MARCH 6, 1863
The only good thing about payin’ the big price is you only have to pay it once.
THE WEATHER CHANGED to frosty overnight, and I have the shivers. It’s not as cold as the chills creeping down my spine at the spectacle I’m not looking forward to later this morning.
The Yanks must be happy the cottonmouths retreated back into their dens. It’s the big blue snake creeping toward us that has our attention, except one of the boys at Four Mile Bridge had an encounter with a rather large rattlesnake.
Day before yesterday it was so hot we had to strip down to our drawers to sleep. Granville complained that his company did the same at Four Mile Bridge taking turns at picket and sleeping. They slept in tents because the cabins sequestered from the Negroes were full. Sequester. Just another word for stealing what belongs to another. Anyway, Granville took his turn at picket relieving Pete Lipscomb, who they simply call Lip. Granville had the midnight to 6:00 a.m. watch.
Granville laughs. “I noticed Lip rolled around and mumblin’ about somethin’. He got up rubbin’ his back sayin’ it was the worst night’s sleep he ever had. Said it was like a tree root sprouted underneath him in the middle of the night. Everywhere he moved, the root followed him. Said he checked for roots before he spread the tarp on the ground.”
Granville digs in his pocket. “Y’all ain’t gonna like this part. Lip pulled back the tarp to see what ruined his sleep and you know what he found?” Granville pulls out a broken rattle with seven buttons from a rattlesnake.
I take it from him. “Lemme see that thing.” I ain’t afraid of snakes, but I’ve got a real healthy respect for them. I shudder, thinking about how large that snake must’ve been.
“Lip said he’d move and that ole tree root would be under him when he woke up. Guess that ole rattler found him a warm spot under ole tater belly Lip.” I hand the rattle to Hog Fart, who stares at it like it’s the devil himself.
“Not me. I ain’t touchin’ nothin’ to do with no snake. Oh, hell no. Besides, my grandpappy said the dust off that rattle will blind you.”
I shove it towards him. “Tell the truth and shame the devil. Why you crawfishin’? Can’t get bit by a rattle.”
“Keep it away, dammit. It might not bite, but my Pappy said the smell will bring another.”
I pitch the rattle back to Granville. “Do tell.” After Granville leaves, I casually saunter down to the river to scrub my hands in the muddy water. I’m takin’ no chances.
J.A. steps out on the balcony of the Prentiss House. “Ain’t scared of snakes, you say? Get your ass on up here. Sarge said we gotta put on uniforms for dress parade.” It’s the spectacle I had hoped was called off. We gather in front of the Prentiss House at the sound of a bugler.
Sarge holds his hat over his chest. “Men, it’s a sad day. A young feller deserted from the 1st Looseana Heavy Artillery. They found him wearin’ a Yank uniform. Get your hearts set. You have to watch this man die.”
Today, I’m ordered to witness a scene I wish I’d never be forced to endure. We march past the train depot to a clearing at the edge of town and line up so all have an unobstructed view.
A firing squad marches in a weeping boy in a Yank uniform with a sign hung around his neck that reads, I Deserted My Country. They push him hard against a post. Before they tie his hands behind him, he dries his eyes and stiffens up straight. They try to blindfold him, but he refuses. A last effort at courage, I reckon.
Men who know him sob. Older men cry because he’s so young. My heart aches for life needlessly taken. I want to scream, “Just whip him and let him go.” The brass can’t let it go. They won’t. They can’t.
The determination of the military court is read by his captain. “This man knowingly, willingly placed himself into harm’s way by deserting his family, his regiment, the defense of Vicksburg, his country, and his God by breaking his vow to serve in this army. His punishment is death. Let it be a lesson for all. May God have mercy on his soul.”
The captain asks, “Any last words, deserter?”
