The Hogs of Cold Harbor: History as a Novel

The Hogs Of Cold Harbor

The Civil War Saga of Pvt. Johnny Hess, CSA Based on the Diary of John Henry Hess, Pvt., CSA, th

Company G, 29 Virginia Infantry Regiment, Corse’s Brigade, Pickett’s Division, Longstreet’s Corps, 1862 - 1864

Historically Accurate Impeccably Researched, John Hess’ Actual Diary Included at End of Book.

By Richard Lee Fulgham

For my wife, Janet,

The Hogs of Cold Harbor Copyright 2010 Richard Lee Fulgham At Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-105-33155-8

October 2012 All Rights Reserved Copyright @ 2010 by Richard Lee Fulgham This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by electronic copy machine or any other means, without permission from the author.

Excerpts up to 3000 words may be used for promotional means without permission.

For information contact:

Author’s Note I have gone to great lengths to make this novelized version of John Henry Hess’s actual civil war as authentic and realistic as possible. I do not claim this book is an academic dissertation, however. It is -- to stretch things a bit -an author’s creative version of a true-life war experience. After all, we creative historians are in the business of recreating the dead. We are writing hopefully impeccably researched dramatizations of actual people, places, events and scenarios -- and therefore require a small degree of imaginative reconstruction.

Imagine a skeleton found with no clues to its bodily appearance. This is what I began with, the bones of man who longer exists. His diary was equally skeletal, presenting me with only the bare-bones account of what must have been an incredible adventure.

My job was to play forensic scientist and rebuild the body muscle by muscle, organ by organ, sense by sense, memory by memory, until I had a model of the person whom I believe was John Henry Hess. I had to rebuild his hastily scribbled account by rebuilding the story hour by hour, place by place, event by event and insight by insight. At this point, I can only pray that I have at least partially brought this man back to life and somewhat reconstructed the startling chain of events that shaped his tour of duty with the Confederate army into a parable of our times.

Richard Lee Fulgham

Bel Air, Maryland. 2002

The Hogs of Cold Harbor

Part One: 1861 Southwest Virginia was still a wilderness in 1861. There were more wild hogs than people, thousands of them in every county -- in the mountains and flatlands, roaming in family troops through forests, thickets, bushes, swamps, bogs, glades, valleys, ravines, hills, ridges, coves, caves and hollows. You could hike in the woods during the day and hear them crashing through the brush like clumsy blundering bears. You could canoe down the rivers and see them lounging on the shores or fighting over favors from their sexy young sows. They were barefaced, beady-eyed, bold and belligerent.

Sometimes on moonlit nights you could see them searching for food in open fields, grunting, squealing, panting, drooling, sneezing, stopping now and then to root up the ground with ever-snuffling rubber snouts. You could see the moon glinting off their snow-white tusks. You could hear them being sharpened as they rasped against

each other, honed to razor-edged daggers by constantly chopping jaws. Only the hogs’ temperaments were worse than their weapons. The folks of Southwest Virginia knew from experience an infuriated boar could disembowel a horse with those wicked tusks.

The hogs as they foraged would gobble down everything they found – not just fruit and vegetables, but worms, insects, scorpions, spiders, frogs, toads, salamanders, lizards, snakes, turtles, bird eggs, nestlings, baby animals, injured animals, lame animals, dead animals, every kind of matter that lived or had ever lived. You could sum it up by saying all plants tender enough to chew and all animals slow enough to catch. Rumors abounded that they’d eat you too if you lay wounded and helpless too long in field or forest. More than a few mangled and half-eaten bodies had been found in Russell County with no other suspects for their deaths. Neither bears nor cougars ate the faces of their victims. The hogs always ate your face first, while you were still alive enough to comprehend their revenge.

Above all else, however, they loved corn – especially sweet young corn growing in rows as if laid out just for them. They squealed with joy when raiding a farmer’s cornfield, eating every juicy ear -- shuck, cob and all – savoring every chomp, relishing the corn worms as well as the corn. What they didn’t eat, they trampled. They were hogs and did what hogs do.

An eerie thing about the wild hogs, though. They were smart, sometimes smarter than the farmers whose cornfields they raided. They knew exactly when the ears would be at their juiciest, ripest, largest, most nutritious size.

The farmers had to check every day to discover what the hog’s knew instinctively. So the corn growers knew they’d be raids of wild hogs on certain days during the harvest period but couldn’t predict exactly which days those would be.

