides burn like fire when they go to the ditch. Not a good combination while using a pick and shovel.
The spirits of the men are high, though. Decent food, and lots of it, good honest hard work, and pay on time will do that for a man. I never mind hard work. It keeps a man’s soul pure.
“Sweatin’ out the ole Devil,” as Granny Thankful used to call it. But the complaining increases as the workload increases.
Granville, a young boy we met from Company A, who’s barely sixteen, finally changed his whining tune and is shaping into a man more each day. Some of these young boys should’ve thought twice before seeking glory. It’s not found in digging rifle pits. The letters to his mother change from a constant moan to how he and the Skipwith Guards will fight to the last man.
Sarge walks the line to check our progress. “Step it up, boys. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’ll let you off the whole day if you finish today out real good. I know you need time to go squander your lives chasin’ pretty town girls if you got nothin’ better to do. But make sure you get some preachin’ sometime durin’ the day. Good Lord knows you need it.”
We cheer and laugh. It’s the only time I’ve seen Sarge smile since we left Camp Moore. He worries we won’t be ready when the Yanks come. At three o’clock, he comes back to volunteer J.A. and me, a few others, and a young Negro for a special job.
“Don’t cry. I’ll get you back in time to beat the other boys to town.” We all volunteer, except the Negro. He has no say. We double-time it to the south end of a long cotton field. Five hundred bales of cotton lay neatly stacked covered with tarps.
Sarge barks, “Get them tarps off, fold them up good, and claim one each for your shelter. You’ll want ’em when the rains come. Then burn the cotton. Watch the fire for an hour or so after you light it. Don’t let it get away from you.”
We pour kerosene on the bales and Sarge lights the fire. It’s the biggest blaze I’ve ever seen. Fortunately, the wind kicks up from the east sending choking stench across the river. What a waste. Thousands of dollars’ worth of fine cotton up in smoke. It’d make a lot of cloth at the mill in Bankston.
I look down at my clothes. What I brought from home is wearing out fast. We’re only allowed to wear our uniforms at guard duty and parade. So we swap out clothes, making do as best we can, but they’re getting pretty threadbare. Men who sent clothes home now wish they hadn’t. While we watch the fire, I write Susannah a short note asking a little help for myself.
Vicksburg, Mississippi May 17, 1862
Dearest Sweetheart of my soul. All is well here in V’burg. The work is hard but not for an old farm hand. Standing guard duty is borin, but we get to wear our uniforms. My work clothes are wearin thin. Please send pants, shirts, drawers, socks, and my extra pair of boots. I really need them. It just won’t do to be naked as a jaybird around here. Send them in care of Captain William B. Stovall, 27th Regiment Looseana Volunteers.
V’burg is a very nice city. One day when this is all over I’ll bring you here. We never did have a proper honeymoon. I miss and love you my darlin.
I remain always your faithful husband til death,
Lummy Tullos
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WE EXPECT TO see Yankee gunboats in the river any day. With the defenses shaping up, we’re pretty confident, maybe a little cocky. It’s hot, and mosquitoes swarm in clouds up at our posts every night. Some men ask for passes to go home. The dismal letters they receive from family and the constant waiting for the enemy to arrive weaken their resolve. Hearing them complain makes me homesick for Susannah and the peaceful life we started before I left.
“Damn, why did I ever leave home?”
J.A. elbows me. “Shut up, boy. You’ll wind up in the Warren County jail talkin’ like that.”
Today we hear fifteen Yankee boats are anchored near Natchez. The Yank Navy inches closer every day. I’m nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It’s not knowing what’s ahead that rattles my soul. When the gunboats bombard towns like Vicksburg, people get killed standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know what to expect.
Old men come out after their morning coffee to boast how the brave boys in gray will pummel the Yanks. They spin tales of glory fighting Indians and Mexicans. Gray haired ladies bring us cold water and fresh baked bread at dinner time. They nag their husbands to get back to their own jobs. They threaten no supper if they come home late.
