Drummer Boy at Bull Run (11 page)

* * *

The march had been hard. Jeff was very tired by the time camp was made that night. The army had
come fourteen miles. That didn’t seem like a long way to Jeff. “But,” he said, “it was a long way when you got to carry a knapsack and a drum.” Marching with the drum threw him off balance, he discovered. It pulled him forward. He tried different positions. He slung it over his shoulder, but then the sling choked him or cut into his shoulders.

The army had moved in a long, serpentine line down the roads and from time to time had to take to the roadside to avoid the guns being pulled by the horses. Time and again a soldier would ride ahead, yelling, “Clear the roads! Clear the roads!” And when the men had moved to the sides, a troop of cavalry would thunder by—raising dust that choked them—or perhaps it was a group of officers, or one of the big cannons.

They camped that night in a big grove of trees beside a group of farmhouses. Since there were thousands of men, they had to wait in line at the wells, and the officers warned them, “Don’t drink all the wells dry. These people have to live here.”

Twilight had come, and the pleasing smell of cooking meat came to Jeff. There was no such thing as a single campfire feeding all the men, nor a single cook. The men of each company were assigned to squads of six or seven men. Each squad found its own firewood and cooked its own meals.

After Jeff had eaten, Sergeant Henry Mapes said, “You fellows get ready. There’s going to be a service tonight.”

“A service?” Curly Henson looked up at him with surprise. “What kind of a service, Sarge?”

“Oh, General Jackson’s got a preacher along, so we’re all going to go get preached at,” Mapes said.

“Not me.” Henson shook his head stubbornly. “I got preached at enough when I was home. My pa always made me go. Count me out, Sarge.”

“I ain’t counting nobody out, Curly,” the sergeant said sharply. “We’re all going to go hear that preaching. The general wants it, and what General Jackson wants, we’re going to give him.”

That was the end of the argument. After the dishes were washed and the gear put away, Jeff’s squad joined others walking over to a large clearing where already a large number of men had gathered.

Jeff saw his father standing beside the general, and he nudged the sergeant. “Look, Sarge. There he is. That’s General Jackson. I met him one time.”

“Did you now?” the sergeant asked curiously. “Well, I hope he’s better than his reputation.” He looked across to where Jackson was standing upright and said, “Some of the officers call him Tomfool Jackson. He was an instructor at West Point, but I never heard of him doing much fighting except maybe in the Mexican War.”

“Well, we’ll find out what kind of soldier he is pretty soon, I reckon,” Curly said. He was irritable over being forced to attend the service. “He sure don’t look like much!”

Jackson was wearing an old uniform and, as usual, had his forage cap pulled down over his eyes. But as the service went on, he took the cap off, laid it down, and joined in the singing.

Jeff was surprised to find that the songs were those he had heard at his church back in Kentucky. He sang along but noticed that Curly Henson kept his mouth closed and stubbornly refused to take part.

Finally the singing was over, and General Jackson raised his voice. “I’m glad you’ve all come to the service tonight, men. We’ll be going into battle soon, and I wanted you to have an opportunity to hear the gospel before that happens.” He hesitated, then said, “I am no preacher—just a simple soldier. But one thing I have discovered is that God is real and that Jesus Christ is the only answer for the problems that you and I meet. Let me introduce to you Major Phineas Roland, our chaplain.”

Roland was a tall, raw-boned man in a brand-new uniform and did not look like most preachers that Jeff had seen. However, he at once said, “I am not a soldier, men. Just a country preacher. General Jackson has been kind enough to allow me to speak to you tonight. So I want to talk to you about the one subject that every man must know about.” He opened the thick black Bible he held in his big hands and read one verse. “‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’”

Silence fell as the men stood listening. The preacher’s voice was high-pitched but pleasant and carried over the crowd easily, so that even those at the back heard him clearly.

“Jesus came to do one thing,” Roland said. “‘I am come that you may have life, and that you may have it more abundantly’

“All of us right now are alive,” he said. “At least we’re living, breathing, eating, and sleeping. But Jesus said there’s more to life than those things. He said a man has to come to know God, or he will never amount to anything.” The preacher went on talking about how people needed a life aside from physical life.

