Crossing the Deadline Page 7

  “What’s wrong?” Henry asks.

  “These boys killed Robert, and they are going to meet him again real soon. I thought I’d feel better about seeing them suffer. But I don’t.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  January 21, 1864

  Dearest Mother,

  I’m sorry for leaving a note instead of speaking to you in person when I left, but good-byes are too difficult. With Dad and Robert gone, I feel I should make my way in the world. Uncle Clem took us in, so I don’t worry about you having a place to live. That’s comfort far more than I can express.

  Several months ago I heard a lady say we must all have a reason for living. I know what she meant. We can’t go on living like we are with Uncle Clem. I have found my reason for living, and it’s to get us out from under his roof.

  The truth is, I’m not in Ohio. I’ve joined the Union Cavalry as a bugler. The one time I mentioned mustering in, you asked, “Do you think Robert and your dad need your company in the graveyard?” I pray God agrees they do not, but that remains His decision. Perhaps I’ll learn a trade along the way. I’m not proud of how I left, but what’s done is done, and I can’t take it back.

  I thought I could send more money home, but things come up. I make a little extra from soldiers. Many of them never learned to read and write. A couple of them pay two cents a letter if I write home for them. It’s easy spotting fellows writing home to girlfriends. They cover their letters and don’t let anybody peek over their shoulders. I’ll send what I can from my pay but will have expenses to meet. Don’t expect much.

  Time is different at training camp, Mother. When we drill, time creeps as slowly as a slug. The first thing we do in the morning is drill. When we finish that, we have a short time when we drill. Once our drilling is done, it’s time to drill. When there is no drilling to be done, we drill some more. Sometimes, we drill between drillings.

  We call the bugle instructor Chief because he’s in charge of the rest of us. He rotates us through the calls while soldiers walk through the motions. We do the calls over and over so that one day they will be a part of us, like a leg or a hand.

  “It should be natural. Like breathin’,” Chief says. “You don’t think about breathin’, do you?” he yells at us.

  I know most calls clean now and only have a hard time with a few of ’em. Chief picked me to play taps for the entire camp the first week I was here. When I play that song, everybody has to extinguish their lights and go to sleep. Guess I’m further along than most. One bugler couldn’t play a note when he arrived, so he and I leave camp and go to a nearby cemetery for extra practice. Nobody there complains when he sounds bad.

  When we play, Chief says to sing words in our head. It helps make sense of what we’re playing.

  We sound reveille at six every morning to wake the soldiers. The Chief taught us to sing in our heads:

  You got to get up, you got to get up, You got to get up this morning.

  You got to get up, you got to get up, Get up with the bugler’s call.

  The Major told the Captain, The Captain told the Sergeant, The Sergeant told the bugler, The bugler told us all.

  You got to get up, you got to get up, You got to get up this morning.

  You got to get up, you got to get up, Get up with the bugler’s call.

  We’ve been here for weeks and haven’t trained with horses. We were told we won’t get them for a long time. Not enough to go around. We head south in a couple months, with or without mounts.

  I read David Copperfield when I’m not plum tired. I see why President Lincoln likes it so much. It’s not about America, but in a way it is. The powerful have control over the poor. I think of slaves as the poor people in David Copperfield. Southern slaves are slaves, not from flaws in their minds like some think, but because of unfairness toward them. Did you know some slaves speak French? You can’t be dumb and do that, I don’t think.

  Send my love to friends. Save a share for yourself,

  Stephen

  PART TWO

  THE SOUTH

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Friday, September 23, 1864, 2:30 p.m.

  When the officers declared we were ready, we boarded trains in Indianapolis and headed south. Three days later we arrived in Nashville, a large southern city firmly under Union control and heavily fortified. We cooled our heels there in May, June, and July. We fought a lot but not against Johnny Reb. Instead, we battled mosquitoes and the heat all summer. The air felt thick, and my uniform was constantly soaked with sweat. The only rebs we saw were on trains headed north to prison camps. While we waited, Henry Dorman’s bugle playing improved, and our supply of horses trickled in. We didn’t get enough for every company in the Indiana 9th, but several were completely covered.

