AUGUST 10, 1862
“It ain’t only knowin’ why I fight. It’s also knowin’ why I want to live.”
ISHAM THROWS DOWN his shovel. “Why don’t the Yanks just come on and get it over with?”
J.A. pulls the weed he’s been chewing out of his mouth. “They’ll come soon enough.”
I lean on my shovel. “The Yanks don’t need no invitation. Get your mind on somethin’ else.”
Isham picks up his shovel. “Diggin’, drillin’, guardin’! Reveille at 4:00 a.m. Two-hour drill at 4:15. Breakfast at 7:00. Another two-hour company drill at 8:00. Dinner call at 1:00 p.m. Dress parade at 6:00. Dang officers got more drills than the army manual. And it’s borin’ as hell work in the earthworks! I’m sick of it! I wish they’d come on just to have somethin’ different to do.”
I thrust my shovel into the dirt. “This won’t be the barn dance you think—for them or us.”
J.A. swings a pick. “You’ll wish you was buildin’ these earthworks then.”
Isham climbs out of the rifle pit we’re digging. “I’m gettin’ some water.”
J.A. stretches his back. “It ain’t easy waitin’ for what you dread.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. “Especially when you’re scared.”
Sarge waves me over. “And bring that young ’un you got there.”
I lean my shovel against the log wall. “Come on, Granville, Sarge wants us.”
Sarge walks to a wagon. “Y’all take this into town with the others and pick up rations for the regiment. Think y’all can do that?”
We salute without a word.
We arrive to find more food than I’ve ever seen in one place. Loading the wagon reminds me of working at Davis’s Feed and Seed. I’d rather be there.
Men cheer as the wagons filled with rations roll into camp. Good food and lots of it revives the faint of heart. Many things we’ve had to pay for now become nearly free. Harvest is in, and we get all the squashes and cabbages we can eat for a dime. Watermelons, musk melons, peaches, and vegetables are as cheap as ever. Our company fares well when we put our silver together to roast a nice fat pig. We have vegetables with cornpone for dinner. We eat ’til we nearly burst and have plenty left for supper. Heck, they even gave us buttermilk and peach pie for dessert.
Despite all the good food, only 174 men of the twelve hundred 27th Louisiana are fit to fight. We’ve all had some sort of ailment. Thirty Winn Rebels have died, and only twenty are ready if the Yanks came now. I’m one of the fortunate healthy few.
It’s hot enough to make a man puke. Isham holds his stomach. “Everythin’ I eat runs through me like lightnin’. Feels like it, too.”
Sarge sips a taste from the dipper bucket. He spews it out. “Damn river water smells like an outhouse, and the spring water ’round here ain’t much better. Hell, we’ve had to post guards to keep men from muddying up the springs.”
I hold a dipperful to my lips. I pour it out. “This ain’t fit to drink. Spring water gets hot so fast we can’t drink it before it goes bad.”
Isham rocks back and forth clutching his gut. “I just want to go home.”
Sarge pulls him up by the shirt sleeve. “Let’s go see the Doc. Nobody’s gettin’ leave time from nothin’ around here, especially when the Yanks come.”
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LATE AUGUST, GENERAL Van Dorn orders every citizen, soldier, and Negro to have a pass just to go in and out of Vicksburg. Sarge assigns me to a check point. Lines are long, and tempers flare. That only happens if I’m paired with a man who can’t read. By month’s end, I’ve done it so much, I mostly just say, “Next,” to keep the line moving. But I do look at every face.
The man I’m working with complains, “Dang, the line just gets longer and longer everyday.”
“Yeah, my feet are sore.”
I hand a pass back to an older man when I notice a tall, graying black man with his hat pulled down keeps peeking around the people in front of him. He acts suspiciously.
I tip his hat up. “Friend, look up, I need to see your face.”
Old Bart raises his head with the biggest half toothless grin I’ve ever seen and bear hugs me.
And behind him is Mr. Gilmore, dressed like a farmhand.
I can hardly believe my eyes. “What… how?”
Sarge yells. “Is there a problem here, soldier?”
I salute. “No suh, Sergeant. This here’s Mistuh Gilmore, my father-in-law and boss, and my good friend Old Bart from back home. We plowed many a row together, didn’t we, Bart?”
“And caught many a catfish, too, Massuh Lummy.”
Mr. Gilmore offers his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Sergeant. It appears you have trained Lummy very well to do his duty as a good soldier. Thank you for being such a fine leader to prepare him for receiving the Yankee invader, suh.” The silver-tongued old man knows exactly how to win over the toughest of men.
“No need to try’n sweet talk this old boar coon out the tree, Mistuh Gilmore. Lummy, take the rest of the day and visit with your friends. Be ready for duty first thing in the mornin’.”
“Thank you, Sarge.” I salute. I’m so happy I want to run off in all directions at once.
“Go on now, ’fore I change my mind.”
We get to camp, and I hand them each a cup of coffee. “It’s all we got, but it ain’t bad.”