“If you’re not born again, you’re not right with God,” he said firmly “And how does a man get to be born again? Jesus said it was like the wind—you can’t explain it. But the rest of the Bible is devoted to telling us about that.” He told how a person needed to repent of his sins and call upon God through Jesus Christ. Finally, he said, “I’m asking you to do that right now. If there’s a man here who knows he’s not right with God, I beg you to come and let me pray with you. It won’t take but one minute for you to get right with God. But you’ll have all eternity, if you’re not, to regret your condition.”

The men began to sing, and several soldiers started to move forward. Jeff felt uncomfortable, but he did not move. Then he looked up in surprise to see Charlie Bowers walk forward with the older soldiers.

Jeff watched as little Charlie stood there, and finally the big chaplain noticed him. He bent over, and the two talked for a long time. Then Jeff saw Charlie bow his head as the chaplain put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“Well, look at that!” Curly Henson grinned. “It looks like your friend is going to hit the glory road, don’t it, Jeff?”

Jeff didn’t answer.

When the service was over, Charlie came back. He could hardly talk, he was so filled with emotion. His eyes were bright with tears, and his voice shook. “Jeff—hey, Jeff! I just got saved.”

“Did you, Charlie? That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

The two walked back toward where they were camped, and for a long time they lay awake in their little tent as Charlie talked about what had happened to him. Finally, he said, “Jeff, are you saved?”

Silence ran between the two for a moment. Then, “I don’t reckon so, Charlie. Nothing like that ever happened to me.”

Charlie raised up on one elbow to see the face of his friend by the moonlight. “You better get saved,” he urged. “Like you said, either one of us could get killed tomorrow.”

Jeff thought about that. “I guess it just hasn’t come to me yet,” he said, then closed his eyes. He knew that Charlie wanted to talk more, but he didn’t want to hear it.

Finally he drifted off into a fitful sleep, wondering what it really meant to be “born again.”

* * *

The army arose before dawn and after a quick breakfast was on the road. All morning long Jeff moved forward, choking on the dust, and finally was relieved to hear Sergeant Mapes say, “All right, we’re here.”

Jeff looked ahead to see the army pulling itself into a line. Down below he saw a creek. “What’s the name of that creek, Sergeant Mapes?”

“They call it Bull Run,” Mapes said, staring down at the little stream. He lifted his eyes and tried to stare into the distance beyond. “I reckon the Yankees are somewhere on the other side there. They’ll be coming at us today or tomorrow.”

The Yankees did not come that day, however, and that night at supper Jeff was glad to see Tom come walking over.

Tom was with a different platoon but sat down for a while and ate a piece of the bacon that Jeff was working on. After a while he looked over in the
darkness toward where the enemy lay. “I want you to do me a favor, Jeff.”

“Sure, what is it, Tom?”

Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “This is for Sarah,” he said, “in case I—in case something happens to me.”

Jeff took the letter uncomfortably. “Aw, nothing’s going to happen to you, Tom. You’ll be all right.”

“Why, sure.” Tom grinned back. “Just a little insurance, you know. Anyway, you see it gets to Sarah if something does happen.”

Jeff pushed the letter into his knapsack, and the two sat there in the quietness of the night, broken only by the sound of soldiers up and down the line of battle, murmuring.

Finally Tom said, “You know, it hurts me to think that one of those fellows we’ll be shooting at tomorrow—it could be Royal.” He chewed his lip nervously. “What if I kill Sarah’s brother? That’s the worse thing I can think of.”

Jeff said quickly, “Oh, Tom, there’s not much chance of that. They’ve got a big army over there. Why, it’d be a strange thing if you two even saw each other.”

Tom took a deep breath and then nodded. “I guess I’ll just have to think like that.” He leaned over and slapped Jeff on the shoulder. “You take care of yourself tomorrow, little brother. Don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“You too, Tom. You’ll be right up where the fighting is, I guess. You and Pa.” Jeff had not intended to say anything, but now in the quietness he found it was possible. “Tom,” he said, “I hate to tell you this, but I’m downright scared.”