  Major Lilly let me pick my mount. I chose a nice smoky black gelding and named him Texas. His back is shoulder height and he leads with a strong, steady head. His short ears pivot fast as a wink. I’m sure he can hear a fly land on a log twenty feet away. And I swear I can read his eyes and know what he’s thinking. His sleek muscles run from his knees up through his shoulders and along his neck.

  Now it’s September, and we’ve been assigned to guard the railroads in a southern Tennessee town called Pulaski. After lunch, some of the soldiers request a song. I ask, “Does anybody know the tune ‘Can I Go, Dearest Mother?’”

  Sergeant Joseph Survant, a soft-spoken fellow from my company says in a deep voice, “I do.”

  I begin the first few notes of the song, and soon his voice blends in sweet as sugar added to coffee:

  I am young and slender, Mother, they would call me yet a boy, But I know the land I live in, and the blessings I enjoy;

  I am old enough,

  my mother, to be loyal, proud, and true

  To be faithful to my country I have ever learned from you.

  Men who were lying on their backs sit up and take notice.

  But the faithful must not falter, and shall I be wanting? No!

  Bid me go, my dearest mother! Tell me, Mother, can I go?

  Out of the corner of my eye I catch William Peacock lowering his head between his knees and wiping his eyes with his sleeves. I don’t look back at him again because if I do, I won’t be able to finish the song. It’s not my playing that’s reaching his heart; it’s the words and Sergeant’s beautiful voice. I look up at the sky and at the trees and think of the next notes I have to play. Major Lilly’s standing beneath one of the trees, watching the men listening to the tune.

  After the song, Henry taps me on the knee and points. Major Lilly’s walking toward us, purpose in his stride. He isn’t coming for pleasantries. We stand as he approaches.

  “Sir,” we say together.

  “Dorman, call assembly in fifteen minutes . . .,” he begins. “General Starkweather has ordered some of us to head south this evening. Pack your gear; we may not be back for a long time. We ride at dusk.”

  “Sir, you said, ‘Dorman, call assembly.’ Did you mean to say Gaston?” Dorman asks.

  “No, I said what I meant. I want you to do it. I rely enough on Private Gaston, and you’re sounding better on that piece of tin every day.”

  “Thank you, Major,” he says, smiling.

  “Who’s going, sir?” I ask.

  “Only mounts from the Ninth and Tenth,” he answers. “We’re headed to the Elk River Bridge on the Alabama-Tennessee line.”

  “Alabama?” I say joyfully. I don’t mean for excitement to spill into my words, but at the thought of getting closer to a fight, it bubbles out.

  “Alabama,” Major Lilly repeats. “Forrest is wreaking havoc on the rails in northern Alabama. We need those rails to move troops and supplies. It’s our assignment to protect them.”

  We’d heard reports of General Forrest’s exploits ever since we got to Nashville in May. He entered the war as a lowly private. He captured a Union battery at Fort Donelson and fought at Shiloh. By the summer of ’62 he was a general. Moving south increases our cha
nces of seeing him, and, maybe, capturing him will help end the war.

  As the major walks away I call after him, “Sir, do you think he’s in the area?”

  “General Forrest?” Major Lilly asks.

  “Nathan Bedford Forrest,” I say.

  Major Lilly walks back to us. “When Colonel Spalding came into camp on Tuesday, he brought five prisoners with him.”

  “Forrest’s men?”

  “Exactly. Recent reports from spies put him in Alabama. Last week he struck a railroad four miles south of Athens. The telegraphs went dead between there and a railroad bridge called Sulphur Branch Trestle. Reports say his brother, Colonel Jesse Forrest, is around too. So my best guess is yes, he’s close. We’re taking the five hundred men with mounts. The other seventeen hundred stay here. Dorman, blow assembly in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Major Lilly leaves, and I turn to Henry and William Peacock. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No, what?”

