MARCH 6, 1862
The bluffs of Vicksburg rise like thunderclouds on a hot summer’s day..
THE TRAIN BOXCAR sways back and forth as the steam engine spews heavy black smoke. My soul bounces between my head and my heart. Should I enlist? Should I stay home? I still have a little time before we reach Desoto and the steamboat south to New Orleans.
Here I go again. Lummy Tullos. On my way to who knows where and what I don’t know. My new friend, J.A., surrenders to the motion, and his head bobs over to rest on my shoulder. He snores softly, but his eyes are open. Who can sleep at a time like this? Who can sleep with their eyes open?
I gently elbow him. “If I don’t get back home, it’ll be my own fault, J.A.”
He lifts his head, snorting like a hawg. “That ain’t gonna happen, Lummy boy. You’ve got me to get you home.”
I tell myself I had no choice when President Davis ordered a Conscription Act. But I did. I could have hidden in the swamps or hills like some men. I’m just not the hiding kind except what I feel deep in my heart right now.
It’s been three years since I went through DeSoto the first time. Seems like just yesterday I left Choctaw County in search of Susannah. I found her and married her. Now I leave her. Watching tears stream down her cheeks as I boarded the train headed east was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I want to desert this army before I even enlist. There’s no salve made that can soothe my aching heart.
As we barrel down the railroad tracks, the bluffs of Vicksburg rise in the distance. Though it was night the last time I passed through, I took a good look back at them as I walked the train tracks west toward Winnfield. Those bluffs looked like mountains to a Mississippi boy. They rise up like thunderclouds on a hot summer’s day.
The train chugs, jerks, and spits hot steam. We slow to a stop.
Sarge yells, “We’ll board a steamer south to New Orleans tomorrow, boys!”
I don’t know what I’m headed for, so I’ll just go whichever way life’s river flows. It’s worked so far. I hope it’ll keep me alive.
One of the boys yells over the roar of the engine, “We heard Lincoln painted a target on Vicksburg not long ago. Guess we’ll be a part of that bullseye soon enough.”
Silence is the only sound. Reality has set in, and all the hurrahs have disappeared. We don’t want to hear it, but rumor is there’ll be serious fighting around here soon. What we do hear as the train stops is the hustle and bustle of a large army readying itself for battle. I’m just ready to get out of this cattle car.
DeSoto, Louisiana, sits on a sandbar jutting into the river like the finger of an invader pointing to his prize. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this hairpin bend in the river is God’s way of saying to the Yanks, “You ain’t gettin’ by here that easy with your fancy pants gunboats.”
J.A. nudges me with his shoulder. “You sound like a Reb newspaperman. Better watch that talkin’ out loud, boy. And I’m pretty sure God ain’t had nothin’ to do with it.” I agree.
DeSoto is all important to the future of the Confederacy. Eastbound supply trains bring fresh troops, food stuffs, and military supplies from the west here. Soldiers unload trains and load ferries to take them across Ole Man River to be sent to the armies in the east. It was on one of those ferries I got knocked senseless by a demon tree that rose up out of the dark waters when I crossed back in ’59. My shoulder still aches.
“Wait a minute!” I plum forgot about her in all the commotion. “Dang it all to Hell.”
J.A. elbows me. “What you squawkin’ about?” I shake my head.
It was here I got chased by that tobacco-spittin’, possum-eatin’, hairy-legged, cannonball-shaped woman who wanted me to bed her with no thought given to wed her. The boys will give me hell if they find out. I’ll keep my eyes peeled like fresh-cut taters and hope I don’t cross paths with that woman. “I need to stop cussin’ before the Lord gives me what I deserve. It’s probably too late. My whoopin’s comin’.”
J.A. yells, “What’d you say?”
I shake my head. “Something big is goin’ on, look up there.”
DeSoto looks like black ants escaping a burning stump. Men rush around in all directions—some barking orders, some following them, some ducking and dodging them.
