Drummer Boy at Bull Run (8 page)

Ira slumped down on a nail keg and began to pull at his long bushy hair. Strain came into his eyes as he tried to find the words. Finally he said, haltingly,
“Dear Rosie. I am fine. How are you?” He stopped and looked over, saying, “I can’t think of nothing to say.”

“Why, of course you can,” Leah encouraged. “Just tell her what you’ve been doing.”

Pickens brightened, and for the next ten minutes he dictated slowly the account of his activities. Then he said, “Yours truly, Ira Pickens.”

Leah looked up and smiled. “Why, you can’t end a letter like that, Ira!”

“Why not?” Pickens was truly surprised.

“This is a letter you might write to your father or your sister,” she protested. She cocked her head to one side and bit the end of her pen. “Rosie’s your sweetheart, isn’t she?”

“Well, I reckon so.”

“Well, then, you’ve got to say more than ‘I went to drill this morning.’ You’ve got to say something sweet.”

“Sweet? Like what?”

Leah tried to hide the smile that came to her lips. It struck her as amusing that the tall soldier had no more idea of how to write a love letter than he had of writing an encyclopedia.

“Why, tell her that you miss her. Tell her how pretty she looked the last time you saw her, and tell her that you love her. Ask her to be faithful to you.”

Ira Pickens perked up. “Yeah,” he said brightly. “Say all that, Leah.”

Leah laughed. “Why, I can’t put down what I say,” she protested. “Rosie wants to hear what
you
have to say.”

Pickens slumped down again and shook his head dolefully. “Aw, I ain’t never had no practice much talking like that!”

Leah thought for a moment. “Why don’t you write her a poem?”

“A poem?” Pickens stared at her blankly. If she had asked him to jump over the sun he could not have been more surprised. “Why, Miss Leah, that’s crazy. If I can’t write no letter, how’m I going to write a poem?”

“Well,” Leah confessed, “I guess that is a bit much. But you’ve got to put a little romance in your letter, Ira. Young ladies expect it.”

“Do you get letters from your sweetheart, Miss Leah?”

Leah blushed, “Why—”

“I expect you do got a suitor, ain’t you?”

“Why, I’m only thirteen years old!” Leah said. “I’m too young for things like that.”

But Pickens must have seen her blush, and he was a sharp young man despite his backwardness. He studied her carefully, then grinned. “I bet you have got some young fella that you like, ain’t you, now?”

Leah tried to deny it, but when he persisted she said, “Well, I do have a friend. We grew up together. His name is Jeff, and we write. I do think a lot about him.”

“Whereabouts is he?”

Leah’s face grew sad. She shook her head and said, “He’s in Virginia. His father’s in the Confederate army.”

“Aw, that’s too bad, Miss Leah,” Ira said. “It’s terrible, ain’t it—the way this war’s done tore people up.” He sat there, a lank shape, his homely face in repose. Finally he said, “Well, you write that letter for me, and I’ll make my mark at the end. Rosie knows I can’t write, but she’ll know my mark.”

Several times during the next few weeks, Ira came to dictate other letters to Rosie. He took considerable jesting from his fellow soldiers, but he never seemed to grow angry. “That’s all right,” he said to Leah. “Let ’em make fun of me. But with letters like you’ve been writing, why, them other fellas back home ain’t got a chance.”

“Why don’t you let me teach you how to write, Ira?” Leah asked. “You’re smart enough—it wouldn’t take you any time to learn.”

Ira shook his head. “Naw, I reckon not. I got me a good letter writer already, and I’m thinking this shooting will be over before I have time to learn anything as complicated as writing. Naw, you just keep writing to Rosie for me.”

* * *

It was on a fine afternoon the last of May that Mr. Lincoln came down to inspect the army. All of the companies were driven by their sergeants into their best appearance. Buckles were polished, uniforms had to be neatly pressed and beards trimmed.

And on the afternoon President Lincoln came, Leah and her father were close enough to see him where he stood in his box.

“My, he’s tall, isn’t he?” Leah said. She studied his face. “And he doesn’t look at all like a gorilla—not like those Southern newspapers call him.”

“No,” her father agreed, “he’s got a kind look on his face, hasn’t he? I think he’s just the man we need for our president.”

