MID-SEPTEMBER 1862
The prophet wrote, “It is good that a man should both hope
and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.”
IT RAINS SO hard and for so long, the catfish are using flatboats. Hills and roads are slicker than a greased wagon wheel. Isham was returning from picket duty last night with a few others and got too close to the edge of a gully. It caved, and they slid forty feet to the bottom. We pulled them out with ropes this morning.
Sarge stops by the cookfire before we head to the earthworks. “Cool weather’s comin’. Most of the sickness will leave when the first big frost comes.”
J.A. laughs. “Can you order the mosquitoes and redbugs downriver with the Yankees?”
Sarge points at his arms. “Stop scratchin’, or they’ll get infected.”
All kinds of thoughts race through my mind waiting for the inevitable. Some boys drink whiskey, some run with whores, and some gamble pay they haven’t received. Few seek the stillness of the Lord within. Nothing on the outside a body can bring peace like the Creator inside. Granny Thankful said, “Let those Holy Ghost dove wings flutter in your soul and your mind’ll stay straight, your heart’ll be full of joy, and your body’ll walk in obedience.”
Reading the little Bible Mary gave me before I left and hearing church music comforts my soul. As the organ plays, I clear my mind to all but the music. Sounds fade and so do I into a peace that soothes my nerves, relaxes my body, and strengthens my soul. Still, I find God’s presence best sitting on a log in a quiet place under some willows down by the river.
The twenty dollars from Ben came at a good time. Prices are up, and rations never keep a man fed very well. Two dollar watermelons, four bits for a dozen peaches small as a man’s thumb, two bits for a dozen apples, eight dollars for smoking tobacco, four bits for a peach pie, and forty cents a dozen of the sweet cakes I like—who can afford such? I squeeze every bit I can out of Ben’s gift.
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MID-SEPTEMBER, COOL rains settle the dust clouds rising from all the comings and goings. It’s good to sit by the fire after a long day in the earthworks.
Sarge gathers the company after evening roll call. “We’re gettin’ paid! And backpay, too.” We cheer. “A word to the wise. Don’t gamble it away or waste it on whores.” Some will come begging a nickel in less than a week when they lose it all.
We relax by the fire, drinking coffee. J.A. pulls a newspaper he’s reading closer. “Says here, President Davis is proclaimin’ September 18th a day of fasting and prayer. It’s in thankful praise to God for our recent victories.”
I can’t help myself. “Huh, that’s somethin’. Offerin’ thanks for killin’ other human bein’s.”
J.A. shrugs. “I guess it’s all right. They did it in the Bible.”
I wonder how long the Lord will put up with our wickedness.
Sarge lets us attend special preaching. We trail into town to hear a fiery preacher rail on about how God Almighty of the angel armies will smite the wicked wearing blue.
I lean over to J.A. “Enough of this talk about who’s got God on their side. Only thing will get us through this—how the inside man fares with God.”
“Whatever do you mean, Lummy? You go to church, hear the preacher, pay your tithe, pray, and do your best to stay away from cussin’, too much moonshine, and whores, right?”
I don’t intend to, but I whisper a short sermon. “Yeah, but that’s all them long-winded blowhards say nothin’s know to preach. ‘Be at church and be a good boy.’ Teach me to talk with God like you and me talk, not that He’s out to get me everytime I fail. Jesus came to show us how to walk in the cool of the day with Creator like Adam. If we learned that, hell, we wouldn’t even be here.” I cover my mouth for cursing at church service.
J.A. rubs his chin. “Yeah, I’d rather be home with my pretty wife than here.”
“There ain’t one good man amongst us. If so, it ain’t you or me. It ain’t about how good I am. It’s about how good Creator is. God knows us the best and loves us the most, good and bad. So if I know Him like I know you, I’d treat Him better. I’d treat the man next to me better, too.”
“Makes my head spin like a top, but it sounds right.”
“Think about it. Creator didn’t make us to be hard on us. I know a man can’t just do what is right ‘in his own eyes’ like the Book of Judges says. God just wants us to be friends again. I don’t need some Bible quotin’, looney loud mouth, two dollar Bible thumper who can’t find God even if he was in a jar like a lightnin’ bug tellin’ me how I’m supposed to know my Creator.”
I’m drawing a crowd. It’s time I shut up.
I wave my hand. “No preacher here, boys, just a man seekin’ his God where he was told to, right here.” I point at my heart. “You boys’ll do well to follow suit. See you Sunday. I’m sure Reverend Tucker will have another good’n for us.”
Sunday I listen to Reverend Tucker, who tells us that, like the Israelites who looked on the bronze snake were cured of snake bite, we should look to Jesus to be saved.
He forgets to tell us it won’t stop a well-aimed bullet. The world works. Stick your head up, and a minie ball will find it.
I’ve had enough and slip out to visit Sky Parlor Hill to talk with Creator. “It’s hard to wait on you sometimes, Lord. The Yankees are comin’, and my heart is gettin’ hard. Don’t let anger take my soul.” I pull the small silver frame with Susannah’s picture inside. She’s waiting for me back home. I can’t lose my heart, or my soul, with what’s coming.
Granville comes trotting up the hill. “Have you heard, Lummy?”
“What?’
“Nobody can go home, at all.”
“They already said that.”
