I've been wanting to post a story I wrote for a Creative Writing Class I took at IVCC ten or twelve years ago. It was a course in their Adult Education program and was once a week for ten weeks as I remember.
Each class we had to turn in a short piece which was critiqued by the whole class. The work included short stories and haiku's. I really like the haiku's and wrote some humorous ones. Now I don't think I remember how to do those.
For the final of the class we were to write a ten-page paper on whatever subject we wanted. I chose to write a first person story weaving together anecdotes from my years as a Civil War reenactor. I labored over it intensely. My biggest problem with writing it was staying in the proper tense. I finished it, turned it in and got an A for my troubles. The professor was a great teacher and I enjoyed him thoroughly. I thought about signing up for another of his classes but found he had taken a job at another college further away.
This piece was titled "Boys of '62" and was written by me portraying my great-great-grandfather Isaac Vaughn. Isaac enlisted in the Union Army in August of 1862 from Wenona, IL. The other characters in the story are fellow reenactors and some of the names are real and some are first-person names. This is written to reflect the thoughts and social mores of the era. Some of the language is coarse.
The Boys of ’62
by Rick Keating
We’ve been
marching since early this morning, choking on the cloud of dust raised by thousands of tramping feet on the
dirt road. Being the rear guard of the
brigade is supposed to be an honor —
some honor — we can’t even tell what color our clothes are anymore.
All being from Wenona, we joined
together, me, Oran Southwell, Calvin Lightheart, and Thomas Adams; back in
August of ’62 when the call went out for more troops. We all thought this would be our great
adventure.
Oran first suggested we join,
telling the rest of us it’s our duty.
Oran is always making stump speeches about one cause or another. He is an ardent Lincoln supporter, especially
after seeing Lincoln debate Stephen A. Douglas in Ottawa back in 1858, and he
believes strongly that the Union should be preserved. He doesn’t much care about the niggers at
all. None of us have given much thought
to them. Hell, none of us have ever seen
one.
We all thought this would be our
great adventure. What could be more
patriotic than fighting to preserve our sacred Union? To defeat the secesh traitors and put them
back in their places is all we talked about.
How we were going to be so brave, making grand and glorious charges, all
being heroes.
It hasn’t worked out that way. Mostly our soldiering life is drilling,
marching, drilling, marching and more marching.
Up to this point we’ve been in a few scrapes but none of the four of us
have been hurt. Many in our company weren’t
as lucky. Quite a few have been wounded
and two killed. I knew the boys, and
mourned their loss, but the life of a soldier doesn’t leave much time to think
about missing comrades when you have to worry about your own survival. For the most part we don’t know where we are,
where we are going, or when we will get our next meal.
This march has been uneventful so
far. We’re going to take a rest, as the
colonel has called a halt for twenty minutes.
Calvin is digging in his haversack for coffee. I’ve never seen a man who could get a fire
going in such a short time, but we have to have our coffee. Oran can’t build a fire worth a damn but he’s
not bashful about putting his cup in somebody else’s fire. When it comes to boiling your coffee all’s
fair.
Calvin Lightheart is another
case. He’s a rather simple farm boy, a
big strapping lad and strong as an ox.
He’s a friend to everyone and a good soldier. He doesn’t much like all the marching we do
and wants to transfer to the gunboats ever since he saw them on the Cumberland
River. Thank God for Calvin, he always
gets our fire going for coffee which seems to be our only staple along with the
hardtack.
While we rest we try and beat some
of the dust out of our clothes and clean up a little. Sometimes we don’t get to wash for a week or
more. During times of drought we would
rather have water to drink than to bathe with.
But let us get near any kind of stream and we are in as fast as we can
get our clothes off. First we wash, then
we try and wash our uniforms. Often we
don’t have time to dry them because the drums beat assembly so we hurriedly
dress and march off in wet clothes. Such
is the lot of the soldier.