Old Bart takes a sip and licks his lips. “What’s it made out of?”
“The finest sweet taters you’ll ever dig.”
Mr. Gilmore blows on his. “Hot.The hint of sassafras is an added touch.”
“I found it over in the woods this mornin’.” We stare at each other for a moment. “I can’t believe you’re here. How’d you get through the Yanks?”
Mr. Gilmore takes a long sip from his cup. “We boated down the Black and Tensas Rivers. From there we walked fifteen miles to Waterproof and caught a steamer here.
Old Bart’s eyes light up. “Lummy, a Yankee boat came runnin’ fast. We just knew we was caught, but our captain hid us behind a sandbar. Never was so scared in all my live long days.”
I can resist no longer. “So, what’s in the packs?”
Mr. Gilmore smiles. “I figure folks back home can help you boys out just a little.” He pushes the bundles over.
“Feels like Christmas. We can use just anythin’ you brought.” I find badly needed clothes, especially long handles, a heavy jacket, and thick socks for the winter. There are two pint jars of muscadine jelly, a small bundle of paper for letters and envelopes with postage, a pound of real coffee, a sack of lemon drops, deer jerky, and a quart jar of pickled eggs.
I can hardly speak. “I don’t know what to say. Y’all risked your lives to make mine better.”
Then I pull out a rubberized raincoat and hold it up. “There weren’t none of these left by the time I volunteered.”
Mr. Gilmore whispers, “Susannah took in lots of sewin’ to buy you this bit of comfort.”
I hold back tears. “It’ll take the hell out of standin’ guard on cold damp nights come winter.”
Mr. Gilmore sighs. “I know it’s tough here, son, but things are getting worse back home. A ruffian named Dawg Smith ran off the sheriff and proclaimed himself Captain of the Home Guard. They’re just a band of damn devilish miscreant outlaws. Don’t worry about Susannah. She’s staying with your brother Ben. He’ll guard her like blood kin.”
“Does he know?”
Mr. Gilmore shifts on his crate. “He does. Ben was going to find out sooner or later. Dorcas already knew. Women always know things.”
I rub my chin. “How’d he take it?”
“Not well at first. He got over it soon enough with Dorcas’s help.”
Old Bart lays his hand on my shoulder. “Lummy, it’s all right. Massuh Ben told me later, ‘Lummy don’t do things like other people in this damned ole world. I guess he can do what he wants.’” That’s good news.
“So, how’s my sweet darlin’, Susannah? I do miss her so.”
“Here’s the best thing we brought.” Old Bart shivers like a kid picking out his favorite candy.
He hands me a small leather pouch. I undo the drawstring. I carefully pull a small, silver-hinged frame from the pouch and open it to find a picture of Susannah in a beautiful dress.
My heart melts. “Thank you both. This means so much to me.” I stare at my wife for a few moments. The beautifully engraved inscription opposite her picture reads,
Always.
Your loving wife Susannah Tullos
Christmas Day, 1861
“Where’d you.…”
Mr. Gilmore cuts in. “A friend who makes tintypes passed through after you left. He stayed at the house for a few nights. He photographed us for the kindness. I had that one made for you. The frame is his gift for your service in the army. Susannah said you’d like the inscription.”
“This is my most treasured possession—a portrait of my wife no longer the property of any man. It’s only because of men like you. I love you dearly, my brothers.”
Mr. Gilmore reaches into his coat pocket. “Almost forgot, you’ll want these, too.” He hands me a stack of letters from Susannah, Dorcas, and one from the kids.
I dry my eyes on my shirt sleeve. “This is better’n gettin’ back pay.”
Mr. Gilmore and Old Bart stay two more days to walk around Vicksburg. Mr. Gilmore visits old friends and business associates. Old Bart plays the part of a slave for the sake of the circumstances. I look forward to the day he’ll be free of that.
“You play the part so well, Bart. You should take up actin’ after the war.”
“Lummy, one day I just want to be myself, the Bart who lives deep inside. He just wants to be free, and he’s got a plan when that time comes. For now, I just wants to help Mistuh Gilmore.”
Every break I get, they’re waiting for me in camp. I catch up on home news and tell them about my adventures since leaving Winnfield. I introduce them to my friends, and some ask to have letters, small items, and money carried back to their families in Winn Parish.
They leave early morning September 2nd. It’s hard to watch. I send letters to Susannah, Ben and family, and one to Mr. and Mrs. Davis. I try to put money in one of the envelopes, but Mr. Gilmore won’t have it. Instead, he slips me twenty dollars.
“Ben sent it to you along with a piece of his heart, he said to tell you.”
I nearly burst out in tears again. Their visit renews my hope for the future. I have a life waiting for me back in Winn Parish, and I want to live it.
Later at supper, I tell J.A., “It’s not just knowin’ why I fight, but why I want to live, too.”
J.A. puts his arm around my shoulder. “What you thinkin’, Lummy?”
“If I had a choice, I’d be on that boat with them.” There’s something they’re not telling me about Susannah.