“Yeah, but I was hoping I could be home for my birthday next month. Sarge said we’re spending the winter here.”
“How old you gonna be?”
He puffs out his chest. “I’ll be seventeen.” Like my younger brother, James, just a bright-eyed gullible child. Granville should’ve stayed home.
“Written your mother lately?”
“Yeah, she’s making a personal appeal to General Smith to get me home. I miss my mother and sister. If I’d listened to them, I wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s just you bein’ heart sick talkin’.”
“Don’t think so. I’m better. My mother worries about me all the time. She’s heart broken.”
It hurts my heart to watch him suffer.
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GRANVILLE’S MOTHER SENDS a notarized paper advising General Smith of his age and that he enlisted without her permission. She requests a discharge. They deny it and never give a reason. Jeremiah’s words ring true. “It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.” It don’t make it easier to bear, though. The yoke is getting heavier in the waiting—and not just on young Granville, neither. Some think the war will be over by Christmas. Others say we’ll be sent up to Corinth.
Rumors—worthless as our Confederate money.
Sarge tries to comfort us. “Hell, Yanks ain’t gonna attack in winter. Everybody shuts down when the cold sets in.” That’s comfort for neither the soul nor body.
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OFFICERS COME AND go, but we still do the work. October 14th, General John Pemberton, a Pennsylvania man turned southern to please his wife they say, takes command of the Vicksburg defenses. What can I say? I became a Louisiana man to please mine. It’s worth it.
Pemberton makes General Earl Van Dorn his cavalry commander and orders Stephen Dill Lee to command the 27th along with the 17th, 28th, and 31st Louisiana regiments. Lee has battle experience. Maybe he can keep us alive when the fighting comes. I’ll sleep a bit better tonight.
The 27th is assigned Patrol of Police guard in town. Isham’s name is called, and the first night back he says seventy-five of the men are French Creole and can’t speak a lick of English.
“They call out orders in two languages every morning. But let me tell you, we tried cooking our own food, even hired a cook. It was all just terrible, until we smelled the delights drifting from where the Creoles are posted. It’s good ’nuff to make you stand up and slap your granny. We pitched our rations in their pot after that.”
Our turn comes around for town duty. J.A. yells, “What in the hell is all that racket?”
“The hawgs are comin’ to town!”
Isham picks up a rock. “Watch this.”
I tell him, “Don’t do it, son.”
Isham hits a big sow with a couple piglets in tow. She snorts and lights out after Isham. I beat the others to a tree and go up it like a bear.
Isham squeals louder than the hogs. “Hurry, let me up that tree!”
“Can’t go no faster.”
The momma hawg bites Isham’s leg. “Yeow!”
“It’s your own damn fault! Run!”
Men run like lightning in all directions, hogs snapping at their legs and backsides. A farmer doubles over laughing. “If you run from these hawgs, what the hell you gonna do when the damn Yanks come?” He howls like a redbone hound dog treeing a coon.
We get back to camp after duty, and the Doc takes care of Isham’s wounds.
Johnny Bond of C Company passes by, taking papers to headquarters. I lean on my shovel. “Well, looky what the cat drug up and the buzzards won’t eat. Johnny, how the heck are you? Your momma finally get you well?”
“Yeah, I’ve been back a couple weeks. Hate I missed the train from Camp Moore. It’s been hell gettin’ here. Damn Yanks are everywhere. Took a riverboat to a point opposite Waterproof and walked the rest. Damn Yankee gunboats were patrollin’ everywhere. Wasn’t sure I’d make it. I never got the chance to thank you and J.A for gettin’ my daddy’s watch back from the Flower Boys. I appreciate it.” He shuffles on like an old man.
J.A. yells after him, “Whoa, hold up. What’s got your tail draggin’?”
He tears up. “We buried Isaak Jennings this morning.”
“That’s a damn shame.”
“Doc says he died of neuralgia or some blamed fool thing like that.”
I chime in. “Men die, you know that.”
Johnny rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but I knew him before we enlisted. He was a good man, but he became as wicked a man as I ever did meet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was as fine a Christian as you ever did meet, loved his wife and kids, worked hard. He got here and turned to gamblin’, drinkin’, and whorin’ around. He never would’ve done all that if them shells hadn’t busted up his nerves.”
J.A. shakes his head. “Damn shellin’ broke many a good man down.”
Johnny kicks the dirt. “Lummy, you’re a prayin’ man. What do you say about a good man losin’ his soul fightin’ for his country when if he just stayed home, he’d been all right?” He coughs and sniffs. “Worst part was, not forty feet away men were gamblin’ and cussin’ durin’ the service. I’m tired of tryin’ to figure it all out.”
I don’t know what to say to ease his soul. “Johnny, ain’t none of us good. Isaak might’ve done more wicked stuff, but only the mercy of the Lord’ll get us through this. Sometimes the wickedest man has the deepest wounds. The Lord don’t judge a man for the few wrong things he’s done. Preachers make God out to be an angry Pa waiting to whip your ass for every mistake. That ain’t in the Book. Just be glad we don’t make them judgments.”
Johnny shakes his head. “Reckon it ain’t my place and nobody else’s to judge. Thanks. Don’t forget me in your prayers tonight.”
I realize now I don’t have to be a preacher in a black suit with a white collar standing at a pulpit in a church house on Sunday to help people know God.