They could only expect the pigs’ incursions sometime in August, September or November.

So some of the farmers would look for them every moonlit night as harvest time neared, patrolling their fields every night to chase the swine away. Others just waited at their homes with their shotguns and muskets near, trusting their dogs to warn them. A few tried scarecrows only to find the phony sentinels torn to pieces in the mornings after a raid. The hogs were smart in an all-too-human way . . . they knew the scarecrows were effigies of their real enemy and for that reason went to lengths to bite the straw men’s faces off and rip their bodies limb from limb before spraying the remains with their extraordinarily horrid droppings, which were always diarrheic, rancid and nauseating -- spraying out of them like jets of rotten black-bean soup.

Eighteen-year-old John Henry Hess Johnny was one of the farmers who had to be especially vigilant. He grew corn – 48 acres in two fields -- to feed his soon-to-be family, feed his livestock, swap for farm implements, to plant, to store, to sell, to grind into meal for a hundred different recipes, including not just hoecakes and hush-puppies but a few gallons of ‘shine . The two cornfields were sown on the only sizeable plots of flatland on his 155-acre farm.

He also had about four acres of arable soil around his house, which were planted half in tobacco and half in garden vegetables for his table. Somewhat ironically, he kept a pigsty next to the barn with about five pigs fattening up for slaughter. A single cow for milking, two mules for plowing and his beloved horse Jackson lived in the barn. About 23 acres of grassy wasteland were used for grazing Johnny’s dozen head of cattle because limestone lay a few inches under the topsoil and made plowing impossible. As for the rest of his farm, it was literally carpeted with thick pristine forest cut through by seven crystal clear creeks and graced with a pond full of crappie, catfish, rainbow trout and small mouth bass.

John Henry thought his farm was a paradise, even though it was pretty small compared to the plantations he’d heard about. The wild hogs thought it was a paradise too when that night came which mysteriously whispered to them that Johnny’s corn was ready for plunder. That instinctive prompting brought dozens of family troops together at the same field right at dusk on September 28th, 1861 . . . and one hour later they combined into a herd of over a hundred hogs to march into his cornfield like an army of relentless soldiers.

Johnny decided to join the Confederate army that night because the noise of the invaders – which was considerable – at first manifested itself as a dream in Johnny’s mind, a dream of Yankee cavalrymen thundering across his cornfield, slicing down everything in their path with sabers. The image at once terrified and infuriated him.

His heart began racing as he slept and a sound much like a lion’s roar escaped from his lips.

He woke with a start, his eyes wide open and his ears alerted for a foreign sound. He immediately made out the unmistakable squealing and grunting of a marauding herd of wild hogs -- his field was being raided! This was deadly serious business. They sounded like a real army and, by God, they’d might as well be a real army. They’d might as well be the Goddamned Yankees, the greedy sons’a bitches!

He grabbed his blue-steeled Damascus

shotgun – both barrels already filled with powder, wadding and buckshot – checked the flintlock hammers and went outside to throw a blanket over one of the mules and haul himself up on her back. The beast bitterly complained and at first refused to move. So Johnny kicked her viciously in the ribs, already getting hot around the collar about this invasion of swine. He didn’t have time for a mule’s dissent! A little pain would check her tantrum. She realized after a few kicks that he meant business and began walking with her burden, swaying back and forth as she resignedly plodded toward the sounds.

It only took a few minutes for all this to happen. Like all farmers back then, especially in the half-wild southern Appalachian Mountains, he always kept a loaded shotgun on two deer-foot pegs stuck in the logs of his kitchen wall. There were more dangerous things than wild pigs around to be sure! Bears, wolves, coyotes, wild dogs and panthers roamed at will, taking sheep, lambs, cattle, cows, calves, mares and colts with no fear. Thugs rode up on horseback and robbed you if you weren’t armed. And there were constant incidents like this, when you needed your gun and you needed it fast. Not the musket – it lay loaded on two other deer-foot pegs, for hunting and long-distance scoundrel killing only. The shotgun was for close-up killing, like thieves and rattlesnakes. If too far away, you could at least scare the hell out of whomever or whatever was threatening you. Its blast sounded like a huge ship blowing up and left your ears ringing for days. It left an ugly bruise on your shoulder, too. But it always scared the peril away.

