Echoes of Dark and Light (34 page)

I escorted a green-gray faced Woody back to his tent with his arm freshly bandaged and some willow bark tea to sip on for the pain. We could now only pray that his arm would heal. If it didn’t…well, I pushed that gruesome thought out of my mind.

I wearily stumbled onto my bedroll that night, carefully stretching out my stiff and sore muscles before rolling onto my stomach. Toby snored, snorted and sawed as if slowly and diligently working his way though a whole forest filled with trees right in our little tent. With a sigh, I dragged my rolled up coat out from under my head and clamped it over my ears. Then I waited for elusive sleep to come, knowing tomorrow we crossed the James River and marched toward another battle.

On the misty morning of June 15
^th
, we gathered on the north shore of the James River and surveyed the talented work of the Engineer Corps. They had started just the day before in their now well-practiced routine of constructing a pontoon bridge. This one, one of the longest of the war, spanned 2,200 feet across the James. The Engineer Corps had completed the humongous task, without a single nail, in just over twelve hours. I studied their craftsmanship, noting the series of thirty-one foot long wooden boats spaced out across the river, anchored down in thirteen fathoms of water. The boats supported the planking of the bridge, held in place with ropes. I shook my head in amazement; wars did tend to bring a lot of talented people together, sharing ideas and skills. Too bad it didn’t happen more often in more peaceful times.

We crossed the mist-shrouded bridge in formation, the planking levels sinking deeper momentarily with each rhythmic step. Yet the entire bridge held steady and secure.

We spent the rest of the day marching towards Petersburg. We’d heard that General Smith had already arrived, trying to decide the best plan of attack. By the time we made camp, he and his 18
^th
Corps had closed in on the enemy, successfully taking more than a mile of Rebel fortified lines around Petersburg. Hancock arrived with the 2
^nd
Corps about nine p.m., but they decided the best action would be to rest their men instead of further attack that night.

Our 9
^th
Corps arrived at the front line on the 16
^th
, bringing the total man (and woman) count to about 50,000 strong. We took our position on the left side of the Union line, near the Baxter Road with the 2
^nd
Corps on our right and the 18
^th
Corps on the far side of them near the Appomattox River. We formed a sort of half circle around the southern end of Petersburg. God offered a clear, beautiful day with birds singing and drinking in the sun. A refreshing breeze inspired the tree’s leaves to sway in a graceful dance, and carried the sweet scent of wildflowers to my nose. Such a shame to dirty the day with bloodshed and death.

The prettiness of the day quickly faded away as we focused on forcing the Union line closer to Petersburg. Musket ball after musket ball exploded from the end of my rifle, long after my ringing ears numbed to the piercing noise, and my protesting eyes teared and overflowed from the burning gunpowder smoke hanging thick. My muscles cramped painfully in my crouched position, until they too numbed into submission. And apparently my brain and heart had numbed to the pounding as well; I barely even flinched at the Rebels dropping dead from my aim. We managed to hold our line steady and secure the rest of the day, though failing to gain a single foot in advancement.

As darkness descended, enshrouding us in a mandatory break, soldiers huddled in hushed groups, forcing hardtack and cold coffee into stomachs. One by one, exhausted men curled up in bedrolls on the rocky ground to try and find some elusive sleep, but I didn’t even bother. I sat near Woody, placing cooling cloths on his slightly fevered forehead. I tried to ignore the sickening-sweet odor of the herbal poultice packed onto his bandaged arm, knowing I couldn’t do more than what had already been done. Woody eventually dropped into a fitful sleep, uttering indecipherable words and moaning now and again. Toby sat behind me, his back to my back, supporting me in more ways than one. Humming quietly under his breath, avoiding any controversial song from his southern upbringing, his voice soothed a few rumpled spirits within hearing range. I welcomed the steady warmth from his contact, feeling a bit vulnerable and lonely, despite being surrounded by thousands of souls. Preacher betrayed us and deserted; Kenny had been killed; Robert remained unfound; and now Woody lay next to me with the all too real danger of loosing his arm, or worse. My tiny circle of friends dwindled dangerously.

An urgent whispering commotion jerked my attentions back to the battlefield. I peered through the gray and black shifting shadows toward the rising voices. I managed to identify one as Captain Truckey. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder and met Toby’s eye. He nodded, so we climbed stiffly to our feet and carefully maneuvered the sleeping bodies collapsed haphazardly on the ground. As we crept closer, the mumbling cleared into words.

“Slow down and repeat that one more time,” Captain Truckey calmly ordered.

An excited private named Billy something or other began again, motioning to the three bedraggled soldiers standing behind him. “Captain, I was out on guard duty when I discovered these three creeping around in the underbrush. They claim they’re ours, sir, taken prisoner by the Rebs a few days back. They managed to escape and worked their way here. They have information.”

Captain Truckey nodded. “Good work. Let’s get these men and their information to General Meade.”

They turned in our direction. Before we could feign our eavesdropping with something innocent, Captain recognized us.

“Privates, I need you to trek over to the supply wagons and fetch some rations and blankets for these men. Meet us at the General’s tent.”

Escaping yet another tongue lashing for being misplaced from where we’d been ordered to stay, we happily complied. The supply clerk, on the other hand, didn’t hold back his anger.