For the next two hours the two stood and watched the parade.

First the infantry strutted by. Company after company divided into brigades, their buttons sparkling in the sun, as—bayonets fixed and gleaming—they marched past the president’s box.

Then the ground rumbled as teams drew the caissons and cannons by—row after row of them, one man seated on a horse, the other seated on the caisson. After this came a thundering charge by the cavalry, all dressed in blue, their sabers drawn, flashing in the sun.

Next was a demonstration of artillery fire so that the ground seemed to shake with the sound of the explosions.

Finally, it was over. Leah and her father went back at once to their wagon, knowing they would be besieged by the soldiers on such an occasion as this. They had laid in a large store of good things to eat, and, as the soldiers crowded around, Mr. Carter murmured, “I wish we could just give this away to these fine young men.”

“If we did that,” Leah said practically, “we wouldn’t be able to buy any more to pass out to the others.” She was aware that her father was making very little money. He couldn’t bear to see a young soldier who had no money go away empty-handed.

They worked hard for an hour, and finally the crowd thinned out. All of a sudden someone said, “Look, there he is—Mr. Lincoln!”

Leah looked up in surprise. The president, accompanied by several government leaders and a group of officers, was making his way down through the troops. Every once in a while, President Lincoln would stop and talk to a lowly private and shake his hand.

“Pa, he’s coming this way!” Leah whispered with excitement. “I’d give anything just to shake his hand.”

Then Abraham Lincoln paused right in front of their wagon. His warm brown eyes fell on her, and he advanced at once. He seemed very tall as he looked down at Leah.

“Well, young lady, I’m glad to see you here serving our fine soldiers.”

“Yes, sir.” She stumbled, barely able to speak for excitement. “My father and I, we came to do all we could for the Union.”

“And what might your name be?” the president inquired.

“I’m Leah Carter, and this is my father, Daniel,” Leah answered quickly. “And my brother, Royal, is in A Company.”

“So the whole family has come to help the Union?” The president smiled. He did have a homely face, but there was a kindness and a warmth in it that seemed to shed light as he looked around. He shook hands with her father, saying, “You are to be congratulated, sir, on your efforts.”

Daniel Carter cleared his throat and nodded.

“Mr. President, I pray for you every day of my life. I know the heavy burden that you’re under, and I pray that God will give you strength to bear it.”

Lincoln’s eyes opened wide, and he grew sober. “I thank you, sir, and I encourage you to continue to do so. Without the help of the Almighty there is no way that I could carry this burden, but with His help we cannot fail.”

A murmur of appreciation ran around, and Leah suddenly put out her hand. “Mr. Lincoln,” she said, “can I shake your hand?”

At once her hand was enclosed in the president’s. It was so large that hers seemed lost, but he held it gently. “Well, I never refuse a chance to shake hands with an attractive young woman,” Lincoln said with a smile. “Where are you from, Miss Leah?”

“From Kentucky, sir.”

“Ah, yes, Kentucky.” Lincoln shook his head sadly. “One of our border states, neither Confederate nor Federal. You have great problems there.”

“Yes, sir. Many of our friends went to be with the South.”

“Yes, I too have fine friends in the South,” Lincoln said at once. “We must pray that one day soon we will all be united again.”

Leah looked up and asked before she thought, “Will we win, Mr. President?”

Lincoln stared at her for a long moment, then whispered, “Yes, Miss Leah, I must believe that the Almighty will bring this country back under one flag again.” He studied her. “You worry about your friends and perhaps relatives in the South?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Lincoln nodded. “A sad thing.” He hesitated and then put his hand out again. When he had hers in his, he said, “I thank you on the part of your government for what you’re doing to help our brave boys. If you ever need help that I can give, I hope you will come and ask for it.”

And then he was gone.

Leah’s hand seemed warm after the pressure of his. As she watched the president walk away, surrounded by the officers and statesmen, she thought suddenly of Jeff so far away in the South. Sadness came over her, but she thought of the president’s
words—“The Almighty will bring this country back under one flag again,” and she whispered, “Pa, he’s right, isn’t he? One day this will all be over.”

Dan Carter put his hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Yes, daughter, one day it’ll all be over, and we’ll be one people again.”