Our company captain, Henry
Simonton, from Magnolia, tells us we are relieved of rear guard duty and
assigned to advance guard and he’s taking us on a scout in front of the
brigade. We are to go two or three miles
ahead of the brigade and see if we can find any secesh.
We all gulp down our coffee, strap
on our knapsacks and move toward the head of the brigade.
“Hey, Isaac,” Calvin calls back to
me from a few ranks up, “do you suppose we’re going to the river to look for
gunboats?”
“How the hell would I know,
Calvin? The colonel didn’t consult with
me before handing out orders,” I replied.
“I’d sure like to get transferred
to the gunboats, Isaac. You know you
don’t have to march when you serve on a gunboat. You can just sit on deck and dangle your feet
over the side, you can fish…”
“Bullshit!” roars Oran. “Who told you that?”
“Some sailors,” says Calvin.
Oran really lit into Calvin. “And you believed them? Why you have to be the dumbest farmer I ever
knew. Did you get kicked in the head by
your mule? You get on a gunboat Calvin
and you’ll be dodging cannonballs not minié balls. God damn…”
“They wouldn’t lie to me would
they, Oran?” Calvin replied.
“Oh, no,” Oran says, “those sailor
boys would never lie to you. Calvin, I
can still see the hoof prints on your forehead, Calvin, you dumb ass.” And so it goes as we continue down the road.
About a mile from the brigade
Captain Henry has us deploy in a skirmish line which stretches out a couple of
hundred yards on either side of the road.
On our end the brush is fairly thick and it’s taking us longer to make
the advance.
After an hour or so we come upon a
dry creek bed where Captain Henry calls a halt.
We take up a position on the bank across the creek bed and rest for a
while. As we are lying on the bank we hear
a few horses to our front. Peering over
the edge of the bank and through the brush we see several Confederate cavalry
who are, no doubt, looking for us.
It’s just a small squad on a scout
and we want to empty their saddles, but Henry makes us lie there quietly. As long as they don’t spot us Henry doesn’t
want to take a chance of bringing on a general engagement.
“C’mon, Henry, let us take a shot
at those troopers,” Calvin says, “We could drop them right quick!”
“Calvin, you couldn’t hit a bull in
the ass with a bass fiddle at this distance,” Henry replies.
“Aw, c’mon, Captain Henry, you know
we’re good shots.”
“Just get back down behind the bank
and be quiet,” says Henry.
We’re too far from the brigade to
get any support if this erupts into pitched fighting, so we lay there and wait
until they ride back into the brush and disappear.
We have gone as far as we are
supposed to and now are waiting for the rest of the brigade to come up the
road. We know there are Confederates
somewhere in our front, but have no idea how many or what — infantry, cavalry or artillery. After waiting a couple of hours we’re
starting to worry about where the brigade is.
A few moments later a courier rides
up with orders to fall back to the brigade and make camp for the night. Henry assembles the company on the road and
we start back to the brigade. Upon
reaching the campsite for the night we begin to put up our shebangs.
Suddenly — off to the left we hear
the rattle of musketry. The right wing
of the brigade is camped across a dry creek (the same one we had occupied a
couple of miles away) and was under attack by a small Confederate battalion.
The long roll is beating… we all
grab our leathers and muskets and fall in.
Quickly, the colonel directs our company and two others to cross the
creek and wait in the edge of the woods.
We double-quick to our position while the two other companies run down
the creek bed to try and flank the Confederates.
“Hey, Isaac,” Thomas calls out,
“We’re going to give them hell now!
We’re going to make Jeff Davis howl.”
“You best not be worrying about
Jeff Davis,” I reply, “because I don’t think he’s here!”
The right wing is dug in and giving
the rebels hell when we get to the edge of the woods. They stopped firing so we could deploy in
their front and start firing. As we
deployed most of the right wing came out and aligned to our left. The rebels were looking pretty confident
until our other two companies come out of the woods on their flank and pour a
murderous fire into them. They were
trying to unlimber a cannon, screened by their battle line, but were taking so
many casualties they had to skedaddle.