He stares into the eyes of his former comrades and then up into the sky. “Lord, I left the gray suit for the blue ’cause fightin’ to keep people as chattel ain’t what Jesus would do. Set ’em free, Lord. I’ll see you directly.” He lowers his head and looks straight at the general. “I got a clean conscience to meet my Maker, do you?”
The general presiding owns slaves and treats the ones he brought along worse than animals. The general doesn’t blink. I shudder like when I heard the story about the rattler under Lip’s tent.
This man is dying for his convictions. I should be standing with him for the thoughts I’ve had lately. The lieutenant readies the men chosen by lot. They aim. Just before giving the command, he looks at the general as a last chance for a pardon. None is given. The general stares at the prisoner without compassion. I don’t want to be in his shoes when he faces the Lord one day.
I’ve never witnessed anything like this before. Pa took us to a hanging once. He told Ma, who was against it, “It’ll keep ’em from doin’ somethin’ to deserve it.”
This is different, though. Those men were hanged for raping and killing a young girl outside Bucksnort. They yelled and kicked, cursed and pleaded. But to no avail. They deserved to die. This young man has good reason to stand so solemn, steady in the courage of our Savior, willing to face the muskets. With such resolve, those bullets might just veer off, and he won’t die.
The lieutenant barks, “Fire!” The bullets strike him hard in the chest. He slumps over and dies. A little of me dies with him. When we break ranks, young Granville pulls me aside.
“Lummy, thanks for keepin’ me from runnning off. That boy’s eyes scared me. He was set for what was comin’, but his knees trembled somethin’ fierce. That could’ve been me.”
I look around to see who is listening. “I told you nothin’ you don’t already know. I just held you to it, that’s all. But I’ll say this, and then I’ll leave it alone. No doubt that boy had a good reason for puttin’ on the blue suit. I just hope it was worth dyin’ for. If you gonna make a hard decision like that, you best make sure it’s the right one. There are two prices to pay in this war. One is for the Cause and the other for doin’ what you think is right when nobody else understands. Think on it. We’ll talk again later.”
The execution weighs heavy on my mind. Why did he exchange his gray suit for blue? I’ve had similar thoughts but not his courage to do it. I’m ashamed.
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THE WEATHER WARMS, and the woods turn green. Sunshine brings our hearts back around. After that rattler story, I watch out for snakes everywhere I go.
March 20th, the gunboats edge closer. Hearing little from Winn Parish makes me think the worst for friends who have family there. Some worry more about rising floodwaters, livestock drowning, and their families having nowhere to go than to the Yankees. Some receive letters like I did on New Year’s Day. If I survive what’s coming, maybe I’ll try to gather up the pieces with Mr. Gilmore and Ben. Right now, I walk with the depressed. I walk by the river, take off my shirt, and soak in the last bit of sunshine. My soul is low.
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THE RISING RIVER and smallpox outbreak forces Grant to give up his canal project. I’m sure the Yank troops and Negroes are glad to leave the mud, mosquitoes, and swamp water. He tries other bayous and rivers to get his army in position for his attack on Vicksburg.
Admiral Porter, Grant’s gunboat man, attempts to get by our river batteries March 25th. They float smoothly across the waters like a wedding processional. Pickets on the bluff tops fire warning shots, and when the gunboats come even with the shore batteries, fireworks erupt. Major Ogden’s battery sinks the ironclad Switzerland, and another is rendered useless.
As the Switzerland sinks, men jump overboard. Some drown. Others jump into skiffs to escape. Ogden bears down on one of the small boats with his Columbiads and blows it to high heaven. We let out a great cheer.
Johnny Bond runs up, shaking his fist. “You ain’t never gonna take this place, damn you. Send more, and we’ll send them to the bottom of the river.” The whiner comes alive.
Young Granville grabs me around the chest from behind. We fall on the ground happy for the victory. He’s in much better spirits now, talking about pretty girls and how he wants to kiss one.