His heart began to pound again as he neared the field – with anger not fear. He felt like kicking the slowpoke mule again as it gingerly made its way down the little path through the woods along the creek. It was less than a mile but seemed a hundred. Johnny knew a herd of wild hogs, even twenty or thirty strong, couldn’t destroy either of his twenty-four acre fields in one night. But to him each and every stalk of corn meant love, money, time, food, feed and future. Hell, man, he was about to get married! He couldn’t afford the loss of a single acre – and a big herd could obliterate five acres in a single night. That was time and money down the drain! Hell fire! God amighty! There were over three thousand plants per acre, each stalk over five feet tall and carrying a load of tender full-grown ears covered with delectable yellow silk – each one wrapped up in a scrumptious green shuck. Pig candy. It’d taken a hell of a lot of time and labor to plant and care for each field – and he only had two of them. He had the land but not the manpower.

It was just himself, his friends and his father. His farm was 155 acres but most of it was unusable mountainside or land bespattered with boulders that had rolled down the mountain. He felt lucky he’d been able to plant his fifty-two acres.

He couldn’t afford to lose any crop; he had to make every acre count.

Some of his neighbors planted every good acre they had in tobacco. It was a high-demand cash crop and meant real money to the farmers who grew it. They didn’t get much cash but they got a damn sight more than Johnny did for his corn. But it took slaves to raise tobacco and Johnny didn’t have any slaves. Damn, they cost more than mules! He’d barely been able to afford the two mules he had.

Slaves were much better -- but what could an honest man do? He sometimes wished he could buy a few Africans – they’d not only be great farmhands, they’d be good company. He sure liked those he knew from town – those he’d met as they picked up supplies for their masters. Each one had a fine name like Sammy or Earl and each

had a huge happy grin like a wave on the seashore. They sang all the time, too, dancing and swaying their behinds.

He’d spent more than a few cheery nights with them as they catfished the Clinch River, circled around a sputtering campfire, sitting their muscular asses on logs, smoking their foul smelling pipes, telling bawdy jokes and haw-hawing at everything Johnny said about his bigot buddies, laughing till they cried, begging “No mo’, no mo’ a dis stuff you done tell us bout dem frin’s a yorn! Dey crazy as we is!” Only rarely did an African shun him, glaring through those liquid black eyes that silently condemned him and his kind for a sin Johnny didn’t quite understand. He’d never have bought a man who hated him just ‘because he had white skin. That’d be as stupid as buying one just because he had black skin. This idea troubled him a few seconds before he forgot what he was thinking about. At any rate, Johnny, if he had the money, would buy the happy ones – or at least those who pretended to be happy. He could really use the help, especially if cost him next to nothing.

All mules could do is pull plows and tow wagons. But slaves could do every kind of work and be good company, to boot. That was because they were just like him and his friends and his dad. They were just like their owners, in fact. That thought also troubled him a bit, but just a little bit. He still wished he could buy a slave or two for his place. He thought they were better off being slaves here than living in the jungles of Africa anyhow.

In his mind, they were the lucky blacks. Of course, there’d been that day he’d seen James Haytre’s blue-eyed slave Isam with his back and legs bloodied from a lashing – but he’d probably had it coming, the way Johnny saw it. It never entered his mind that Isam had told his bossman that he was a Melungeon and not an African at all. Isam had claimed he was kidnapped in North Carolina and unjustly sold on the block. That got him fifty lashes and, in fact, Johnny never discovered that Isam had died of the second lashing he got when he dared complain a second time to old man Haytre. “Lotsa Nigras got straight hair and blue eyes,” old Haytre had declared and had his personal manservant get out the cat-o’-nine tails made out of drawn & twisted bull penises.

Johnny’s mind leapt back to the problem at hand as the field came into sight. He couldn’t take these pig raids as if they meant nothing. He worked like hell to have what he had. It infuriated him to think he might lose the reward of his labors – that even now they were being trampled and shat upon by wild hogs. It’d be a hard winter if they came back and back until they’d ruined the whole forty-eight acres of corn. It’d happened before. It’d mean a damn hard winter with no ‘shine a’tall.

His worst fears were realized when he got to the edge of the field. There they were, having a high old time under a full moon -- about a hundred wild hogs, all of them over 200 pounds and led by a savage looking razorback boar with the eye on left side of his head gouged out, undoubtedly in a fight. The loss of vision caused it to swing its head constantly back and forth to keep his remaining eye on the herd. A few stiff bristles stuck out of his skin and his tiny little tail coiled and recoiled as he watched his gang of pigs at work. Every now and then he squirted a black soup out of his ass.