  “If only the mounted troops are going, they expect action. We’ll be moving fast. No infantry to slow us down.”

  “You’re way too excited about all this,” Henry says. He tucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites gently.

  “What are you worried about?” Peacock asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Henry, I’ve been your tent mate since we enlisted,” I say. “You only bite your lip when you’re fretting over something.”

  “Like learning to play the bugle,” Peacock says. “It took you a long while to catch on. You worried they were going to reassign you, and you nearly chewed your lip off the entire time. Right?”

  He nods.

  “And now the major’s requesting that you call assembly,” Peacock says, putting his arm around Henry’s neck. “You learned all those calls and got worked up for nothing. This may be our best chance yet to finally see the elephant. We’ve been through Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee and haven’t as much as shot at one dadblamed reb.”

  Henry pushes his hair back across his ears and speaks in a hushed voice. “I’ll be honest, fellas. I don’t care to see any fighting.” He looks around to see who’s in earshot. “I know we trained hard and all three of us bugle real good, but I don’t mind telling you . . . I’m scared.” There’s a quaver in his voice I’ve not heard before.

  “There’s nothin’ to be afraid of,” I assure him. “We’ve trained for this, and we have the best soldiers in the US Army.” I pat the side of Henry’s arm. “Major Lilly’s the best there is. We’ll be fine.” I think better and correct myself. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m all my wife’s got left. My son hadn’t taken his first step when I left. If something happens to me . . .” Henry’s voice breaks off.

  “I lost four brothers to the war, pard,” Peacock says.

  “Four?” I ask.

  “Mom and Dad buried four. They didn’t want me leaving.” Henry and I look at him, shocked.

  Henry drops his head and clears his throat. “If something happens . . . to me . . . will one of you get word to my wife?”

  I nod.

  “Tell her I said, ‘I love you to the moon and back.’ If you tell her that, she’ll know I said it. She’ll know it for sure.”

  “Why you talking crazy?” Peacock says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “I don’t know which would be worse, dying in battle quickly or a slow death in a prison. Stephen, you saw how those fellows looked in that prison we snuck into in Indianapolis. I can’t do that. I can’t go to prison.”

  Henry shakes his head and doesn’t say another word. He stops blinking and stares toward the base of a tree. His face has the same look that Mom’s face had when she stood on the porch, watching black clouds head toward Centerville. How bad is this storm going to be? Will it grow into a tornado and rip everything into a pile of rubble or peter out and just leave a good soaking?

  The three of us finish our coffee in silence. Henry does a fine job sounding assembly, and as we pack to leave, I think of what he said. “I love you to the moon and back.” My load seems heavier than it did yesterday.

  A quarter moon provides little light as we ride. Often we travel near open meadows. Just as often, the trail ducks into forests of old growth. Under trees, it’s barely possible to see past the horse’s mane. My eyes dart from side to side, looking for Forrest’s picket lines. Once, in a clearing, I see Henry glancing toward the sky for several seconds.

  “Whatcha looking at?” I ask.

  “Sarah and I promised to look at the moon as often as we could while I’m away,” he says. “It’s our way of connecting with each other.”

  “I like that,” I say. I don’t know what else to tell him to put his mind at ease.

  “It’s like, when we are both looking at the same thing at the same time, we feel connected,” Henry looks at me. “Don’t laugh. I know it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, no, no . . .,” I insist. “I think it’s a nice way to stay in touch, to stay connected. How do you know when your wife’s looking at the moon?”

  “I don’t. But I pretend she’s looking every time I’m looking, and I worry less. It makes me feel good.” Henry smiles and glances up at the moon again.

  “I bet she’s looking right now,” I say.

  “Ya think so?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. Sarah’s looking at the moon right now and thinking of you. You know, my mama always told me, ‘Don’t worry about trouble till trouble comes.’”

  It’s good to hear Henry laugh. “Yeah, I guess she’s right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Friday, September 23, 1864, 11:45 p.m.

