JUNE 18, 1863
Water runs downhill. So does a man’s spirit in a siege.
LIGHTNING FLASHES ALL around. It’s tough to know when God throws thunderbolts or Grant spits artillery shells. Either way, I keep my head down. And my spirit sinks lower. The corn meal gave out yesterday. We only have a few days’ rations left. A man gets edgy when his stomach clutches his backbone.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
The Yanks are close enough to throw notes over. A Yank dangles a hardtack biscuit tied to green switch cane. It bends just low enough Hog Fart can untie it without getting shot. They laugh, and so do we. We both need a breather. The Yankees sing hymns like they’re at a funeral. We’re all attending our own funerals on this dark evening.
Hog Fart whispers, “How can them boys come down here, kill our friends, and have God’s sacred tunes on their lips? Don’t make no sense.”
My only answer is to join in quietly with the Yanks. Hog Fart shrugs and whistles the tune.
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THE 27TH LOUISIANA returns from town at daylight in a thick fog. J.A. walks to his spot on the line, scratching his head. “Damn, fog’s so thick the birds are walkin’.”
Sarge tosses me copies of the Vicksburg Daily Citizen, The Daily Whig, and Yank newspapers out of Indianapolis and Chicago. I look up expectantly.
“Here you go, boy.” He pitches me a chunk of hard molasses candy, too.
“Appreciate it, Sarge.”
“Heard you boys were in a scrap. You all right?”
I nod and change the subject. No sense rehashing death I’ve already put behind me. “Where’d you get the newspapers, Sarge?”
“I commandeered them just for you from the good citizens. Enjoy the rock candy, but I want the papers back for purposes other than readin’, if you get my drift.”
“Hell, I get your drift every time you head to the screamer ditch.”
“Ain’t you the funny man? You heard what I said.”
“Sarge, what was that up in the sky back towards town the other day?”
“That, my young friend, is what they call an observation balloon. We saw it from Sky Parlor Hill. I guess the Yanks want to see what in the hell they’re blowin’ up.”
“Well, ain’t that somethin’. Man hoverin’ in the clouds like buzzards.”
Sarge grins. “Take the rest of the day, son. You’ve earned it.”
I settle down into my bombproof, suck on the smooth candy, and read newspapers. A quiet respite, even if only for a few hours. For a moment the world around me fades away.
The papers say over a hundred women and children have been killed or wounded here from the shelling. A Yankee colonel named Daniels lost six hundred Negro soldiers in a charge against Port Hudson. A Chicago paper says General Robert E. Lee is invading Pennsylvania. Another tells of other happenings around Vicksburg.
I throw the papers down. “Dang fool war ain’t never gonna end. We ain’t givin’ up, either.”
A shell explodes overhead, and I draw back into my bombproof. My heart sinks low. I enjoy the last taste of candy as it fades away with my hopes.
———————————
JUNE 19TH, AND the diggers are so close we hear every whisper. Just before sunup, a drunk Yank yells, “You best leave now. We’re gonna blow you to high hell soon.” His friends yank him back down, cursing. Soused or not, though, there’s some truth in his drunken words.
I find Jasper and James. “The Yanks are minin’ underneath us and will blow this lunette. When you ain’t on duty, stay away from the parapet.” I look into my brothers’ eyes, their faces gaunt from lack of food, their souls weary of the killing and constant threat of danger. They’re wasting away. “You boys hold on. We’re gonna make it out of here alive somehow. Like Pa used to say, ‘You gotta bow your necks, boys.’”
James wraps his arms around me and Jasper around him. “It’s all right.” But it’s not.
Gunnard comes down the line walking slowly, stepping over men and trash. I motion him over. “Jasper, James, this here’s Gunnard, best storyteller in the whole damn army.”
Gunnard takes off his hat. “Don’t mean any harm, Lummy, but I bring only a story of heartbreak today. Weren’t you friends with that young boy who never got his papers signed to go home?” Gunnard hands me a small Catholic medallion on a chain with the inscription “Mary conceived without sin, pray for us.”