The door to the boxcar slides open. Fresh air rushes in like cool water pouring over my head.
A stocky Cajun wearing three stripes on a gray jacket stomps up. “Sergeant Kelly from Winn Parish? Get these pretty little chickens out of the henhouse and line ’em up.”
Sergeant Kelly snaps a crisp salute. “Yassuh, Staff Sergeant Boyette.” Nobody moves.
“Now, damn you.” We fall over each other like beans spilling out of a can trying to get out. We form the crookedest line a man ever saw. But we’re all smiles—brave men come to rescue the just and holy Confederacy from the evil blue oppressor threatening our homes, families, and sweethearts.
Sergeant Boyette runs to me with his nose less than an inch from mine. “What the hell are you smilin’ at, boy? Is the man next to you ticklin’ your ass? Yeah, betcha you’d like that wouldn’t you? Speak up, tadpole.” He has to stand on his toes to look me in the eye.
“Nawsuh, no tadpole here, suh! Ain’t no grab-ass goin’ on neither, suh. Just volunteers from Winn Parish lookin’ to whoop some blue-belly Yankee ass. That’s why we’re smilin’, Staff Sergeant Boyette. We’re the Winn Rebels, suh.”
A timid cheer rises up from our company.
“That’s what I want to hear, tadpole, ’cause before this army’s done with you, you’re gonna lose your tail and make a damn good bullfrog. You’ll be eatin’ them damn Yanks like flies.”
Somebody yells, “Winn Rebels give ’em hell!” We all slap each other on the back, happy with our new friend, the sergeant.
“Attention in the ranks, tadpoles. Nobody said to start no damn sissy party. Shut the hell up and start runnin’ toward the river. I want you to see the greatest city on the Missip where you might be stationed if you’re worthy. Run like hell, get back here quick, and tell me what’s flappin’ in the wind by the bank so I know you went to the edge of the river. If you don’t have the right answer, I’ll run you ’til your tongues drag the ground.”
He stomps his foot. “The last five back will dig latrine ditches before supper. Makes for a good appetite.” We just stand there like schoolboys lined up for a footrace hoping to get a first place blue ribbon.
Sarge pulls his Army Colt, which I believe he’ll use to signal the start. He aims it at us. “Run, dammit, or I’ll shoot every last one of you shit-stompers in the ass!” We bolt like scalded dogs hoping he won’t shoot us in the back. He laughs as we kick up dust.
I grin at J.A. “See you later, boy.” I bolt out front like a cat with his tail on fire. My long legs leave him behind. It’s every man for himself. Friends are friends, but digging shit ditches is another thing. I won’t be in the last five.
We get to the river, and it looks so peaceful, and I’d like to stay. A blue and white flag snaps in the breeze at the Hall’s Ferry dock, and I take off back. Three men sprint ahead of me. They’re just too dang fast.
I remember Mr. Wiley’s words. “Do nothin’ to make yourself stand out. That’ll just get you a medal and a coffin. Do your job, and if you do good, they’ll let you know.” Good advice.
I get back third out of four front runners, breathing hard. The rest of the pack trickles in behind us. J.A. is in the middle of the group. The last five, a bit overweight, straggle in with sad looks on their faces. They know punishment is coming.
I’m congratulating myself when Sergeant Boyette yells out, “Last five, front and center. What’d you see, you slow-as-hell land turtles?”
The five boys look at each other. “A blue and white ferry flag?”
“Why are you askin’ me? Is that what you saw or not? You silky sack o’ tater-bellies.”
They straighten up. “Yassuh, Sergeant Boyette, that’s what we saw.” The youngest of the five lets out a giggle at being called a tater belly. He can be no more than seventeen.
“Do I amuse you, son? Straighten your lard ass up, or I’ll kick you so hard you’ll have a new set of eyeballs.” Sergeant Boyette draws back his fist, and the tater belly cringes. Boyette stops, then smiles, cutting his eyes my way.
