JUNE 23, 1862
Smoke rises thickest from smoldering ashes.
WHEN NOT ON picket duty, we improve the earthworks—hard work to keep worries at bay. Our batteries control the river and keep Farragut’s navy from joining with the Yankee boats steaming south from Memphis. Everytime a shell flies over, we duck. It works on the nerves something fierce. With every bombardment, General Smith adjusts his earthwork plans for an assault from any direction. And it will come. Bombarding Vicksburg into submission has failed.
I wake this morning sick as a dog. Doc gives me quinine to break the chills and cool the fever. He first thought it was malaria, but that was proved wrong in just a few days. With better food and a few sips from the five gallons of whiskey we’d won in a sharpshooting contest, I’m fine now. I don’t want a grave marker in the cemetery down the road.
I make it back to F Company in a couple days, and J.A laughs. “You was just fakin’ so you could get some good sippin’ whiskey. Always good for what ails a man.” I don’t argue with that.
Friday morning at roll call, our captain reads a message from President Davis that General Lovell has been replaced by Major General Earl Van Dorn to lead the Confederate Department of Southern Mississippi and East Louisiana.”
I gripe, “I never liked that Lovell. He had a bad habit of torchin’ perfectly good cotton even with no Yanks in sight.” I know. I helped burn it.
Van Dorn has the reputation of a fighter and a lover, sometimes giving too much attention to other men’s wives. Men in high positions sometimes afford themselves the luxury being above the law sometimes, civil and moral. Even so, General Smith is happy to have Van Dorn take charge but more so that Colonel Samuel H. Lockett arrived to oversee engineering the defenses.
Lockett stops by to inspect our work. He grabs a shovel and goes to work. After half an hour he calls for water. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Men of the 27th Louisiana, I am extremely proud of your vigorous preparations. You took an oath to defend our great Confederate States of America, and I take an oath to make Vicksburg an impregnable fortress. Spies report that Grant is bringing 1100 slaves from area cotton plantations to dig a canal across DeSoto Point. Who does he think he is, God Himself thinking he can change the course of the Mississippi?”
Now we have a West Pointer with some real know-how.
We work longer hours with less food. We’re hungry all the time. I worked just as hard on the farm but always had more than enough food. Food gets scarce, and our money worth less. The going rate for a peck of Irish potatoes is four bits. The men who complain the most work the least and have bigger appetites from years of living in ease with plenty.
J.A. throws down his shovel. “You sorry, lazy no good sons o’ bitches. Get up and work. You loaf around all day and eat twice as much as the rest of us.”
I hand him his shovel. “You done?”
“Reckon so. I’m just tired of my guts stickin’ to my backbone.”
“I do understand. I wish I could put my feet under my ma’s table tonight.”
J.A. leans on his shovel handle. “Wonder how your lady friend across the river is doin’?”
“Probably slimmin’ up pretty good, I’d bet.”
“She’s got plenty of men to pester with Grant bringing troops to help dig the canal.”
“Reckon so.” Though I don’t know her well, I count Annie a friend. She makes me laugh.
J.A. licks his lips. “I wish my feet were under my wife’s kitchen table, too. I’d have butter on my taters and springhouse cold sweet milk in my cup.”
Isham slaps J.A. playfully on his chest. “Shut the hell up, boy. I’m so hungry I could eat the acorns out of a dead coon’s ass.” My stomach churns after that comment.
Sarge walks our way, message in hand. “Good news, boys. Troops from all over the Confederacy are pourin’ in. Most have seen the elephant more’n once and are spoilin’ for another fight. Make as many friends as you can. Every man you call friend is a soldier who’ll save your ass when the shootin’ starts. Bad news is all passes are cancelled. Don’t matter if your momma just passed, you can’t go home.”
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FARRAGUT’S GUNBOATS FINALLY come back firing their mortars along with General William’s rifled artillery from across the river. The whistle of the shells and the bursts of exploding shells scare some men and anger others. I’m somewhere in between—scared I won’t make it home and angry I have to be here in the first place. The Yanks try to weaken the river batteries on June 26th but do little more than frighten the good citizens and wound a few men. Our boys manning the big guns gave them hell in response. It was a sight to see from the bluffs above.
Before dawn, June 28th, Farragut makes a run for it. His boats steam full bore upriver. We run to the bluff to watch. Thirty-six Union ships bear down with cannon and mortar against ten guns of the Marine Hospital Battery. The river is only a half mile wide here. It’s a murderous scene. The artillerists load, adjust their aim, and fire one round after another. I want to join in with each blast. I watch with my finger set on my musket trigger—a small and useless contribution if I fired at the gunboats.
Big guns belch out death flames spitting iron and shot mercilessly. When shells come too close, Sarge pulls us back, but we see enough to know those boys, both blue and gray, are having a hell of a fight.