We chased them across this long field and into the woods on the other
end where they disappeared in the fading light.
We only have a few men wounded but they left many killed and wounded
behind as they fled. A burial detail
will be sent out after dark. The wounded
will be sent back to a field hospital and from there to some prison camp.
We return to camp and begin
building fires so we could cook our food.
Out of the darkness come Charles and Jason with a large ham and sweet
potatoes they had foraged. Nobody asks,
but we all know they were in some farmer’s smokehouse. There are strict orders against foraging, but
if you don’t get caught, who cares?
More than once we’ve had local
farmers coming into camp complaining to the colonel that some “damn Yankees”
stole his cow or pig and he wanted it back.
Usually, by the time the farmers arrive to complain, the critters are
already roasting over the fire. They’re
hard to identify in that state. I think
we’ve got some boys who could butcher a hog on the march and not even break a
sweat.
The evening is cool and comfortable
as we settle down for some restful sleep. Word is we are going to be on the
march early in the morning.
No sooner did we lay down and Oran
starts snoring. After a few minutes of
this ungodly noise the boys start throwing pieces of bark, sticks and small
stones trying to wake him. Calvin
finally just rolls him over and he stops.
Oran didn’t even wake up.
Before dawn the sergeants are going
through camp waking everyone up.
Normally we awake to fifes and drums, but with the Confederates so close
we didn’t want them to know what we were up to.
With a heavy fog hanging we could barely see across camp, let alone know
where the enemy was.
The boys get up and stoke the fires
to boil coffee and cook our saltpork and hardtack. As I’m kneeling in the dirt packing my
knapsack the shooting starts.
“Thomas,” I yell, “get up… we’re
being attacked! Get up, damn you!”
Calvin kicks him in the backside
and hollers, “Thomas, the rebs are here.
Get yore ass up or yore gonna get captured.” Calvin gives Thomas another kick and runs
away.
Captain Henry tries to stop Calvin
but gets knocked to the ground for his effort as Calvin runs toward the
road. Oran, is coming back from the
sinks when the action starts, sees Calvin running toward him in a state of
panic.
“Calvin… stop, damn you!” Oran
shouts as he knocks Calvin down, “Get your ass back in line, I’m not going to
let you be a coward.”
With that Oran drags Calvin back by
his leathers and drops him beside his musket.
“Get up and fire that goddamn thing or I’ll kill you myself.”
Evidently our pickets were pulled
in too early and the rebels are now crashing through the underbrush, the “rebel
yell” piercing the air as they come. In
the fog we can’t tell for sure how many there are, but at the moment we’re
being overwhelmed. More of the boys are
breaking and running and now it’s a stampede to get out of camp. Food is still frying on the fire, equipment
is laying everywhere, and we just get the hell out of there. We run a few hundred yards before the
officers can stop us and reassemble the companies. Now the fog is beginning to lift so the
colonel is sending a skirmish company back to try and figure out how big a
force attacked our camp. After a few
minutes we hear our skirmish line open up on the rebels. The colonel sends another company in support
and when they arrive our skirmishers are driving off the rebels. It turns out to be two companies of reb
skirmishers preceding a Confederate brigade.
They discovered we had no pickets out and in an act of daring decided to
surprise us for breakfast… and did they ever.
Our skirmishers clear away the
intruders and we return to our camp to reclaim our belongings.
“I didn’t mean to run,” Calvin
sobs, tears running down his face, “ I was so scared, I’m sorry fellers, so
sorry…”
“C’mon, Calvin,” Oran says, “you’ll
be all right, get your stuff together, we’re leaving pretty quick.”
We all feel bad for Calvin, secretly thinking
it could have been any one of us who ran but Calvin seems to be pulling himself
together. Plenty of the boys ran this
morning in the panic, Calvin wasn’t alone, he was just the first to try and
skedaddle.