So far, they’d destroyed only a few acres. He’d gotten there just in time. Depraved looking animals, he thought while cocking his gun. He knew he could scare them away but the pellets wouldn’t even puncture their skins. He was too far away. Anything less than fifty yards and the shot fell like rain around its target. A pitter-patter. Just a gentle shower. But what was the use of getting closer? He’d just lose that much more of his crop. Besides, it was the blast that would frighten them away.

They were disgustingly fat and ugly monsters, beady eyed with mucous flowing from their snapping jaws and prehensile snouts, working in ranks through the field, gobbling down only the choice parts of the corn -discriminately and methodically – first eating the juicy ears, then ripping off the leaves, breaking apart the stalks . . . then rooting into the ground to dig up and chew apart the roots. Only the ears were actually consumed. The hogs were connoisseurs as far as the corn was concerned. Their stomachs were filling with the sweetest corn while their hearts

were filling with something close to sweet revenge.

Some of them would stray away from the others now and then to bull their way through thickets surrounding the field. They didn’t feel the thorns and the mosquitoes didn’t even try for a drop of blood. Not even the horseflies tried to puncture those leathery skins. The hogs were less choosy in the underbrush, not connoisseurs at all. There they would use their machine-like chopping jaws on new-growth bushes, seedling trees, fruits, berries and any luckless living creatures they could find. One of the creatures found a box turtle as Johnny watched. The reptile’s shell burst with a resounding crack like a rifle shot before being wolfed down the swine’s gullet.

The herd found the corn delicious. A whole acre already looked as if it’d been tilled when Johnny arrived with his shotgun. He was so amazed by the sight that at first he just watched the brutes destroying his crop. He’d never seen so many! A hundred of them! The picked-over area looked like it’d been thoroughly trampled and rooted up by an army of uncaring hogs – which is exactly what had happened to it.

Behind them was left only a covering of stinking pig dung, so foul smelling, so chokingly bitter and rancid, that it made Johnny gag up his day’s victuals – the vomit splashing on the mule’s neck. The beast cast a baleful eye on him as he retched. Johnny first spewed up his supper of black-eyed peas with fatback -- then his dinner of collards and cornbread -- and last his breakfast of corn fritters, cherry marmalade, scrambled eggs, pig brains and coffee. The marmalade was black as blood but the pig brains were still pink. The mixture had the consistency of tapioca pudding and dribbled all over his shirt and pants. Some it spewed out like an artesian well, bespattering the mule’s neck with more rotten tapioca and black marmalade. The mule turned its head again to cast upon him another unblinking and disdainful glare.

Meanwhile, the hogs continued their sweep of the field and woods. The songbirds flew away in terror before them, leaving their eggs to be swallowed whole and their young to be chewed to pieces and gulped down. The smallest babies were swallowed alive, still cheeping from inside the fat monsters that had visited horror on their homes. The field mice and rabbits hid their young to no avail – the killers rooted them out of their hiding places and crunched them to death between molars thick and large enough for mammoths.

Even the rattlesnakes burrowed under huge immovable boulders to escape the monsters. Those unlucky enough to be caught in the open were greedily devoured like twisting, hissing, rattling sausages. Hogs just loved rattlesnake meat! No fear at all. They just grabbed them and began crunching with their piggish eyes shut tight. The snakes would bite their killers again and again, on the lips, on the tongues, around the eyes, in the necks. But fangs had no effect, no matter how long how sharp. Even the fangs that got through the skin could only spurt venom harmlessly into blubber.

His face contorted with disgust and anger, Johnny dismounted, walked twenty paces away from the mule and fired his first load at the herd. But the hogs didn’t react as he expected. There were simply too many of them. Instead of running away, the big male looked in his direction, seemed to think about the situation, then trotted toward him, chopping his jaws, and followed loyally by two of his biggest lieutenant sows, each of which had her own set of fiendish tusks, only slightly shorter than their master’s. His herd, seeing their leader face the enemy, trotted obediently and menacingly behind them. The old boar’s ears and tail stuck straight up like flags. He snapped at the air and his tiny eye gleamed red in the moonlight.