After three hours, the last gunboat rounds the bend to safety. We crippled a few. None of our guns were damaged. Two gunners and three pickets were wounded. That’s never good news.
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SARGE YELLS WHILE we’re eating breakfast. “Finish up! No digging today. We’re movin’ camp.”
Isham pokes the fire. “Where to, Sarge?”
“Out of this damn heat and into the shade.”
I reach for more coffee, and I catch J.A. staring at me. “What? I got mud on my face or what?”
He wants to turn away but whispers, “No, Lummy, it’s your hands.”
They’re shaking. “Well, that just won’t do when I aim my musket at a chargin’ Yank.”
“You all right?”
“I don’t feel scared, but I think this shellin’ is workin’ on my nerves.”
“It’s messin’ a lot of boys up. Some run off ’fore the Yanks even get here.”
I’d run off too if it weren’ for the oath I took. I won’t. But I have turned to my anger to survive.
A boy crawls out of his tent. “Sarge, my throat hurts somethin’ fierce, and it’s hard to chew.”
J.A. rushes to pick him up. “He’s had headaches, fever, achy muscles, won’t eat, is wore out all the time, and he’s got a bad pain in his man parts.”
Sarge points. “Isham, run get the Doc.”
The doctor examines several men. “It’s what I feared. The mumps have found Vicksburg. Let’s get the infected to the hospital. Sarge, if anybody else complains, you send them to me.”
Sarge salutes, and we load the infected men in the wagon.
J.A. shakes his head. “Mortars or the mumps. I don’t know which does more damage.”
A message runner trots into camp. “General Van Dorn is sendin’ a big surprise to Farragut’s Yankee fleet. When you see it, raise up a cheer for Captain Brown and his brave men.”
Sickness and death, laughing and cheering, all in the same moment. It’s too much on the nerves.
At five o’clock, Farragut gets his surprise. Enemy gunboats rumble out into the river firing cannons like there’s no tomorrow.
Sarge yells, “Company F, grab your weapons, let’s go!”
We make the bluffs just in time to see the Yankee ship Queen run full steam out of the Yazoo River as smoke billows from the Carondelet and the Tyler.
Sarge strains to look upriver. “Glory be, would you look at that?”
A ragged and damaged little boat storms out of the mouth of the Yazoo River like a hound on a rabbit’s scent. The long, narrow boat with one smokestack charges the Yankee fleet straight out.
Sarge yells, “Give ’em hell, Cap’n Brown.”
We raise a cheer the Yanks surely hear across the river. The gunboat hesitates. Captain Brown faces a gauntlet of masts and smokestacks, rams and ironclads on the left and gunboats, ordinary steamers, and bomb vessels on the right.
Granville yells, “He ain’t scared. He’s just pickin’ out which one he’s gonna sink first!”
Brown rams and sinks the first boat he comes to. He fires his thirty guns so quickly we think it’s our light artillery.
I yell, “What’s that boat’s name?”
The lieutenant with a spyglass smiles. “The Arkansas!” All of Vicksburg cheers Captain Brown on. The Arkansas ducks and dodges, slips in and out of the fifty or more gunboats.
J.A. points. “Look, he’s so quick they’re shootin’ at each other!”
The Arkansas passes every Yankee boat in the fleet, but their shots just bounce off.
Our captain yells, “About time you got some of your own medicine!” We yell and cheer, curse and pray for the lone brave Confederate gunboat.
Men from Little Rock shake their fists. “That’s what you get when you mess with Arkansas!”
A man from Greenwood yells, “Yeah, and don’t forget she was built right here in Missip.”
The Arkansas looks like it was built from a trash heap, but she gives more than she gets.
“Here she comes!” Battered, Union gunboats chase the Arkansas to the riverbank but are backed off by a few bursts from our bluff batteries. We cheer her to high heaven as she docks in front of the city. Men rush from everywhere to repair and refuel her.
Colonel Marks yells, “Let’s go!” We race down the hill. “Bet Ole Farragut is pukin’ his guts up now. She whipped the pride of the Mississippi River Yankee Navy.”
We roar, “Hurrah for the good ship Arkansas, hero of the Confederate Navy.”
J.A. points. “Oh shit, the Yanks must’ve heard us. Here they come again.” The Arkansas is ready. We take cover behind the riverbank batteries.
An old timer screams, “Look. They firin’ all they got, and she’s still givin’ ’em hell. Whoo-hah! Iroquois, Hartford, Richmond, Brooklyn, Wissahickon, Sumter, Sciota, Winona, Pinola, just look at ’em all.”
I shake my head. “How can you see the names on them boats, old man?”
“Old man? You tater-headed, titty suckin’, cedar saplin’. Hell, I can spot a ’coon in the dark up the tallest tree and tell you the length of his rooster. I’ve got a good eye, son.”
I like this old man. He reminds me of Mr. Wiley.