“I swear,” he grumbled, crawling out from under his wagon. “Can’t a soldier get even one decent night’s sleep? Did it ever occur to you that maybe this could wait until seven o’clock or so? Is this really a matter of life and death, a scratchy blanket and some stale, weevil-infested hardtack? Would a few hours make that much difference? Maybe if everyone just grew one decent bone in his body, had just a wee bit of consideration for his fellow man, then this entire war could have been avoided! And then I would be getting a decent night’s rest! I swear…”

His voice muffled as his head and shoulders disappeared into the tangled confusion of his supply wagon. I glanced at Toby who shrugged back at me and grinned.

“Getting a grin out of him is harder than trying to shove sap back into a tree,” he whispered.

The clerk’s exposed back end bounced and shook as he dug for the appropriate items. I tapped my foot in impatience, eager to complete our task. I hoped we’d be able to listen in a bit before being ordered back to our bedrolls.

The clerk emerged, his voice droning on uninterrupted at his endless list of complaints. We grabbed the rations and blankets, and hurried back towards the officer tents.

“See, no consideration at all,” the clerk’s annoying voice followed us. “Not even a word of thanks for interrupting a man’s sleep—”

“Thanks!” Toby called over his shoulder. “’Appreciate it!”

I didn’t even bother.

We found the meeting tent aglow with half a dozen lanterns burning, abuzz with a handful of officers deep in discussion, and aflutter with a score of beige moths dancing against the canvas walls. We approached as inconspicuously as possible, hoping we’d be quickly forgotten and able to blend into the background. Captain Truckey nodded for us to distribute the supplies without breaking his speech.

“…when these three soldiers escaped Rebel captivity and successfully returned to our lines.” He sent an approving glance to the bedraggled soldiers.

I shook out the folded woolen blankest, handing one to each. With grateful smiles, they draped the scratchy, but warm covers over their shoulders, covering their damp, muddy, and torn uniforms.

“From which infantry do they hail?” one officer asked, pulling out a chair and wearily resting his weight.

The three men replied in unison before quickly gnawing into the hard tack and gulping at the canteens.

“And tell us again what they reported,” General Meade said, pulling the creased map across the table to peer closer.

Captain Truckey leaned over the map, pointing with his finger. “They were being held here, waiting to be shipped off to Belle Isle Prison—”

“Lucky sons of guns, to avoid that place,” Meade interrupted. “I’ve heard that particular prison rots worse than hell.”

Captain Truckey nodded. “Definitely a place to avoid at all costs; these three soldiers are lucky. And their luck is also our luck as they’ve managed to bring back some important information on the Rebel army, information that confirms an earlier report. The Army of Northern Virginia is heading this way. As of a few hours ago, they have yet to cross the James.”

The significance of his words silenced the room. Even I understood that a prime opportunity to attack Petersburg’s lines of defense had presented itself. When the added Rebel army arrived and set up defense around the city, more obstacles would stand between the Blues and victory. As the determined moths relentlessly bombarded the lanterns, the war-weary officers exchanged calculated looks.

I glanced over at Toby. He raised a knowing black brow. Looks like we wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

General Meade banged his fist on the table. “Men, prepare for an immediate attack!”

As the late night rolled over to the wee hours of June 17
^th
, our camp stirred to life. With a few meager hours to plan and organize, the officers scheduled the attack for just before sunrise. The plan aimed an assault directed at the Shand House on the north side of Baxter Road. Cutting down the defensives at that spot could provide a direct route into the city of Petersburg. The 9
^th
Corps’ Second Division would lead the attack with the First and Third Divisions providing back up support. As the Second Division silently crept into position under the cover of darkness, just down hill of the Shand House, Toby, Woody and I followed Captain Truckey and the rest of the third Division to take our place at the rear and left of the hill.

We never arrived.

I wrote off the first ill feeling stirring in my gut as pre-battle nerves. When I heard a rustling in some nearby shrubs, I assumed a few critters had decided to skedaddle before getting caught in the middle of some human scuffle. Then some shifting shadows pricked my senses, and warnings shot down to my fingertips.

“Toby.” I moved close and murmured in his ear. “We’ve got trouble.”

“You feel it, too?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. We’re not alone.”

“Looks like we’re getting sneaked up on while we’re doing our own sneaking.”

I swallowed hard, pushing aside the distracting nerves. “Best tell Captain Truckey before—”

Deafening gunfire erupted from two sides, one aimed uphill at the Shand House, the other aimed at us! Instinctively, I dropped flat to the ground, my rifle pulled close to return fire once I regained my bearings. All around me, soldiers had done the same, or taken refuge behind shelter, as Toby had done, dragging Woody along behind him. A couple of musket balls found their mark, men screaming and clutching at wounds as they fell, or falling silently with their breath permanently taken from them. Confusion dispersed through the darkness along with drifting gunpowder and disembodied voices moaning and yelling.

Another round of gunfire, one singing inches from my ear, and the Blues orientated on the source and began to return fire. Plowing though the dusty leaves and sharp stones on my elbows and knees, I scrambled after Toby and took shelter behind a rock outcropping, then quickly pointed my rifle toward the source. Over the explosion of noise, I picked out a few bellowed orders from Captain Truckey to take cover, return fire, and regroup as soon as possible. Over my shoulder, the hill holding Shand House lit up as the Second Division continued their attack, but we wouldn’t be able to offer support anytime soon. I yanked back the trigger, sending a whistling musket ball into the smoky darkness.