“First five, front and center to get your prize for winnin’ the race.” My chest swells. “This is how this man’s army works, ploughboys. You men who ran quick as scared chickens escapin’ a Sunday dinner will help the tater-bellies.”
It’s like my jaw just hit the ground and stuck in the mud. I don’t dare look Sergeant Boyette in the eye. Our Sarge Kelly covers his mouth trying not to laugh. Sergeant Boyette ain’t playing. J.A. winks and grins at my misfortune.
“You special boys best help these wormy peckerwoods lose them tater bellies their mommas gave ’em so they can run a mile without breakin’ a sweat. You got it?”
I yell, “Yassuh, Sergeant, suh.” Mr. Wiley said I’ll say those words so often I’d do it in my sleep.
Sergeant Boyette walks slowly up to me, hands on his hips, his unlit cigar tickling my chin. I close my eyes waiting for a bloody nose.
“Sergeant Kelly, you learn him that, or is he just lucky?”
Before Sergeant Kelly answers, I jump in. “Never had much luck, suh. An old Mex War soldier gave me some advice, suh. He told me to do good and get back home. That’s all, suh.”
Sergeant Boyette rolls his cigar around in his mouth, smiling. I don’t know if he’s going to slap me or hug me. “Next time, tadpole, you wait for my permission to speak, you hear?”
“Yassuh.”
“Y’all hear that? Do good and get back home. Do that, and you’ll make it home to your sweethearts. What’s your name, Winn Rebel?”
“Columbus Nathan Tullos, suh.”
Sergeant Boyette huffs a cough. “Cully Nathey wha-a-at?”
“Columbus Nathan Tullos, suh. Folks just call me Lummy, suh.”
“All right then, Lummy Tullos, you take these nine well-bred Looseaner gents to that tool shed over yonder by the commissary. Tell them I sent you and to give you ten diggin’ spades. Can you do that, Lummy Tullos?”
“Yassuh, right now, suh.” The other nine look scared to death but happy I’m getting all of the Sergeant’s attention. I bark, “Let’s go.”
Sergeant Kelly winks out of the corner of his eye. “Lummy, dig ’em over yonder. I don’t want to smell a shit ditch whilst I’m eatin’ my finely-prepared army meal.” I throw a wave his way and take off with the tater bellies in tow.
Sergeant Boyette turns to our Sarge. “Fine bunch of men Winn Parish has sent President Davis. You done good.”
We hustle over to the tool shack. It’s strange to be ordering men around. It’s not my nature and certainly ain’t my plan. I just ain’t the orderin’ other people around kind. It can drag up my anger because sometimes I don’t know who to please.
The fastest runner whispers, “Why’n the hell we gots to dig shit ditches? We’re suppose’t to be leavin’ out of here tomorrow, right?”
This complaint comes from a man who earlier talked big about bravery on the battlefield and getting medals but who knows little about the daily life of a buck private. I don’t know either, except what Mr. Wiley told me. He told good stories. I hope to live to tell some of my own one day.
I can’t say I’m afraid of what’s coming. Pa pretty much beat the fear out of me and my brothers. But I am apprehensive about leaving Susannah, not being right with Ben, and I’ll admit, about going into battle. I hope it’ll keep me sharp and alive when the fighting comes. Any fear is more about not getting the chance to live the peaceful life I’ve always wanted. I throw a shovel over my shoulder and hum “Oh Susanna.”
When we get to the latrine area, a couple of the boys double over and puke. One gags and ties a cloth to cover his mouth and nose.
“O-o-owee, what in the hell have these boys been eatin’? Damn, that stank’s so thick you gotta wipe it off your teeth.”
I point my shovel at him. “Shut up, fool, and dig so we can get the shit stank out of our snouts before we go eat. It’ll be darker’n a coon’s moon out here soon.”
He stands up straight like he’d seen me do a few minutes ago with Segeant Boyette. “Yassuh, General Columbus Nathan Tullos, suh.” We laugh and keep digging.