Johnny was at first amazed and then afraid. What if they didn’t stop? Many people had been killed by wild hogs and God knew hogs were unpredictable -- like all exceptionally intelligent animals, they might do anything. He could imagine himself being knocked off his mule and trampled underneath all those sharp cloven hoofs, his flesh being torn by those powerful jagged jaws and his guts being torn open by those dreadful tusks. He could hear their enraged snarling and squealing as he was eaten alive.

But it didn’t come to that. The second blast convinced them to stop in their tracks and hold their ground while grunting menacingly and snapping their jaws together in indignation. The male studied Johnny with its little red eye – all blinking and running and squinting. The old fellow was summing up the situation, deciding with its humanesque brain whether or not this interloper could be driven off or killed.

It watched as Johnny poured fresh powder in the shotgun’s muzzles, rammed down two wads of paper, poured in a handful of buckshot and finally rammed down two more wads of paper to hold the charges. As he cocked the hammers, however, the big razorback decided it wasn’t worth the fight, abruptly snorted, squirted some dung in disgust, spun around and trotted towards the woods – naturally followed by his big fat swinish soldiers. All of them seemed to be muttering to themselves. The army had been routed. Johnny had no idea the hogs were the first of many armies he see routed in the future, some of them his own. One day soon he’d be watching his own leader decide whether to fight or retreat and either charge or retreat upon his command. Pigs and people were a lot alike, he was to learn.

The look the wild hog had given him was troubling. It wasn’t just an animal reacting to a human being. It was more than that. The hog had thought about Johnny with a brain capable of reflection and insight. He was thinking about the odds just as surely as Johnny was thinking about the odds. There’d been a meeting of the minds. He and the hog had come to an understanding – the hog agreeing to leave the field with his herd and Johnny agreeing not to shoot at them again.

They’d not return that night – but they’d be back. They always came back. Like all pests, they seemed to enjoy wrecking havoc on the same victims over and over. Johnny was such a victim. But this time was different.

Every year he lost a crop or two to the wild hogs roaming around his farm. But those losses had been to small packs of ten to twenty hogs. But what can you do about a hundred of them? They’d destroyed a whole acre in the time it took him to ride down there on his mule – less than a mile. Twenty-minutes max. Last winter his cattle almost starved because the wild hogs destroyed so much of his corn in the fall. This year was going to be disastrous if he wasn’t on his guard. He could easily loose both fields to this huge unexpected horde of invaders. Growing more corn would take cash – hundreds of dollars – and he just couldn’t afford it. Hell! Might as well join the army. Those hogs were like the Yanks, all right! Destroying everything in their path for the hell of it. Filling their guts with the best and ruining what was left.

They were the most common large animals roaming the woods back then but calling them “wild” was stretching things a bit. Actually they were feral, meaning they’d returned to the wild after being domesticated. They’d begun life in America as immigrants almost three hundred years earlier, when some of them escaped from Spanish explorer Hernando De Sota’s army of conquistadors as they marched up the Clinch River and into Russell County, very near where Johnny then lived.

Other pigs had escaped from farmers throughout the years. But most of them had been deliberately released from their pens as piglets to forage for themselves in the forests, grow big enough for the butcher’s block and be hunted down every fall by the same farmers who had released them. It didn’t work out as perfectly as planned. The pigs loved the lush American forests – living was easy for them in the wild. The little piggys quickly became monstrous wild sows and boars, wild hogs. Many indeed were hunted down and killed for food – but enough survived to populate the southeastern states with millions of their kind. The feral population grew until wild hogs were literally found everywhere except the towns and cities. At the time this took place, there were well over a hundred thousand of them in Southwest Virginia alone.

Johnny wondered something strange, then, as he watched the last of the porkers amble out of the field and back into the forest. He found himself wondering if these hogs who had brains like ours believed in Christ. Maybe a

hog had been sent from heaven to be barbequed on a spit to show the others the sin of killing hogs? How could they not have a Christ? Wouldn’t god have sent a holy hog to them, just as he had sent Jesus Christ to us? As he had sent Quetzalcoatl to the Aztecs and Mohammed to the Muslims and Buddha to the Chinese? It was crazy to have thoughts like these, Johnny knew, but nevertheless they popped into his mind like bubbles in a pot of water about to boil.

Later, in the trenches of Cold Harbor, his whole brain would boil over . . . but for now, the few bubbles of absurdity were enough to confuse him into accepting his beliefs on faith alone. Logic had nothing to do with the answers spurting up from him heart. His heart told him the hogs had never crucified a hog to save all hogs, as humans had crucified a human to save all humans.