Grant’s diversions don’t work very well. We hear that my brothers and the 1st Mississippi Light Artillery gave the Yanks hell at Fort Pemberton earlier this month, hiding behind cotton bales covered with dirt with carefully placed cannons where no ground forces could attack. Colonel Marks says it’s the only time the U.S. Navy has been defeated by a land force.
I crow like a rooster in the chicken yard when I hear the news. “And dang it if my brothers weren’t there holdin’ the fort.” I just hope they survived.
J.A. pushes my shoulder. “You Tullos boys are sure proud of each other, ain’t you?”
“Damn straight!”
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CLOTHING HAS BECOME a valued item, and most of the men’s clothes are worse for wear. The good ladies across the river in Louisiana sneak in clothes, but some of the regiments are issued white uniforms made of wool. It’s all the ladies had to sew together. The men hate them.
J.A. whispers as the 26th Louisiana marches by with disgusted looks, daring anyone to say a word, “Da-a-amn, they look like the conscripts brought up after we volunteered.”
A smart mouth from the 46th Mississippi yells, hiding behind a shack, “Lily white church goin’ angel boys! How you feel ’bout wearin’ slave clothes?”
A sergeant with the 26th Louisiana barks back. “Better white than a damned yeller streak painted down your sistuh boy back. Come with us, and we’ll drown your ass in the same brown muddy ditch we’re gonna dye these in, you bastard.” Nobody says anything else. When those men get their uniforms back on after they dry, the officers call them butternuts.
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THE NIGHT OF April 16th finds me on duty down on the levee. I listen, walk a bit, check with the next soldier on the line, turn, and make my way to the soldier in the other direction. I’ve done this too many times. It’s boring, until tonight. I throw a rock at J.A. dozing at his post.
“I hear splashin’, do you?”
He quietly runs over, musket in hand. “Yeah, sounds like water splashin’ against wood.” The dark shadows loom large as the current brings the boats closer to our position.
Corporal Nelson of Company K yells, “Here they come. Light the fires.”
J.A. and I rush to the water’s edge with others assigned to light barrels of pitch. They flame up quick as a match strike. A few pickets dash over to DeSoto and fire the houses.
Nelson screams, “Porter’s whole gunboat navy is runnin’ the gauntlet. Give ’em hell, boys.”
The sky lights up like daytime as fire and shot rain down from the batteries atop the bluffs and in front of Vicksburg. We steadily fire our muskets at anything moving on the decks. They’re so close we can read the gunboat names.
J.A. yells, “You ain’t sneakin’ past us Looseana boys, damn you!”
A sailor on the Henry Clay throws water on a fire creeping up the side of the armor plating. I follow him with my musket. He stops, turns around, and looks me dead in the eye with the most frightened look I’ve ever seen. He’s so caught up putting out the fire he forgets he’s being shot at. He jerks a pistol, but I fire first. He tumbles into the river.
It seems like thirty minutes, but the battle is three hours of non-stop cannonading and sharp shooting. Their boats make it through the gauntlet, but they pay the price. The Benton, Lafayette, General Price, Carondelet, Pittsburg, and others pass that we couldn’t see the names, besides coal barges—they all got hit, many times.
The Henry Clay? She paid the biggest price. She lies at the bottom of the river. So did another, but we didn’t get the name before she went down. One transport drifts downriver, burning as it goes. The cotton bales and logs Porter’s men lashed to the sides of their boats for protection against our batteries didn’t work. Cotton burns hotter than hell.
Now that the duel is over, I want to give that sailor back his life. I don’t want to look, but I have to. He drifted fifty feet from where I stand. I feel terrible killing him. But it was his life or mine, and I won’t hand mine over so easy. I probably saved him from a more horrible death of burning or drowning when the boat sunk. That doesn’t make it any easier.
Sarge hustles down the line checking on us. “You done good, Lummy. You saw the elephant tonight but didn’t pay the price. Did your duty and made them damn Yanks pay. You did that man no favors, but you did for us. Good work.” He pats me on the shoulder.