I can’t eat after finishing our work, so I save my dwindling stash of home food and stuff the army rations in my pack. I stare into the stars. I miss Susannah something terrible already.
———————————
THE QUIET OF the morning sun greeting a peaceful cool morning breeze is blasted away by the unfamiliar sound of a bugle.
J.A. rolls over rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Ole Gabriel blowin’ his horn already?”
Sarge kicks a few late sleepers. “Winn Rebels, I thought we’d be here a few days, but it ain’t so. Get your gear, choke down your breakfast, and get your sorry asses down to the river. The boat’s early, and we will be too. Lummy, get ’em goin’.”
I don’t have to. Men scurry like mice in a corn crib chased by a barn cat. We stand ready at the river by seven o’clock sharp. Sarge splits us into three single file lines to board a steamer.
J.A. peeks down the line. “Hey, what’s goin’ on down there?”
Nicely-dressed ladies hand packages to each man. The closer we get, the sweeter the perfume. I daydream about Susannah as the line moves slowly.
Then I see her. “Oh hell,” I cry out softly. It’s Annie Fanny in all her big backside glory, flirting with every man who passes. Dang, I’m in her line.
I start to duck out to another line. Sarge barks, “What’s wrong with this line, Lummy?”
I can’t tell him the truth. “Just gonna step behind them barrels for a minute, Sarge, before we get stuck on that boat.”
Sarge grabs my head and turns it toward the river. “See that boy? Your tiny little pot of piss ain’t gonna make a bit of difference to Big Muddy. Do it after you get on the boat. Damn, boy, we got a war to get to. No time for your lolly-gaggin’.”
My only hope is to pull my hat down. It doesn’t work.
“Well, hellfire blazes blowin’ my skirt up and over my head if it ain’t my good friend, Lummy Tullos.” She rears back and bellylaughs. “How long has it been, my sweet darlin’? What? Three years since I had your pants off the night I patched you up? My Lord, don’t you look better’n honey on a fresh-baked biscuit.”
I hang my head but to no avail. The boys cheer, one yelling, “Dang, Lummy, if you can take her on, I hate to see what you’ll do to the blue-bellies.”
J.A. scratches the back of his neck. “Da-a-amn, son. She’s ugly enough to scare a buzzard off a gut wagon.”
“Shut the hell up, or I’ll slap your ass sideways.”
He laughs, and I can’t help but laugh too. I look up at Annie, who realizes she can cause me a lifetime of misery or tell the truth.
“Now hold on boys. Time to fess up. I tried to get this fine young man’s britches off, but he’d have no part of it. He stayed right as rain to a girl he was followin’ to Winn Parish. I hope he found her, ’cause if he didn’t, he’s mine for the claimin’.”
J.A. yells out in my defense. “She’s right. Lummy got hitched in Winnfield. I wasn’t there, but he’s got a ring on his finger to prove it.”
I hold up the band. “Say something now.” They all laugh. I sigh and give Annie Fanny a thank you nod.
But just to make an awkward moment go away, I peck Annie Fanny on the lips. “Good thing I’m hitched, boys. This here’s as fine a specimen of woman ever formed by the Good Lord himself.” Annie blushes. I wipe the snuff juice off my lips without her seeing.
Annie pops me on my backside. “You’re still a good man, Lummy Tullos. Take care of yourself. Come on back, and I’ll roast us a corn-fed possum with sweet taters.”
I wink. “Yes’um, sure will.”
The steamer casts off and starts for the channel. The captain blows the whistle, and black smoke bellows into the wind.
Sarge comes by. “Damn, son, if you ain’t the sight. You get caught up in the middle of things without even tryin’.”
“Yassuh and steadily doin’ my best to stay out of it all. It just ain’t workin’ out so good.”
Sarge pops me on the shoulder. “You’re gonna do fine, son.”
As we turn south for New Orleans, I look back at the Confederate flag on top of the Warren County Courthouse snapping in the river breeze. For some reason, it just doesn’t look right.