12
g eneral lee decided after jackson’s siege of romney that war shouldn’t be waged
in the winter. and not until after late spring, either. spring rains melted dirt roads into ribbons of
soupy mud that stuck supply wagons and cannon caissons to their surface like fly paper. the
civil war would become a seasonal thing. but by may 1862, we began a charge through hell
that didn’t slow down until that december. we fought more major battles that year than any
other year of the war, twelve of them including antietam. sometimes they were only a week
apart without time for either horses or men to rest.
i dreaded sleep just as desperately as i needed it. every night, headless ghosts in blue
uniforms chased me through cornfields, a retreat was blocked by leaping flames, or i watched
helplessly as a union soldier drew a bead on sam. days were just as bad. when i raised my rifle
to take aim, a voice repeated the sixth commandment, the one forbidding murder. it caused my
rifle to waver. another voice would rise against it, telling me that killing yankees was my duty.
daily, my conscience was split in a deadly contest. war was winning, erasing the rules i had
spent my brief lifetime learning.
then there was theft—or confiscation, which was it? at toms brook in may, we captured
northern wagons loaded with grain for the horses, flour, rye, coffee, dried meat, medicinal
opium, and quinine. we had no choice; we were at the mercy of the confederate army’s lack of
experience providing for its soldiers. the horses had scarcely eaten in two weeks, and some
boys had been living on lard candles gathered from nearby houses. protruding ribs and hollowed
cheeks marked man and beast.
were we thieves after port republic under the early june sun, when we plucked guns,
federal-issue oilskin raincoats, knapsacks, ammunition, shoes, and pants from dead or fatally
wounded yanks so we could go back into battle? the most unnerving sight was men bent over
the fallen, hands busy with shoelaces, buckles, coat buttons, in pockets, and in their haversacks.
i, too, made that necessary, ghoulish search, competing with hordes of other men for something
less raggedy, less caked with mud and body fluids than the poor excuse for clothing on my back.
was this disrespect for the dead? it seemed as great a sin to leave these useful items lying on the
ground for years, fabric flapping loose around blood-filled shoes and desiccated flesh.
as i lay in my bedroll in his clothes, i couldn’t shake the image of their redheaded former
owner with his frozen expression and half-closed eyes. they had seemed to follow my hands as
i rifled his pockets. in his haversack, i’d found a rabbit’s foot just as worn as the one i rubbed
for luck. now that he was removed from battle, would this boy have understood my need and
forgiven me?
the next morning, sam noticed that i didn’t join the others for breakfast but stayed inside my
tent. he stuck his head through the tent flap. “what’s ailing you?”
“nothing. leave me alone for a little while.”
he sat down next to me. “not on your life. something’s bothering you. what is it?”
sam’s open, accepting expression made it easier to tell him the reasons for my sleepless
night. he became solemn. “i’ve been troubled too. but if you ever want to get home again,
you’ve got to develop animal instincts. don’t think about anything but food and shelter, nothing
else.”
“i guess you’re right.”
“i know i’m right.”
i grudgingly agreed, but to me, it was pure theft when our lieutenant mcdonald had a soldier
lead to the back of the line his elegant, prancing jack, sleek with a still healthy coat, because he
worried he might lose his father’s fine mount in the coming battle near gaines mill. he then
covetously eyed a confederate farmer’s heavy-boned draft animal. our company was marching
alongside a pasture in late june when he spied the horse calmly feeding in the field. our group
of foot soldiers drew up behind mcdonald when he abruptly halted by the fence and
dismounted. he was in such a hurry to reach the sturdy animal that he swept right by me,
knocking me off my feet. grimacing, i stood up, wiggled each foot to check that it still worked,
and brushed myself off.
“here, boy. come here, boy,” the lieutenant teased, hand extended. the liquid-eyed stallion
trotted toward him, innocent of its fate. mcdonald stroked its velvet nose while whispering
softly. the horse nudged him on the shoulder and gave a friendly whinny. the creature
reminded me of pa’s wilbur, who had carried us to staunton so swiftly. heartsick, i wondered if
he’d been taken too, and how pa would put in crops, haul wood, or get to town without him. if
that were the case, my family would have to struggle against starvation and freezing weather for
the length of the war.
deftly slipping a bridle over its head, the lieutenant coaxed the horse out of the farm gate
and uprooted it from its safe pasture and the family for whom it was necessary. worry about my
own family cast a deep shadow across one more day.
i saw the stallion cut down five days later as a bullet pierced mcdonald’s saddle a finger’s
width from his thigh. it bored like a drill into the horse’s muscled flesh. with a shriek, the
animal hurtled to the ground and tossed the lieutenant over his neck like an acrobat. exhilarated
by his escape from harm, mcdonald guffawed as he brushed twigs from his uniform. he then
leaped astride a comrade’s mount, and the two men cantered off. i heard the rattle of the stolen
draft horse’s last breaths in the tall field grass.
around this time, we stopped calling the war what it really was. a man would say as he
dropped a blackened greasy rag after cleaning his rifle, “well, now i’m ready to see the
elephant.” or we’d say about a fellow who had fallen on the field that he’d “heard the hooty
owl.” we couldn’t use words too close to the truth of the thing, so we kept it to animals or the
weather. all these years i’ve done my best to avoid recollecting the cruelest particulars of the
circus of war and the whisper of death’s wing.