Several rebs were captured and we
learn they are from a Confederate brigade, which is very close. Since our nearest support is at least a day
behind us with the baggage and ammunition trains the colonel has no choice but
to retreat rather than bring on a fight here.
Turning around we march about a
mile and turn off the road into the dry creek.
It’s very difficult marching, the bottom of the creek is made up of
stones the size of apples and the boys are stumbling and falling, cursing all
the while.
We walk a half-mile in the creek
bed and turn into the woods. We are in a
column of fours but there is no room on the path so we form a single line and
follow the narrow trail through the woods.
Our company is near the tail end of the column so we can see the long
line of blue uniforms stretching out ahead of us and disappearing in the
trees. Up and down, from hill to ravine,
it’s very tough terrain. Many of the
boys are played out and have to drop beside the trail, hoping they will be able
to catch up with us later.
As we walk along I can hear Calvin
start up about the gunboats again. This
time Thomas Adams is giving Calvin a hard time.
No argument could change Calvin’s mind… he wanted a transfer to the
gunboats.
Thomas Adams came to America from
Ireland and is a farmer near Wenona.
He’s whip thin and an amusing rascal who loves to play jokes on the
boys. Thomas is also the heaviest
sleeper I have ever known, which is why Calvin and I couldn’t wake him when the
Confederates hit our camp earlier this morning.
He annoys the captain with his gambling and drinking and jokes. One night after the captain crawled into his
shelter Thomas and Calvin stacked a large pile of wood in the front so Captain
Henry couldn’t get out in the morning.
Lucky for us Henry thought it was funny.
After an hour on the trail a ten-minute halt
is called so we can catch our breath and take a drink of water. We find a tree and sit against it, some
drifting off for a short nap. Others
answer nature’s call further back in the woods.
Again, Calvin has a small fire going trying to get it hot enough to make
a cup of coffee. Calvin, Oran, Thomas
and I cluster around the tiny fire shoving our tin cups in hoping to have
enough time to bring it to a boil. Just
as the water begins to boil and the smashed coffee beans come to the top word
comes to fall in and resume the march… but we’re successful and coffee is
made. Falling in, we start down the
trail trying to carry our cups of steaming coffee, cursing as it spills and
burns our hands, but otherwise enjoying the refreshment.
We continue through the woods for a
couple of hours finally coming out on another dirt road turning south to find
our division and the wagon trains. As
the day wears on we cover a good many miles stopping about 6:30 to make
camp. None of us have any idea where we
are until Captain Henry stops and tells us we’ve gone about twenty miles that
day and are approaching Resaca, Georgia.
Our regimental Commissary Sergeant
arrives with salt beef, coffee, sugar, carrots and potatoes and proceeds to
issue rations to our regiment. We will
eat no rancid salt pork tonight, probably rancid salt beef instead.
Before dawn the fifes and drums
play reveille and we get up to fall in for roll call. Next it’s a mad scramble to cook breakfast
before it’s time to march. Oran still
has some bacon in his haversack so the four of us share it along with coffee
and hardtack. With full stomachs we’re
ready for the day.
“Fellers, I’m sorry I ran
yesterday, I don’t know what came over me.
I just had the most awful feeling… I was so scared… I just ran.” Calvin
says.
“Forget it,” says Thomas, “if you
had gotten me up earlier I would have gone with you, Calvin.”
“I’m not writing letters to your
mothers explaining why you two were shot in the back,” Oran replies, “so next
time the shooting starts you boys just remember why we enlisted in this man’s
army…”
“Easy, Oran,” I say, “ now is not
the time for one of your long-winded speeches.
We all know why we joined and we’ll all do the best we can. Calvin just got a little scared, he’ll be all
right in the next go ‘round.”