I recognize it and my heart sinks.
Gunnard kicks the dirt. “There’s no easy way to say this. Poor young Granville was standing in the pits yesterday at six o’clock, doin’ his faithful duty, when two minie balls shot clean through his head just above the right eye. He said nothing when he fell. They took him to the hospital, but he died soon after. I knew you’d want to know.”
Tears fill my eyes. “He never took this little medal off and was the most faithful of us all goin’ to church. His momma’ll want this.” I wail for a moment, and Gunnard pats me on the back. Nobody says anything. Sarge stands to block the scene, but no one looks our way.
Finally, my tears run out.
Gunnard stands slowly. “Lummy, you were a good big brother to him. His ma and sister need to know. Would you consider writing them with your kind, God fearin’ hand? I found paper, and my captain said he’d get it out somehow. What do you say?”
“Be glad to.”
Sarge steps up. “I’ll make sure he gets time to do it.”
Gunnard places his hand over his heart and quotes Shakespeare. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here”—pointing at the Yankees, he places his other hand on my head—“but God’s angels are here, too, though some are with you now, Lord.” Gunnard hands me the paper and slowly walks away, holding his hat in his hand.
Sarge crouches down to look in my eyes. “You all right?”
I nod, and he moves back to the line. I choose not to go see Granville’s body, though. Some things are best remembered as they were.
Sarge brings me an envelope with President Davis’s picture like the one I sent Ma last Christmas. “You done?” I nod. “Men, gather around. I want you to hear Lummy’s words to Granville’s folks back home.”
Jasper and James stand beside me. “I had some help writin’ this letter. Our good friend Gunnard made sure I got the right spellin’s. Thank him too.”
Vicksburg, Miss,
June 19, 1863
Dearest and Most Respectfully Mrs. Amelia Alspaugh and Your Daughter Gertrude,
I write this letter with great sadness that your young and brave son, Granville, has been killed by the Yankees. It is a loss to all who knew him, and we thank God for his presence with us here in Vicksburg. We know that our pain in no way could ever match that of a loving mother who watched him grow and a faithful sister as a loving companion. He spoke of you often and lovingly. There was nothing more on his mind than returning to you as soon as possible. We cherished our time with Granville as he was faithful and cheerful in the worst of trials here. Granville was a hard worker, never shirking his duty, even in the lowest of moments. He did finally send a Yankee to meet the Good Lord and saved many of us at crucial times when the Yankees attacked. He enjoyed playing games and made me a chess set out of bullets for Christmas. He was always doing something for another. Now Granville loved all the pretty girls. He made us laugh with his hopes and dreams of marrying every one he met. I know that some poor, sweet young lady will not have the husband of her dreams because Granville gave his short and promising life for his friends. The Master once said, “Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Granville did just that, a soldier with few equals. He loved you, Sister, very much, and looked forward to being with you, Bobbie, and Wright again after the war. Granville asked me to serve as a big brother to him. I had the privilege of getting to know your son and brother as a soldier and a friend. When this war ends, and the Lord allowing me grace and mercy, I will come visit you to tell you more about your son. Enclosed is Granville’s medallion. He wore it always.
Affectionately, on behalf of all soldiers in this place,
Private Columbus “Lummy” Nathan Tullos
“Sarge, all right if I pray?” He nods. “Lord, there ain’t a righteous man amongst us except by Your grace and mercy. But why him? Why a young boy so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to live a good life? Where’s Jesus now when we need Lazurus raised? I know Granville would say, ‘Don’t cry for me.’ Give him rest, Lord, and protect us, Amen.”
Gunnard gently takes the letter from my hand. “Straight from the Psalms, my good friend, and as God heard David crying out, he hears you now. I’ll make sure this gets through the lines. Before I do, I’ll read it to the men in his company.”
I nod and walk away. It’s very quiet in the rifle pits tonight.
The Yanks hurl a rock over. A note is tied on with a string that reads. Sorry about your friend. He must’ve been a good kid. God bless you boys.