One old man brags, “Hell, they’ll have to level this city before we surrender.” Old men brag. Old women nag the braggers. At least until the gunboats appear.
Saturday night we listen to an impassioned speech by Reverend Jeremiah H. Tucker of the Dixie Rebels. General Smith believes we need a spirited word of encouragement to prepare us for the coming fight. Though he uses words most of us never heard, Reverend Tucker lays it on thick in the might of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. A fellow next to me copied down his whole speech. I think his name is Gunnard.
“Good men of the 27th Louisiana, the exigencies of our time demand this sacrifice of us all, and like you, I willingly make it. Did I say willingly? Yes, cheerfully even. I am ready as when I left my home, as are you, to lay my life down for my country. Weak women and cowardly men may never be, but brave hearts are set on their divine course. I find often our dear ladies are more patriotic than our men. I do not see that here, my comrades in arms.”
Reverend Tucker takes a deep breath. “I know you men would rather have your homes and furnishings burned by your wives’ own hands rather than it give shelter and sustenance to the Yank invader. Should we hang our hallowed heads in despair? Must we tremble in fear at the sound of the Yankee gunboats? I dare say not. For did not the British take possession of all the principal cities of those thirteen fledgling colonies? Did not their all-powerful navy hem up our rivers and ports? Did they not send regiment after regiment of the reputed finest army in the world against a ragged, naked, starving, and ill-armed peasant rabble and yet were destroyed? And shall we be worthy of our fathers? God forbid, we will not yield.”
With many other reassurances, Reverend Tucker outdid himself. I bet the folks in Winn Parish heard the cheering that night for such a rousing speech. I hope so, for the good reverend mentioned that the Yanks are making their way up the Red River. He assures us the farmers will block the stream with log rafts. I’m sure Ben, Mr. Gilmore, and Old Bart will pitch in. I’m glad tomorrow is Sunday. I need to hear something good about God.
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THIS MORNING, WE wash our faces, slick our hair, clean our shoes, and walk to the city. After preaching, we go down to the river. We mill around throwing rocks into the stream when sky rockets shoot high south of town. It’s the warning signal I’ve been dreading.
“They’re here!” one of the boys in the Marine Battery yells. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and chills run down my spine like spiders crawling all over me.
Before we can scatter to our posts, the Yankee ship Oneida steams up fast and close. The river battery lays a shot across her bow to let her know she’s close enough. The Yankee boat lowers a hack to bring a message from S. Phillips Lee, Commander of the Advance Naval Division, a high-sounding Yankee title. He’s a Farragut man.
In a pee pot—which is about what his message is worth—Farragut demands the surrender of Vicksburg. Demands? His tone is as high and mighty as his title and worth about half as much. The officer receiving the message from the Yank sailor’s shaky hand walks away, mumbling after reading the few lines.
J.A. shouts, “I’d like to buy Yankee Lee for what he’s worth and then sell him for what he thinks he’s worth.” We laugh heartily, though nervously.
Commander Lee had to wait five hours to get three replies to his ridiculous demand. I hear it all, pulling guard duty as each was read before the Yank officer in the hack.
The Vicksburg mayor, the Honorable Lazarus Lindsay, wrote, “Neither municipal authorities nor citizens will ever consent to the surrender of the city.” It has feeling, warm but clear.
Lieutenant Colonel James L. Autry, the local commander, offers a more passionate, though less tempered, response. “I have to state that Mississippians don’t know, and refuse to learn, how to surrender to an enemy. If Farragut or Butler can teach them, let them come and try.” Old Autry looks to have a high fever when he barks out those words.
The last reply comes from General M. L. Smith who exhibits no sign of feeling. In a matter-of-fact fashion, he states, “Regarding the surrender of the defenses, I have to reply that, having been ordered here to hold these defenses, my intention is to do so as long as it is in my power to do so.” I’ve never heard words said more peacefully while at the same time so firmly. Smith is a professional soldier. He doesn’t blink. He simply tells Lee what is and what will be. It must’ve struck Yankee Lee dumb. It strengthens my resolve.