Assembly plays and we fall into
line and head to the south again until we come into a large open area, maybe a
mile across. Here the general commanding
the division orders the first brigade to deploy in line of battle on the right
of the road and our brigade to deploy on the left.
Across the field is the beginning
of the forest and our scouts tell us the secesh is deployed somewhere in the
woods. Our skirmishers go out to cover
the brigade front and begin advancing toward the woods. We follow several hundred yards behind and
watch as the skirmishers disappear into the tree line. We still hear no firing and march on. The brigade is now at the edge of the woods
and the colonel orders us forward into the trees.
Moving into the woods we see
nothing but underbrush, trees and vines.
Almost immediately our formation breaks up. Our knapsacks are catching in the tree limbs
and vines, which are everywhere. The
boys are falling over vines running along the ground, getting hung up in the
brambles and sticker bushes. This is a
nightmare. Captain Henry finally gets
our company into a single line and we hack our way through this jungle, which
seems to take forever. We wonder where
our skirmishers are, figuring they’re lost in the woods like we seem to be.
All of a sudden we pop into a
little open area, look to our front and see at least two companies of
Confederate infantry only about 50 yards away.
They immediately open fire on us.
Henry deploys our company and orders us to fire at will. We’re separated from the rest of our regiment
and we suspect the whole unit is broken up into groups fighting
independently. We’re outnumbered in our
front so Henry moves our rear rank out to the left to cover the Confederate’s
front. Our boys are lying on the forest
floor to reload and rising up to fire.
We’ve got good cover here. The
enemy is on a little knoll in the woods and have very little cover. The air is filled with minié balls, zipping
through the leaves and severing small branches.
Bark from the trees showers us as we rise up to fire. We’re afraid the Johnnies are going to figure
out they outnumber us and make a charge so Captain Henry orders us to advance
on the enemy.
“Forward, boys,” he shouts and we
rise and begin to advance toward the knoll.
The enemy is startled and begins to fall back as we halt after moving
about twenty yards forward. Once again
the firing becomes intense.
I look to my right and see Calvin
and he’s standing his ground. I know he
won’t run again.
“Give ‘em hell, Calvin,” I shout
over the din.
He looked back at me, smiled, and
kept loading.
So far we only have a few wounded
in our company, but I can see many Confederate casualties lying in front of
their battle line.
As our little battle rages on we
are joined by some of our skirmishers who are armed with Henry repeating
rifles. The Henry's add a lot of
firepower against muzzle loading muskets and really begin to rip the
Confederate line apart. Our other
companies to the right are also pushing the enemy back and we all advance a
little further.
Just as Henry is ordering us
forward once more he notices two mountain howitzers being pushed up to the
knoll beside the two companies in our front.
We turn our attention to trying to shoot the gun crew, but the guns were
loaded when they pushed them up. Henry
sees the gunners put in the friction primers and pull the lanyards taut. He yells, “Everybody down!” As we hit the dirt the woods explode with two
loads of canister and we’re showered with debris from the trees and vines. The smoke from the howitzers hangs in the
woods obscuring us from the enemy. Henry
orders an advance and we rise up and dash into the smoke hitting the Confederate
line like a freight train. Vicious
hand-to-hand fighting follows — men clubbing each other with their muskets,
fists, tree branches and anything else they can find.
A reserve company from our regiment
jumps in to help us and we’re able to drive the enemy off the knoll, capturing
the two mountain howitzers and a number of prisoners. Our section is clear for the moment. We let the reserves take care of the
prisoners while we try and take a drink and then look for our wounded and dead.
“Shit,” Oran shouts, “Calvin’s hit,
it’s bad.”
I run to Oran and kneel down beside
him and Calvin. Oran is cradling
Calvin’s head in his arm and trying to stop the bleeding with his other
hand. Calvin is wounded in the gut and
it looks bad.
He looks at me and says, “Isaac, do
you think I can get transferred to the gunboats now?”