The Yankees didn’t believe in Christ, that was for sure! He’d heard the preacher talking about it every Sunday for the last year. The Northern country was called the United States of America and had laws to keep Christianity out of the schools, the courts, the governments and all public places where people gather. But the Confederacy left it up to the states, and all of them – including Virginia – wanted to be Christian states. No one seemed to realize the Civil War was a religious war except the pigs and preachers. Hogs weren’t Christians, that was for sure! They were fighting against Christ! And wouldn’t the Yankees be doing the same thing if they invaded the South, like they were promising?

What was the difference? They blue-bellied Yanks were evil personified, the devil’s legions, Johnny decided as he watched the last of the wild hogs leave.

Yep, he’d have to fight the Godless Yanks to keep the Confederate States of America the Christian nation it was. If the Yanks really invaded and won, we’d all live in an atheistic country, like they were doing right now. Hell, that’s why we seceded, he thought angrily. We’ll be flooded with beasts with brains but no hearts! He knew he’d have to enlist. The invasion of the hogs had convinced him once and for all. What was happening in his cornfield was about to happen throughout the South, even his peaceful little nook in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. He was a Christian and if that meant killing the devil’s legions, he’d do his duty. The Christian Confederacy had to survive or Christ Himself would die in America. The cynics said the coming war was about money and the idealist said the coming war was about slavery. But Johnny had realized, thanks to the hogs, that the coming Civil War was about Christ.

Back home Johnny lay in his bed and relived the scene over and over until the terrible analogy congealed in his mind as a bonafied vision. It was 1861 and his brand new country – the Confederate States of America -- was at war with the United States of America. Southwest Virginia was a ripe cornfield to Lincoln, Hess thought. A lush young cornfield to be plundered and left in ruins. What if he sent an army down here? The Yankees were unchristian hogs, weren’t they?

He’d already convinced himself that mass destruction was coming by reading the newspapers. But now he could see it more clearly – yes indeed, the “hogs” were coming . . . but this time armed and in blue uniforms. Everyone knew that swarms of blue-bellied Yanks were already streaming south through Kentucky and headed toward Cumberland Gap. Once they had taken the Cumberland, all they had to do was cross the Pound and march into Southwest Virginia.

Nothing could stop them, Johnny thought, not even southern Appalachia’s mighty Clinch Mountain, 3500 feet high and 300 miles long, lying between Hess’s home and the Cumberland. It had protected Russell County from Spanish Conquistadors to tornadoes to the raging renegade warriors of Chiefs Dragging Canoe. But it would be no barrier to the Yankee hordes. Only a Southern army of Christian soldiers could stop them.

“We’ll stop the Yankee pigs” Johnny whispered aloud, as if to God. He’d be traveling all the way to Cold Harbor on the other side of Richmond before he’d learn his bestial analogy was simply but profoundly wrong. Many horrible things had to happen to Johnny Hess before he’d finally understand the secret of the wild hogs. Ironically, he

would see the light only when the darkness had completed enveloped his soul.

The Clinch River Valley of Southwest Virginia was home to John Henry Hess and he was certainly right to love it as he did. It was such a wonderful place that tens of thousands of people had already died trying to own it. Ice-age paleo-Indians, woodland Indians, Spanish conquistadors, Cherokee warriors, Shawnee warriors, massacre victims, militiamen, English pioneers, French soldiers, Redcoats, Colonials, Tories, Whigs and plenty of American revolutionaries. He’d been born and raised there -- in Lebanon, Russell County, about twenty miles north of Abingdon, thirty miles east of Bristol, a hundred or so west of Roanoke. It was home to his family, fiancée, friends.

To be exact, it was also home to 9125 other free-white citizens, 51 freedmen and 1099 black African slaves. It was Appalachia but not the poor Appalachia most people associated with the mountains. No, this was at the southern tip of the Allegheny Mountain range in southern Appalachia, along the banks of the world’s third oldest river – the Clinch – the valley of which provided a cornucopia of rich harvests year after year in its rich soil.

The year before Johnny joined the Southern Cause, Russell County produced 327,197 bushels of corn, 7805 bushels of tobacco, 56,058 bushels of wheat and 100,809 bushels of oats. There were 777 farms listed on the Agricultural Census of 1860, with the average size of a farm being 273 acres. Not for nothing was it called the Breadbasket of the Confederacy.