  The hooves clattering on the ground cause my mind to drift back to Centerville. I wonder how many horseshoes I’ve replaced on horses pulling wagons west. How many nails did I pound into hooves? I want to wrap Mother up in a blanket, set her on a wagon, and ride to Kansas or Texas, far away from Uncle Clem.

  At midnight, a fog creeps in and shrouds what light is coming from the quarter moon. Major Lilly orders us to slow our gait. The railroad remains to our left as we make our way toward the Elk River. A water station appears, and we’re ordered to stop and rest awhile.

  I dismount and reach for Major Lilly’s reins. He doesn’t give them to me. “Sergeant Survant, take our horses and give them some water,” he orders, and climbs down. After the horses are pulled away he asks, “How are you doing, son?”

  I’m taken aback. Major Lilly has never called me “son” before. “Fine, sir. I’m doing fine,” I say.

  “That’s a nice horse you have there,” he says.

  “Thank you, Major. His name is Texas.”

  “He’s a beaut,” he says. “Are you scared, Stephen?” he asks.

  “No, sir,” I answer. “Not really.”

  “Not at all? Not even a little bit?”

  I clear my throat. “Well, maybe some, I guess.”

  Major Lilly laughs. “Smart man,” he says. “Back in Pulaski, when I told you that we were heading out, you seemed giddy.”

  “Somewhat,” I confess.

  “Only a fool goes into battle unafraid, son.”

  I don’t know if he can see in the dim light, but I nod nonetheless. “I heard Governor Morton say that once, sir.”

  “Part of Forrest’s strategy is to disrupt the movement of supplies along the railroads. I think there’s a ninety percent chance we’ll meet the gentleman real soon,” he says. “We’ll need you more than ever when that time comes.”

  “You will, sir?” I ask.

  “We will,” he says again. “It’s your job to raise the spirits of our men in battle. When I came to tell you we were leaving Pulaski, I waited for you to finish the song you were playing for the men.”

  “The song was ‘Can I Go, Dearest Mother?’” I say.

  “Yes. I didn’t get to be a major without noticing important details, Stephen. The men had tears in their
eyes.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset the men.”

  “They weren’t sad, Stephen. You reminded them of why we’re here. Don’t underestimate your contribution to the regiment,” he says. “Governor Morton told me about you. ‘The boy’s special,’ were his exact words. I saw that last night. Your horn connects with these men.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “I understand.”

  “I’m not sure you do,” he says. “I didn’t hire you to blow a horn. I can train a goose to do that. Your style lifts their spirits and gives the men confidence more than any speech I can make.” I can’t quite see the major’s face, but his tone tells me he’s a bit concerned, too. “Do your job well,” he says. “The men need you. You are a valuable part of this unit.” With a nod, he says, “Dismissed, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  * * *

  The sun burns off the fog by midmorning. The closer we get to the Elk River, the more tree stumps we see. Obviously, the trees have been used in the construction and repair of the bridge and blockhouses over the river. We arrive at Elk River at noon. The camp’s commander informs Major Lilly that we are a little over a mile away from the Alabama line.

  “Union troops have captured the bridge called Sulphur Branch Trestle, a few miles into Alabama. They are in need of help,” he says. “We’re in the middle of a Confederate hotbed, and we need to hold that bridge. I’m ordering you to take two hundred of your men there,” he says. “Rest an hour or so and head out when you feel the horses are ready.”

  * * *

  Riding through northern Alabama is like riding on an unmade bed: lots of flat places, but wrinkled here and there with shallow valleys and short, steep hills. We ride a few miles into Alabama and through a place called Elkmont. Just south of town we get a view of Sulphur Branch Trestle, and I can see its importance. The massive structure connects two hills and is long enough to support seven flatcars at one time. One slip from the center of the trestle means a fall the height of a full-grown oak tree. Wooden blockhouses sit beside either end of the trestle. An earthworks fort sits at the top of the southern hill close to the tracks.