A
s Jeff stepped down off the train, he discovered that war fever had come to Richmond. A host of young men had flocked to the city to enlist, and he soon learned that their greatest fear was that the big battle would be over before they could become a part of it. As he pressed his way through the streets, the people behaved as though they were infected. They rushed from rally to rally, faces flushed, shouting war slogans.

“I guess I better go find Pa,” he murmured and managed to make his way through the crowds. He noticed that the volunteer companies that were seeking to enlist new members had rather awe-inspiring names, such as Baker Fire-eaters, Southern Avengers, Bartol Yankee Killers, Cherokee Lincoln Killers, and Hornet’s Nest Riflemen.

I hope they’re as rough as their names
, he thought with a smile.

He paused beside a platform where a battle flag made by the ladies of Richmond was to be presented. This company had the rather ferocious name of Southern Yankee Killers. Jeff watched as the volunteers stood in ranks, their eyes fixed on the speakers, who gave them a flowery tribute. Then the color sergeant advanced with his corporals to receive the flag, rising to the occasion with an impressive response:

“Ladies, with high beating hearts and pulses throbbing with emotion, we receive from your hands this beautiful flag, the proud emblem of our young republic. To those who will return from the field of battle bearing this flag—though it may be tattered and torn—in triumph, this incident will always prove a cheering recollection. And to him whose fate it may be to die a soldier’s death, this moment brought before his fading view will recall your kind and sympathetic words. He will bless you as his spirit takes its aerial flight …”

Jeff stayed long enough to hear the speech and several others much like it. Finally the oratory stopped long enough for the soldiers to receive liberal offerings of cake, cookies, punch, and coffee from the young ladies, all of whom were adorned in their best dresses.

Being half starved from his long trip, Jeff edged over to one of the tables and managed to fill up on some of the sweets and the lemonade.

Finally, he left the heart of the city and made his way to the house his father had rented. When he got there, however, he was surprised to find six or seven small children ranging from a baby of no more than a year to a pugnacious boy of seven or eight.

He stopped abruptly, wondering if he had the right house, then shrugged and walked to the door. As he stepped inside, he was accosted at once by a very large woman, who demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”

Jeff blinked with surprise and then swallowed. “Why I … I live here.”

The woman stared, and then her features softened. “Oh, then you’d be Lieutenant Majors’s son, I’m thinking.”

“Yes, I’m Jeff Majors.” Jeff looked around and saw that the room was filled with items he had never seen before.

The woman, seeing his glance, said, “My name is Mrs. Taylor. My husband is a sergeant in your father’s company. We had no place else to go, so Lieutenant Majors said we could stay here.”

“Oh,” Jeff said lamely and then added, “I guess you’ll be here for quite a while.”

Mrs. Taylor shrugged. “As long as the army’s here. And then when they go off, I’ll have to wait.” She tucked a strand of hair back. “Don’t worry—well fix a place for you somewhere.”

Jeff at once said, “Don’t bother, Mrs. Taylor. I’m going to see my father now. I just want to get some of my things.”

“Well, we packed them in a box. But you won’t find anyplace else to stay,” she said abruptly. “Richmond’s packed like a grape in its skin! No more room anywhere.”

Jeff found a change of clothes, but it was so crowded in the room with several children staring at him that he said, “I’ll change later. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”

Leaving the house, he began his walk to camp. As he walked he thought,
I can’t stay in that place. Why, I’d go crazy with all those kids!

He reached the camp and, having walked all the way, was rather tired. At once he went to Company A and found his father sitting in the tent he used for an office.

“Jeff—you’re back!” Nelson Majors leaped to his feet and moved over at once to call out the door, “Corporal Majors—come here.”

Tom glanced up from where he was drilling a squad across the field and came running, once he saw Jeff. “Step into my office,” their father said.

When the boys were inside, he shut the tent flap and grinned. “Can’t let them see this.” He stepped forward and gave Jeff a hug.

Tom did the same. “When did you get back?”

“This morning, about two hours ago.” Jeff put his clothes down on the cot. “Looks like the house has been taken over, Pa.”

“Yes, I had to let Mrs. Taylor stay there. Sergeant Taylor’s a good man and didn’t have anywhere to put his family. But they’ll make room for you, I’m sure.”