MAY 25, 1863
The dead rest just as good under the sun as they do under the dirt.
SARGE SHAKES HIS fist. “Grant’s madder’n hell, boys.” We cheer quietly not to draw unnecessary cannon fire. “We beat back that cigar-smokin’, whiskey-guzzlin’ bastard and that looney redheaded Sherman who sees gray ghosts behind every bush. Thought you’d just walk right in and take our guns out of our hands.”
Hog Fart finds his bravery. “Can’t snatch a bone out of this dawg’s mouth!”
Sarge sits on an ammunition box. “Now them chickenshits gonna lay in a siege. Keep your muskets up and top knots down ’cause they’re lookin’ to take your head off at the neck. Short of makin’ him your wife, protect the man beside you with all you got. He’ll do the same for you.”
The stench is unbearable. Bloated bodies ooze green and don’t look human anymore. Jacket buttons pop off, and the scavengers roam freely. If this is Grant’s way of punishing us for not letting him walk into Vicksburg, he’s just making us meaner. I’d understand if it was our boys lying out there. The wounded, the dying, the dead are dressed in blue lying under a red hot skillet sun. Some have been there since the first attack on May 19th. It ain’t right.
Their suffering is nearly insufferable. We pass a little water and hardtack to those in the ditch under the parapet. We warn them not to come over unless they make it clear they want to surrender. They stay put. I would.
Sarge inspects our muskets. “General Pemberton offered Grant that if he won’t take care of his dead and wounded, we’ll do it for him.”
J.A. shakes his head. “It’s the right thing to do. Grant. What a bastard.”
A whimpering Yank begs, “Spare some water?”
Hog Fart hands it over on a willow stick.
I lean close to the berm and ask him, “Don’t Grant care nothin’ about y’all livin’ like haints in a graveyard?”
The Yank cries out, “Grant won’t gather the wounded if we don’t take your positions. So here we sit.” It ain’t this man’s fault he can’t retreat.
“Makes no sense.” He doesn’t say anything. “Guess you don’t have to have four legs and hee-haw to be a jackass.”
The Yank chuckles. “That’s for damn sure. I might shoot Grant myself if I make it back.” We throw more hardtack biscuits over to ease their hunger—and to ease our consciences.
Grant grudgingly agrees to a ceasefire. At 6:00 p.m., white flags go up. Gray and blue rise out of their hiding places. Conversations are had, coffee and tobacco are traded, brothers embrace. I ask Sarge to let me visit my brothers across Glass Bayou.
“Get on back here soon as the truce is done. I need every good man on the line.”
“Yassuh.” I wander down the line to find Jasper and James still blackened with burnt powder from the last assault. They look as ghoulish as the dead in the field.
Jasper fingers his ear like he’s trying to get a bug out. “I’m tryin’ to open it up so I can hear.”
James elbows me, grinning. “Helluva fight, huh, Lummy? They attacked three times May 19th and twice on the 22nd. Couple of our men were killed, a few got wounded, but we held. Our Lieutenant Eubanks got hurt pretty bad. How about y’all?”
I look down. “We lost a few.”
Jasper interrupts to change the subject. “Sure could do with some of Ma’s squirrel dumplin’s.”
James licks his lips. “And some cat-head biscuits and cane syrup Pa used to get in Bankston.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “I’m just glad we’re alive and together.”
Jasper stands to stretch. “Let’s go meet Yanks we missed with our cannons and grenades.”
We walk to the field where hundreds of blue covered bodies litter the field. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to ever again. We tie rags over our mouths and noses to brave the stench. James pukes twice when an arm of a body he drags breaks loose. He just stares at it. I take the arm and lay it on the chest of the corpse. Our men work as hard as the Yanks to bury the fallen. Gray men working side by side with men in blue—what a novel idea.
Jasper stops dragging a corpse for a minute to rest. “Bet ole Grant and Sherman are cussin’ up a storm that we get along so good together. Regular men ain’t got no issues. We’re just common men with a common problem—generals.”
I can’t disagree. “Ain’t no two-legged braying asses in this field. Just good men shakin’ hands, makin’ friends, and respectin’ each other.”
I scan the field. We desecrated and violated this land with hate and anger, death and murder. Only the blood of good men can wash away the stench of the wrong done in this place. Good men always have to die for the wrongs of evil men.
Two officers talk, one blue and one gray, enjoying each other’s hospitality. The Yank officer bids farewell. “Good day, Captain, I trust we shall meet soon again in the Union of old.”
The Reb captain pleasantly replies, “Forgive me, but I cannot return your sentiment, suh, for the only union you and I may enjoy, I hope, will be in the kingdom of God to come. Good-bye, suh.” Well said in such a terrible place. Bugles blare, and we’re ordered back to our trenches.
I shake a few Yank’s hands. “Keep your heads down, you hear?” They wave.
As I pray on the way back to the lunette, two brothers embrace. The Reb wipes a tear. “We can’t get any mail out now. Tell Ma and Pa I’m alive and doin’ alright.”
His blue-coated brother says, “I’ll write them a letter right now.” They go their separate ways.
Jasper and James catch up, and I pull them close. “Thank you, Lord.”