NOVEMBER 2, 1862
Only way to get discharged from this army is be dead
and buried five days. Then your papers come through.
THE COOLNESS OF the fall air lifts the spirits of men drained from incessant heat and slow recoveries from sickness. It’s nice to watch the leaves change across the river from green to yellow and orange to red. The gumball trees are the prettiest. When they fall, it’ll be easier to spy on the Yanks camped on the DeSoto peninsula. Morning frost covers the ground like snow but is gone within minutes of the sun shining.
Granville turns seventeen today, November 2nd. We pitch in to get him a cake and a new hat. The cake lady brings her daughter along, and Granville thoroughly enjoys his birthday dance with her. And of course, Granville falls head over heels in love with a girl he’s just met and has danced with once. When the party breaks up, Granville pulls me to the side.
“I got my papers back, and they weren’t signed.”
“You expected them to be?”
“I don’t get letters from my Ma no more. I’m cold and sick. I just don’t know how long I can do this.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I’m gonna get killed, I just know it. I’m scared as a cat dropped in a dawg pen. I’m thinkin’ about runnin’ away.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Come with me, Lummy? I’ll wait ’til Christmas if you come with me.”
I shake my head.
Granville sits on the ground completely defeated. “Word is a man can’t get a discharge ’til he’s dead and buried five days. Then his papers come through.” He sits, head down, shoulders slumped, breathing heavily. I lay my hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off.
Isham, carving a set of dominoes from scraps of wood, mumbles, “They’ll shoot you for desertin’ if you run.” I put my finger to my mouth, and Isham keeps whittling.
Granville knows he can’t run. Yank cavalry swarm these parts and would love to put a Reb away before the real fighting starts. If he escapes, the home guard will catch him and send him back to the army or shoot him straight out for being a coward.
I grab him by the shoulders. “You gotta stay strong, son. Don’t give up. Find somethin’ to do to keep your mind off the bad things. You got some artistical talent, don’t you?” He nods with a weak grin. “Then carve me one of them chess sets out of minie balls. A few won’t be missed.”
“I can do that. It’ll be your Christmas present.”
Sarge marches up. “Party’s over. Get packed. General Pemberton has ordered us to build winter cabins. Pick eight men whose stank you don’t mind bunking with.”
I’m fortunate to be with J.A., Isham, a few others, and a young fella we all like, Edrow.
J.A. throws his pack and musket in a wagon. “I’m glad to leave these leaky tents. They got more holes than bumblebees burrowing in a rotting barn.”
There’s a good feeling around camp until we realize the wood they give us isn’t any good. There are so few tools, some men have only one axe between them. In a few days, we have crude cabins built that will at least keep us out of the wind and maybe the rain. I stop to write Susannah.
Winter Quarters Vicksburg, Mississippi,
November 9, 1862
Dearest Susannah, sorry I failed to write for some time. We don’t get much free time, and post is hard to come by. I pray your health is good. We built cabins for winter that will keep us warm and dry. I thank the Lord Mr. Gilmore and Old Bart brought clothes and the rain slicker you sent. All the boys envy me. It keeps me safe from the pneumonia goin around. A Lootentant from C Company died of it yesterday. I fear hardness of heart is the worst sickness we have here. Pray that this war don’t make us like beasts in the field. Pray I don’t change from who I was before I left your sweet arms. I know that when I see your face again all this will disappear. I miss you darlin. Your picture keeps my heart beatin. Please write. I have received no letter from you in three months. I must go now.
Your affectionate husband,
Lummy Tullos
I don’t send Susannah any hard news. I do complain about our cabin to my friends though. We all complain… too much, and it gets back to the officers. Colonel McLaurin finally gets so fed up with the whole regiment’s mouthing off that on November 16th he assigns the 27th Louisiana all the worst duties as punishment. We dig latrines, muck mud out of the earthworks, and cut down heavy timber in front of the breastworks as obstacles when the Yanks attack.
Even so, with steep gullies and high ridges, the forest cut back half a mile, and treetops and rotten logs scattered about, we are well barricaded against the Yank attack. That’s some comfort. A better comfort comes when Sarge says we might get paid soon. The Confederate government is only five months behind. It’ll be a great payday if we get it all at once.
Finally, we’re allowed to move into our winter cabins November 24th. We gather anything available for bedding and wall covering to keep the wind out. Our first night is wickedly cold. When Edrow sneaks in from visiting the latrine, he takes too long getting in the one room shanty.
Isham yells, “Shut that damn pneumonia hole. Heat’s gettin’ out and rats gettin’ in.”
Edrow pulls the door tighter and pushes the half-rotted blanket against the bottom. The room finally warms up again, and we sleep.