“I reckon you can, Calvin.”
“I didn’t run today, Isaac.”
“We knew you wouldn’t, Calvin.”
Oran replied.
“Am I gonna die, Oran?” Calvin
asks.
“We won’t let you die, Calvin.”
“I didn’t run today…”
Thomas has taken a ball in the
head, but lucky for him it must have ricocheted off a tree or something because
by the time it hit him in the forehead it was pretty well spent, leaving him
with a large lump which is turning black and blue. Thomas is cursing a blue streak and holding
his head. Oran tells Thomas about Calvin
but Thomas is still dazed and it doesn’t register.
Our company lost 6 killed, Calvin
among them, and 14 wounded.
Our day was not done. A messenger arrives from the colonel ordering
us to the battalion right flank. Henry
orders us to double-quick and when we get to the right flank we come out on a
dirt road — and there in front of us is the left flank of the Confederate
battle line.
We fire into them, killing many
with our first volley, they panic and begin to break and run. As we reload, another company of Union
soldiers rushes in front of us and gives chase to the fleeing enemy. Henry orders us to rest beside the road –
nobody argued with him – we just collapsed in the weeds.
The firing stops and as we lay
beside the road other companies round up the prisoners and march them off to
the rear for their trip north and prison.
Henry sends a squad back into the woods to round up our stragglers and
any walking wounded they can find. They
return a short while later with a dozen men in tow, and Thomas. He is still cursing the secesh.
The Ordnance Sergeant and his
detail move through the regiment replenishing our ammunition. Some of the boys have emptied their cartridge
boxes and have been taking cartridges and caps from the dead and wounded.
We’re glad this day was coming to a
close. Our march since this morning
covered 22 miles before the battle.
Everyone was dog tired and I don’t think we could have gone another mile.
Tomorrow could be another
battle. We’re told we’re very near
Resaca now and the Confederates are digging in and are expected to make a
stand. General Sherman has arrived with
the rest of the army and is riding through our lines. The boys cheer long and loud for “Uncle
Billy.” We would follow him to the Gates
of Hell just like we followed General Grant before he was sent east.
As the sun is setting we can hear
the distant ring of axes as the Confederates are no doubt building
earthworks. We can’t see them but we can
certainly hear them as we roll up in our blankets and try to get some
sleep. It’s a rather warm evening and
hardly anyone is bothering to build shebangs.
In the distance a Confederate band
begins to play and our camp is silent as everybody listens to their music. When they stop our band begins to play. It’s hard to imagine as we lay there
listening to this beautiful music that tomorrow we’ll try just as hard to kill
them as they will us.
The morning dawns hot and
muggy. Everyone is up and there’s an
ominous feeling, boys are clustered in small groups talking quietly. Many are writing their names on scraps of
paper and pinning them to their uniforms so if they are killed they won’t be
buried as an unknown. They are also
discarding their dice and playing cards so mother won’t know what they learned
in the army.
Word comes to stack our knapsacks
and leave the walking wounded to guard them.
This is not good. Everyone is
quiet as we form up.
As I look around I notice Oran and
Thomas are quiet, most likely thinking about poor Calvin. I think about what this day might bring, of
home, of how mother and father are. I
wonder if they are thinking of me. I
think of Calvin Lightheart and regret not being able to give him a proper
burial. I wonder how this turned from
patriotic duty to the dirty job it seems to be now.
“Uncle Billy” waits beside the road
as we march past toward Resaca. A mile
later we find ourselves behind a railroad grade formed in a line of
battle. We can see the Confederate
earthworks and their damned flags in the distance.
This is shaping up to be the
biggest battle we’ve been in so far and we’re all scared as hell. I’m not having any thoughts of grand and
glorious charges now, only of surviving.
Looking around me I realize the other boys are having the same
thoughts. This isn’t at all what we
thought it was going to be.
Now seems like a good time to pin
my name on my coat.