Each Union gunboat takes its turn, but the Arkansas absorbs the blasts and keeps firing.
Finally, the Yanks retreat.
“What’s your name, suh, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
The old man wheels around on one foot. “My name’s Goddard. I fought with Ole Winfield Scott in the Seminole War right after the Dade massacre. Chief Oseola killed all but three of us when they ambushed a hundred Americans after we left Fort Brooke. Good friend of mine hid in a pond ’til they left. I’m the only one left to tell it. Other two died of their wounds.” He tears up. “Forgive us all, Lord.” Mr. Goddard grabs my collar. “Stay alive, son! That’s all that matters.”
While cooks prepare supper, I write Susannah. I’m shaky, and I have trouble thinking.
Camp Norwood, Vicksburg Mississippi July 15, 1862
Dearest Susannah, things are gettin worse, but I guess it’s to be expected. We get bombarded every day. But we watched a little boat called the Arkansas take on Farragut’s navy. The Yanks finally left with a lot of men dead. I’ve made good friends since I left Winn Parish. Some are sick and some dead. I wrote two letters but received none from you. Yanks across the river make the mail slow gettin here. We buy most of what we eat now. Can you believe watermelons cost a dollar? They say we might be eatin mule beef soon. Some say they won’t. They will when they get hungry. Paper is 2 dollars a pound. I hope you don’t mind one page letters so it will last. I know I asked you already, but please send shirts, pants, some drawers, and socks. I have no money to buy any. Just send what you can. When you need money, ask Mr. Gilmore. Pray the war won’t last long. I planned to come home, but all leaves were cancelled. I want to hold you in my arms. I’m sorry to be such a burden. Stay strong my dear.
Your loving husband,
Lummy
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THE MORNING SUN casts a long shadow across the river. I trot down the bluff trail for picket duty just as the ram Queen of the West and the ironclad Essex race across the river to attempt to destroy the Arkansas. I dive into the gun emplacements with my rifle as all hell breaks loose. The Arkansas surges forward to avoid being rammed. The Essex pulls alongside, and Yank sailors steal across the decks to capture the Arkansas. I curse and shout putting a cap on my musket.
I join the sharpshooters to fend off Yank sailors while the Kentucky boys fire their twenty-four pounders into the Essex. The fight lasts only forty minutes. The Arkansas sits defiant and safe under the batteries. My first real fight and I did more ducking than firing. Thank God I didn’t kill anybody.
I hope.
Old Mr. Goddard steps out from behind some barrels. “How do you feel about it, son?”
“Feel about what?”
“Killin’ your first man.”
“I didn’t kill….”
“Son, you’re a shooter. When the other boys was loadin’, you shot a sailor off the top deck like a squirrel out of a tree.”
A heavy blanket of despair weighs heavy on my soul. “Surely, I didn’t.” Then I see him fall in my mind. I did kill him. I see his eyes.
“It’s all right, son, you done your duty.”
I nod as he walks away. I want to throw down my musket. “Ain’t nobody’s duty to kill men made in Creator’s image.”
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FARRAGUT RETREATS AGAIN July 27th, and the rest follow the next day. The Arkansas is refitted, and we watch her steam south towards Baton Rouge. It was our first taste of battle, and General Van Dorn praises not only the Arkansas and all his brave Mississippi troops, but also the valiant men of Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Louisiana, and Missouri. We’re becoming a real army and proud of it. But I’m not proud of killing. I just keep my mind somewhere else and throw myself into building earthworks. The hard work is good for my heart, but my soul aches for sending that sailor to God. What else could I have done?
J.A. drives his shovel deep. “What else could you have done? You ain’t gettin’ out of this war unless you kill the man tryin’ to kill you.” He’s right, but I don’t have to like it.
Tonight, I lay in my tent recounting how the Arkansas did so much damage to so many gunboats. The crackling fire reminds me of all those muskets firing at the Essex. I stare into the darkness. The eyes of the Yank sailor I killed stare back. It happened all so fast, did it really happen? I saw the man fall into the brown swirling water with hardly a splash. He had the strangest blank stare on his face—a look of peace. Then I saw him no more.
My heart aches for some mother’s son, some wife’s husband, some child’s father. I did it and without a thought until I came back to my senses. I killed a living man with a soul. “How can I live with that? How can one man do so much damage to another human being?”
I can’t sleep, so I walk to river’s edge.
Isham throws pebbles into the water. “I know you take no joy in killin’ that man today. But we gotta do what needs doin’ ’cause theYankees ain’t done with us yet.” He points to a lump floating by. The body of a dead Yank bobs like a fishing cork still clinging to a log. He’s too far to reach, so we let him float on by.
I shudder at the sight. “That could’ve been me.”
Isham smiles. “Naw it couldn’t. The Lord ain’t done with you yet, Lummy.”