MAY 23, 1863
Profound truths are the most obvious but often overlooked. “Stay alert.”
RAIN PATTERS LIGHTLY through the night, and dawn holds clouds to shield the burning sun. The guns lie silent this morning. Yank dead remain in the field. I’m tired and want to sleep. A shell explodes. The stillness is shattered. So is the possibility of sleep.
An educated soldier named Gunnard stops by at dark. We tell about our battle experiences, and he writes in a little book. I never thought about writing my story. Who’d read it? Then he shares his experiences.
Gunnard fought several battles with the 3rd Louisiana Infantry—Elk Horn Tavern, Corinth, places like that. We squat in a half-circle around him, listening for shells, dodging the ever straying minie ball. Gunnard is a master storyteller. He weaves in and out of his stories like a hawk through the trees after a squirrel.
“Boys, this is the roughest a-a-and toughest scrape I’ve been in yet. But take heart. Men defended Greece from an invader just like we’re doin’. A wicked Persian king wanted the whole world for himself. We’re like the brave three hundred Spartans who defended Thermopylae.”
“Thermometer who?” Hog Fart asks.
Gunnard laughs. “Thermopylae, my fine illiterate friend. The world will remember the name Vicksburg throughout the ages, too. We’re fighting for the same reason—freedom from an oppressor. Yep, they’ll write plays and sing songs about our bravery one day.”
Being remembered through the ages comes at a high price when all God wanted us to be was good children in the Garden. “Ain’t none of us good children now, not after what we’ve done to each other here.”
J.A. pats me on the back. “It’s all right, Lummy.”
Hog Fart whispers, “Did he call me a bastard usin’ that fancy word illegitasamy? Do I need to kick his ass, so he’ll know how to socialize properly with folks from Looseana?”
“He meant no harm. He just said you can’t read. And he’s from Looseana, just like you. He just don’t sound like it.”
Hog Fart rubs the back of his neck. “Well, damn, if that’s all he spit out, then that’s all right by me. Hell, I can’t read nary a lick no how.”
I say in perfect English, “They call that accent a gentleman’s education, my fine young fellow.”
Gunnard turns. “Damn, friend, where’d you go to school?”
From the corner of my eye a bluecoat creeps like a cat on an unsuspecting mouse. A scrawny little Yank points a pistol at my chest. I don’t know if he’s trying to get a look at our defenses or got drawn into Gunnard’s story. Maybe he wants to be a hero. I don’t know. He never got the chance to tell us. He cocks his pistol.
Quick as a rattler strike, Gunnard pulls his pistol and shoots the Yank between the eyes. I can’t believe his quickness and accuracy. The Yank stays still, his eyes roll up into his head and his pistol still aimed at my chest. Hog Fart gently relieves the dead man of his sidearm. I’ll see that in my dreams tonight.
“That’s how we boys in the 3rd Louisiana do it.” Gunnard holsters his pistol, living up to his stories right before our eyes. Then he grimaces for a minute, rubbing his shoulder where a small spot of blood leaks through. I thank him for saving my life.
“Think nothing of it. Lummy, is it? You’d done the same for me.”
“In a heartbeat.”
Gunnard reloads the round in his Navy Colt. “Stay alert, and you’ll stay alive. The Yanks didn’t come for a picnic. It’ll all be over when Fightin’ Joe Johnston kicks their asses. Gotta go now. I’ll catch you butternuts later.”
I like Gunnard. He brings cheer to a dark place.
Hog Fart yells, “We ain’t no damned butternuts.”
I push him back against the earthworks. “Shut up, he’s a corporal.”
Hog Fart pops his head back up. “We ain’t no damned butternuts, suh.”
Gunnard salutes as he walks away. Hog Fart laughs but drops facedown, and then we hear the whistle and a thud in the dirt behind us.
“Heard it comin’. Almost got me, boys.”
The body of the Yank Gunnard shot finally goes limp and piles up at my feet like a sack of potatoes. I’m sorry for him, but he knew better. We all know better. We may talk between the lines when it gets dark and be friendly if a truce gets called, but the rest is killing time.
Stay alert. It’s a simple truth. Gunnard forgot that once and got wounded as a result. It only takes one time.
The guns are silent, and the afternoon is peaceful. We clear the dead from the rifle pits, gently laying bodies in a row, blue and gray. Uniforms don’t matter when you’re dead. Respect does.
After cleaning my musket, I eat and rest in my bombproof for the night. Like the other boys, I dug mine deep to escape shells and bullets but also to get a little shade from the sun in the hottest part of the day. Quiet comes, and I can still see the blank stare of the Yank Gunnard shot.
I sleep until I smell acorn coffee boiling. Isham brings me a cup as we trade places. He stood guard last night and settles in for a snooze. The morning heat dries the dew-covered hillsides.
“What’n the hell is that?” Hog Fart wrinkles up his nose, then he gags and pukes.
J.A. sniffs. “Yank bodies swellin’ up and bustin’ open in the field. It’s an awful smell, but a worse sight.”
I cover my mouth and nose with a rag. “And the buzzards that soar highest now fly low.” Their graceful flight can’t make up for their ghoulish mission. A loud shriek comes from just over the parapet. We grab our muskets. A Yank screams “bloody murder,” as Ma used to say. A buzzard must’ve thought him dead and pecked a wound.
The guns are silent, yet there is no peace. And Grant lays siege to our city set upon a hill.