Tom laughed and waved his arm around at the line of soldiers, at the flickering line of campfires that winked like red eyes in the darkness. “You ask any one of those fellows, Jeff, on either side”—he indicated the Yankee line off in the far distance—“and they’ll all tell you the same thing. We’re all of us scared. No man likes to think about getting wounded or maimed or maybe dying.”

The two of them sat there for a long time, and finally Tom got up. He reached down and ruffled Jeff’s hair. “Good night, Jeff. You watch yourself tomorrow.”

He walked off into the darkness. And as he did, Jeff felt lonely. He wanted to go to his father but knew that would not be right, since his father had many men to see to.

Finally he went to bed, and the last thing he remembered was Charlie saying, “Sure am glad I got saved, Jeff!”

T
he Army of the Potomac approached their first battle with a holiday spirit. Daniel Carter and Leah had loaded their wagon, packed all their supplies, then stood to one side watching as the troops moved out. The marching army made an informal parade, and, despite the efforts of the professional soldiers, the new recruits seemed to feel that the whole thing was a lark.

“Look at that, Pa! They act like they’re going out for a Sunday picnic!” Leah said indignantly.

Ira Pickens, who had come to say good-bye while his unit formed, grinned at Leah. “I reckon that’s the way it is, Miss Leah. We’ve heard so much about how easy this is going to be, why, the fellers they think it’ll just be a bit of fun.”

Mr. Carter’s face was even thinner than usual. The heat of summer and the hardship of camping out had worn him down. But his mouth was firm under his striking mustache. “I don’t reckon it’s going to be much fun, Ira. Some of those men are headed for their graves and don’t know it.”

A shiver went down Leah’s back. She looked up at her father quickly, noting the sadness in his face. Then she turned her eyes back to the parade. “Look—there’s Royal’s company! Do you see him, Pa?”

The blue-clad soldiers marched proudly by, and her father suddenly pointed. “There he is—in the
third line back. Do you see him, Leah? Don’t he look fine, though?”

Leah searched the troop and was thrilled to see her brother. “Royal! Royal!” she cried as he marched by. Her high voice carried over the sounds of the singing.

Royal turned to face her, grinned, and gave her a little salute as the company passed.

“Well, I better get back to my outfit,” Ira said. He hesitated, then said, “I sure do thank you for writing those letters to that sweetheart of mine, Leah.”

“Oh, you’ll be writing them yourself pretty soon.” Leah smiled at him encouragingly. “You be careful, now. Don’t get hurt.”

“Oh, I never get hurt,” Ira said, waving his hand airily. “Good-bye, Mr. Carter. You stay close with that wagon of yours, because the boys are sure going to want to celebrate after we whup the Rebels.”

The young man hurried off, and Leah’s father watched him sadly. “He doesn’t have any idea what he’s headed into,” he murmured. “I don’t think any of them do.”

“Well, Pa, let’s go get the wagon. We’ll have to be on our way and follow the army.”

“I guess so, daughter.”

The two of them went back to the wagon and spent some time making sure that everything breakable was carefully packed.

Finally, late that afternoon, the last of the troops went by. “I guess we can get in behind them,” Mr. Carter said. “We’re going to have to eat dust, though.”

They had to do exactly that. Outside Washington the dirt roads, dried by summer’s heat, threw up a fine yellow cloud that settled on their hair and got into their eyes. They stayed a few miles behind the
last of the troops but discovered that some late appearing soldiers marched past them.

“Those are some of the ninety-day men, I guess.” Her father nodded at the young men as they went by. “Some of them are just afraid they’ll miss out on the fighting—but I don’t think they have to worry about that.”

Leah watched and once again thought how lighthearted they were. They were singing at the top of their lungs one of the songs they had learned in the camp:

Time and again they broke ranks, despite their sergeant’s curses, and dashed off into the woods to get a drink of water from a meandering creek. Some found a blackberry patch, and when they called, “Come on, fellows! Here’s dessert!” the whole squad ran. Soon the berry patch was filled with shouting, frolicking, blue-clad soldiers.