Sarge grins. “Bet Yankee Lee scratchin’ that ole swoled up head that got popped like a soap bubble.” We taunt the Yanks in the hack as they travel back to the Oneida.
A man who just arrived yells, “This ain’t New Orleans or Baton Rouge, and it surely ain’t Natchez. This here’s Vicksburg.” Yeah, but the Yanks now hold New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and Natchez. Don’t guess the new boys understand how that happened.
The Yankees do, though.
Colonel Marks orders F Company with a couple other units from the 27th Louisiana to march along the bluff around 5:00 p.m. It’s for show, but it catches Commander Lee’s attention. He’s had just about enough of the defiant citizens and soldiers of Vicksburg.
The Oneida spits out a shell rising high in the sky. We see it coming but can’t tell if it’ll make the bluff or not. It just hangs in mid-air for what seems like an eternity. None of us have ever seen a cannon fire, much less be shot at by one. When it drops, there’s no mistaking it.
“Run, J.A.! She’s comin’ right at us!”
We scatter like chickens with a fox in the henhouse. Fortunately, no one is hit by the flying shrapnel when it explodes. J. A. hands me a piece of the hot metal. I feel its warm, jagged edges in my palm. Surely would have done terrible damage if it’d hit somebody. A second shell lands near men in the earthworks, but no one’s hurt.
The next day, Yankee Lee warns the mayor to evacuate the women and children. He will commence shelling the city soon.
We wait and wait, expecting the devil’s fire and brimstone to rain down at any moment. It doesn’t for three more days. But today, the 26th of May 1862, at 5:00 p.m., Vicksburg receives its first piece of fiery Yankee mail, with twenty shells to follow. It’s on for sure now. Between shifts in the earthworks, I stay down by the river with my musket to watch. I just hope they go away. We watchYankee gunships launch 125 exploding shells into the city in one day. Then at 10:00 p.m., Yankee Lee sends 65 more shells. Isham, J.A., and I sit on a hill above our camp.
J.A. fills his pipe. “What do you think, Lummy? Them mortar boats maybe three miles away?”
A mortar fires. We follow the red streak of their fuses until it hits somewhere in the city.
“Oh, I don’t know, looks about right.” My heart aches for the women and children, the innocents of this war who suffer the most.
He hangs his head. “Sure glad my family ain’t in the city.”
Isham hunkers down with his arms wrapped around his knees and starts rocking. “Them damn Yank shells gonna rouse the Devil himself.”
I lean over to J.A. “I believe the Devil has been roused up, you think?”
He takes out his pipe. “I think.” It’s so loud we can hardly hear each other talk, and the incessant flash of explosions make the river like a stream of fire. But we’re safe, for now.
Sarge walks to the edge of the bluff. “Sad news, boys. A shell fatally wounded the mother of three little girls. Some of our boys carried her to a house where she died in twenty minutes. Another mother, Miz Gamble, was running for her life when she was shot clean through. Her Negro carried her to our camp, but she was dead on arrival. She leaves seven little girls orphaned. Ain’t it enough that they kill us men? But women and children?”
The chaplain comes by. “Damn Yanks targeted citizens watching the show near the Methodist church. Fortunately, they were all spared.”
Maybe I should become a Methodist.
“At least it’s over for now, Chaplain.”
Sarge straightens his kepi. “Not much damage for all these damn shells thrown at us.”
J.A. rubs a hand over his face. “I just can’t get them two mothers and their little orphaned children out of my mind. I want to fight, dammit, but how?”
A runner comes through yelling, “Farragut’s tucked tail and took his boats back downriver. Vicksburg ain’t gonna be as easy as he thought.”
Sarge laments, “They’ll be back soon enough.”
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IT’S ALMOST JUNE. We choke down our morning coffee, biscuits, and fried salt pork and grab our shovels. We line up for roll call still trying to get awake.
Sarge cups his ears straining to listen. “Quiet!”
A shell screaming like a demon let loose from hell whistles toward our camp—then two, three, one right after the other.