“We lose anybody, Sarge?” He doesn’t hear me.
J.A. hangs his head. “Remember old man Elsey from K Company? He played dominoes with us durin’ the smallpox outbreak.”
“Wasn’t he a little deaf?”
“Yeah, he didn’t hear a picket guard during the fight yell halt, and Elsey got it in the chest. And the damnable misery of it all? He was already discharged to go home in two days.”
I shake my head and moan. “I liked that old man. Shot dead by one of your own. I hate it, dammit, I just hate it.”
Sarge comes back by. “What’s that soldier? You hate what?” I say nothing. J.A. whispers to Sarge about Ole Man Elsey getting killed.
“Oh, him and Lummy was friends, weren’t they?” J.A. nods.
Sarge rubs his chin. “Try not to take it too hard, son. Go down the bank and fish out the Yank you shot off the Henry Clay. Take his belt buckle. Keep it to remind you why Ole Man Elsey died.” Sarge is trying to console me the best way he knows how, but it ain’t working.
“Yassuh, headed that way right now, Sarge.”
He leaves me alone.
I walk to the river’s edge where debris washes up on the muddy shore. The sailor I killed bobs facedown in the ripples. I pull his body up the bank. Sarge watches my every move. He’s genuinely concerned about me despite all the grief he dishes out on us.
The sailor is about my age. When I pull his belt off to take the buckle, I notice he has a wedding ring on. I check his pockets to find an oiled leather billfold. Inside are letters from his wife and a tintype of her and their two little boys. The letters are damp but readable. I remove the ring, check for anything else of value, finding a few coins and a pocketknife. I carefully wrap it all in my sweat cloth and put it in my haversack. I remove the buckle. I keep the belt.
“I know what you’re doin’, but I ain’t sure it’ll help, son. If you want to get those things to his family, I’ll pull some strings for you.” I nod. “First time killin’ a man?”
“Nawsuh, but this is the first time I looked into a man’s eyes as I shot him. Seein’ his family in the picture, it’s like I could’ve known him.” We’re both silent for a moment. “Damn the Union gunboats and Porter, too. This man paid the biggest price of all.”
“So did Private James Elsey. Only good thing about paying the big price is you only gotta do it once.” Sarge squeezes the back of my shoulder like a vise.
“I feel lower’n a snake’s belly in a wagon rut, Sarge.”
He looks up into the sky. “Believe me, son, I know the feelin’.”
He walks on. I cry.
Prentiss House Hotel, Vicksburg,
April 17, 1862
Dearest Ma, the weather has warmed. It’s good to see things turn green. I pray the farm does good this year. Will Elihu plant corn? Don’t plant cotton. Either we burn it, or the Yanks steal it. Grow food Ma. You can’t go wrong doin that. We had a terrible fight here last night. We sunk some boats and burnt others. Ma, I don’t like telling this, but I’ve shot two men. I feel so bad about it. Man wasn’t created to kill other men. Cain should never have killed Abel. The killin has gone on for too long. My heart breaks for them. God forgive me. Pray my heart doesn’t turn to stone. I have to go to work cleanin up after the battle, so I have to make this short. I hope this five dollars helps. I will write again.
Your son,
Lummy
Besides Old Elsey, two artillery men die when a shell explodes prematurely as the shooting started. The train depot is set on fire, and one shell kills seven mules nearby with one shot. We took a beating this night. Thankfully, we move up behind Sky Parlor Hill in case another gunboat barrage comes raining down on us. We need the rest from the constant bombardment and sharpshooting. The officers know rest is just what the 27th needs. We do miss our hotel accommodations, though.
I roll over on my back, staring out into the darkness. I close my eyes. All I can see is the surprised look in the sailor’s eyes the moment I shot him. My eyes are shut so I can rest to fight another day. His eyes are shut so he can rest never to fight another day. There’s peace in that, somewhere.
For him, that is.