JUNE 20, 1863
Hell from below can bring freedom from above.
THE SUN BURNS bright early this morning, and the Yanks shell us like we’ve never seen. The Yank gunboats come close to town with flags at half-staff but back away. No one knows why.
J.A. elbows me. “It was for Granville, the best damn soldier this army ever had. Better’n the blue devils on them gunboats wavin’ their flags.” I thank him.
By midmorning, we hear digging underneath the lunette. They’re close. The Yanks pitch a funny-looking grenade over. Fortunately, it doesn’t go off. We’ve not seen one quite like this. It’s egg-shaped, about four inches long and two inches wide with a percussion cap on one end and a wooden arrow about six inches long out of the other to make it fly straight. James runs it down to the 1st Mississippi Light Artillery to show Company C’s captain.
With the new grenades and extra shelling, we expect the Yanks will attack today. They’re killing our nerves more than anything. Anticipating an explosion is almost worse than assaults.
This war is strange. The Yanks don’t want to be here anymore than we do. They’re friendly, trading boxes of sardines, coffee, and paper for our tobacco. We enjoy lively conversation filled with news and bad jokes. There’s kindness and respect even among men killing each other. It’s never easy to shoot those boys. But when it comes time, we go at it.
Constant shelling and sharpshooting wears on us like rain washing away a mud bank. “Lord, I’m ready to be washed away.”
Jasper jumps into the rifle pit. “Wash nothin’. Teach me how to play chess.” I look at every piece Granville so carefully carved by his hand. It’s hard to get my mind on the game, but it’s a good diversion. The good feeling doesn’t last very long.
Sarge’s report doesn’t make things any better. “Lieutenant Colonel McLaurin was wounded in his side by a minie ball yesterday. Major Norwood was shot in the leg this afternoon.”
I dump the chess pieces on the ground. “I can’t play no more.” Jasper picks up the pieces. Sarge just walks on. I walk away. The anger that kept me alive is gone. I don’t have the strength, and I don’t want the Devil in me any longer. I haven’t felt this bad since the day I found out Susannah died. I hunker down in my bombproof and sit alone.
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THE YANKS ASSAULT the 31st Louisiana line, but they counter to capture the enemy’s pits and some prisoners, including a lieutenant. The Yanks try to retake the ground on the morning of the 23rd but are repulsed with heavy loss. We perk up hearing about the 31st Louisiana’s fight. Though we still have fight in us, we’re sun-blistered, half-starved, and shaking with fevers and dysenteric sickness. Fortunately, town ladies turn out to care for the sick and dying men.
A runner hands Sarge a message. “It seems some of the good citizens in town have been hoardin’ whiskey. Company F is ordered to search every household in town.” We find sixty-nine bottles of whiskey in a merchantile at the corner of Clay and Levee Streets.
Sarge screams at the proprietor. “You had this all along, and men are sick and dying for you, fool!” We grab Sarge before he slaps the overstuffed man and empties his store of everything.
On the way back, Sarge points to a case of whiskey. “That one’s for y’all. Make sure the rest gets to the doc.” No two ways about it. We got drunk. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. A light rain cools the air and keeps the mosquitoes away.
I wake feeling much better this morning, June 25th.
Sarge waits for us at the cookfire. “Lieutenant Colonel McLaurin died last night. He will be missed. Y’all rest up. Nothin’s gonna happen today with the rain last night. Besides, it’s gonna be a scorcher.”
Suddenly, a rumbling like the Devil clawing and scratching his way out of Hell belches below us. An eruption of dirt, fire, timbers, and men rises into the air at the 3rd Louisiana Redan.
Sarge yells, “Get your rifles, the Yanks blew their mine.”
As soon as the dirt comes back down, a wave of bluecoats rush in like Satan’s demons. My heart tries to leap out of my chest—Jasper and James are there with their artillery company.
Sarge says, “Lummy, go. The rest of you stay here.”
Isham pitches me my musket and Hog Fart my ammunition pouch. I run like a demon let loose from Hell crossing Glass Bayou and sprinting up the hill where 1st Mississippi Light Artillery Company C is positioned. A great cloud of dust settles over the intense fighting in the 3rd Louisiana Redan. I catch up with the 6th Missouri Regiment pushing forward to join the fray. I arrive as fierce hand to hand combat is at its worst.
A colonel jumps up on top of the rifle pits yelling, “C’mon, my brave boys, don’t let the Third Regiment get ahead of you.”
I yell in the ear of the Missouri man beside me. “Who is that?”
“Colonel Erwin Clay, grandson of Henry Clay!” No sooner does the colonel get the words out of his mouth than a sharpshooter takes him down. The Missourians are appalled and surge forward to push the Yankees back down the hill. Our men on top of the crater mercilessly pour fire into the writhing blue mass that can go neither forward nor backward. The battle rages for two hours. The Yanks throw up a makeshift parapet across the crater, but our boys rolling live shells into the crater soon end the attack. Nothing is gained but a loss of life on both sides.
When it’s safe, I find Jasper and James huddled together like rabbits hiding in a thicket. Jasper glares at me like a dog defending his last bite of food, and James stares wide-eyed into space. My heart leaps for joy that they’re still alive but aches for the damage done to their souls.
James cries, “They came at us like demons out of hellfire, Lummy. We just kept chunkin’ grenades and rollin’ thunder barrels at them.” Jasper says nothing. I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion or shock—probably both. Victories aren’t always sweet for men doing the killing.
Jasper looks up into the sky. “Six Missip boys were buried alive today. Wonder where the rest of Company C is?” He stares at me with bloodshot eyes. “Lummy, I saw a Negro cook get throwed higher’n that old hickory at your place. He landed near the Yankee line. Damnedest thing I ever saw. He jumped up and ran like a rabbit to the Yank trenches.”
“I reckon that’s one way to get your freedom.”