Sarge yells. “Get down, now!”
A lieutenant with a spyglass rushes to the edge of the bluff. “It’s the U.S.S Winona, and she’s unloading on our camp!”
I grab J.A. and Isham by their shirts and yank them up. We scramble into a ditch just before the first shell explodes, sending shrapnel everywhere. I feel the heat of the red hot chunks of iron as they pass over my head.
Isham screams, “Who opened the gates of hell?”
I peek over the clods just as a shell hits a mule and scatters bloody parts in all directions. The tail lands on J.A., who shivers like a rabbit on a frosty winter morning. “Get it off me, get it off now!”
Isham grabs it and throws it.
Finally, its over. We start clean up when an old farmer drives his wagon into our camp and holds up a cannon ball. “Them bastards sent a four-inch ball through a seasoned oak two and a half feet thick and kilt my best layin’ hen! Weren’t nothin’ left but feathers floatin’ in the air. Damn Yankees.”
Sarge checks with the other sergeants of the other companies. “Grape shot tore through one of Company G’s tents. Not much more to report than that. Consider yourselves lucky.”
Knowing death can come from anywhere, anytime, weighs heavy. Some can’t stand it. They weren’t trained to take a beating and not get to fight back. Most are scared out of their wits or so angry they stand out near the bluffs and yell at the Yank gunboats. My hands won’t stop shaking from the constant booming. Funny, I don’t feel afraid, but my body tells me to be afraid.
Young Isaac sits by the fire rocking back and forth. “I just want to kill me a Yankee. I just want to kill me a damn Yankee.” He helped carry Mrs. Gamble to our camp after the last bombardment. She died in the arms of the men who bore her. Those men don’t sleep well. None of us do. I wake J.A. a couple times a night from nightmares.
The shelling comes every day and night now. A boy no more than eighteen shakes uncontrollably when the shells come. He sits up on his haunches like a hound dog and howls as the shells pass over. I throw water in his face, and he comes back to himself. Often I pray into the small hours of night but with little hope of sleep.
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THERE’S NO SHELLING this pretty morning. Sarge hands me a Chicago newspaper. “Here, read this out loud.” Men gather around.
“On June 6, Yankee gunboats completely destroy the Confederate river navy north of Memphis. Memphis has fallen.”
Sarge grimaces. “Tighten up, boys. The Yanks’ll be here soon.”
Isham cries. “When Sarge?”
“Don’t know, but we’ve been ordered to move away from this damn shellin’.” We make camp a mile from the river where there’s good water. We set our tents in a big hollow on the back side of the city near Graveyard Road.
J.A. laughs. “They won’t have far to haul us for buryin’.”
Superstitious men get chills, afraid that haints and ghouls might come out of those graves tonight. For my own comfort, I write Ma a letter.
Camp Tucker, Graveyard Road, Vicksburg,
June 6, 1862
Dear Ma, I’m doin well so far. We got shelled not long ago, but we’re all right. Our camp is now by a very large graveyard. They say we will have peace soon since the Yankee boats ran like rabbits. Is the corn growin up tall? I’d give half my pay for a bushel. I escaped the measles and mumps and the screamers so far. I thank the Good Lord for that. Have you heard anythin from George or Amariah? Please ask Mary to write soon. News from home is medicine to my soul. There ain’t never enough pay for what I need here. Anything I still got at home sell for your own needs. Tell my brothers I wish I was on the farm with them. How I wish I could see you all.
Your son,
Lummy Tullos.
Writing home washes the sadness out of my heart—for a time.
After we get camp in order, Colonel Marks orders a short break from all work except guard duty. J.A. and I walk to the bluff to take a look.
J.A. points downriver. “Guess old Farragut left them three gunboats within sight of the city to keep us wonderin’.”
I yell, “Yeah, but we ain’t wonderin’. Who’s doin’ the damn demandin’ now, Farragut?”
Taunting does nothing to build up my spirit. I ain’t got that kind of pride in my soul. I force my mind to picture Susannah’s face and forget about this war. It only lasts for a moment.