This great bounty dropped only a little during the four years of civil warfare outside its borders. Even then, the bounty dropped only because Russell County so willingly gave much of its harvest to the Rebel army.

Johnny would think about this two years later as he sat with 22,000 other starving Rebels entrenched in ditches to repel Grant’s terrible Army of the Potomac approaching toward Richmond. He’d think of the paradise he’d left while waiting for the 50,000 yelling Yanks to come charging toward him at dawn. He’d remember his friends and family back in Lebanon, whom he’d last seen sitting on their porches every night, sipping hot tea, munching cookies, slurping watermelons, snapping beans, shelling peanuts, discussing the far-away war, bemoaning the loss of its boys, and – most importantly to them – swapping information about the success of local civic and agricultural projects.

At the war’s end, would these same folks be dead or wondering around in dazes, looking for their hanged friends, burned out homes, raped wives and daughters? Would they be dead themselves, or imprisoned by Yankee kangaroo courts? Who would protect them if the unchristian hordes swept over the mountain and through the towns?

That’s what he knew would happen if he and his fellow Southerners didn’t fight for what was theirs, fight and maybe die for their Christian beliefs.

In 1861 Hess knew with all his heart that the Yanks were coming to take Southwest Virginia. He knew without a doubt they were coming to kill him, take his land and dishonor his woman. Johnny not only knew the Northerners were coming; he felt it in his guts. He knew his Russell County was right in the path of Lincoln’s Army of the Ohio, which at that time was already chasing the Rebels out of Kentucky.

Johnny knew what was going to happen in Russell County because he knew what was going on outside Russell County – he’d graduated from high school and had enough education to read the Richmond newspapers whenever they were delivered to Lebanon by stage from Richlands or Abingdon. They were usually about two to three weeks late. Most were dog-eared, torn and dirty. But they were legible. They made plenty of sense to young folks like Johnny. And news only a few weeks late was quick enough to keep up with the slower-paced world of his time.

Johnny didn’t keep his knowledge of the war to himself – he only kept it from people over twenty-five years old or so. The older folks didn’t seem to realize what was going on, what was coming toward them. The younger folks, however, understood what was happening, what he said and what he thought – as well as how he felt. To him, thinking wasn’t enough reason to make a man fight for his country in this kind of war. You had to feel it, too. You had to know Christ was on your side.

This is why he so often visited his twenty-year-old neighbor Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett and his two-yearolder brother Isaac. Fine, good-looking boys, both of them – just like Johnny. All three had the dark brown hair, fair but tanned complexions, strong noses, light brown eyes, high cheek-bones and noble brows of the many, many people in Southwest Virginia whose family blood lines have been enhanced by an infusion of Cherokee Blood.

Isaac was a perfect example of Southern manhood but Napoleon had a secret flaw. Three years earlier he had fallen down a cave – over a hundred feet freefall – and miraculously survived with only eleven broken ribs, a ruptured kidney, a concussion and worst of all, a badly mangled left foot. The toes had been sticking straight up when Doctor Giles had pulled them back into their sockets, despite Napoleon’s howls of pain. The toes were never the same. The largest toe bent inward and the second toe had frozen in a claw, causing a giant callus on the bottom of his foot and a constant blister on top of his damaged toe. As a result, he had to wear shoes made of soft doeskin with a hole cut out of the left one for the hammertoe. He cut a hole exactly like it in the right shoe, so people would assume he did it for comfort and not for an infirmity. He’d rather be an eccentric than a damn cripple! He limped a little but not noticeably if you didn’t know of his accident. He was terrified his lame foot would keep him out of the army. He hid his affliction from everyone except Johnny, who had been with him when he’d fallen – and in fact, had pulled him out with a rope and fetched the doctor.

So when Napoleon walked, he swayed a bit, back and forth as if his hips were slightly askew. Sometimes he’d get agonizing cramps in his foot during the nights. If he was in pain after a long hike though the woods or to town, he refused to show it, biting his cheeks from the inside to keep his lips from trembling. Johnny more than once noticed tears in his eyes after an especially long trip when they couldn’t use their horses. Otherwise, he was a fine man and agreed with Johnny a hundred percent that the godless Yanks had to be met with fire before they got to the mountain.

He didn’t care what he had to withstand; he was used to standing things. And in fact, it was a good thing indeed that he learned to take a lot of pain . . . because he had a lot of pain coming.

Of the two brothers, Johnny got along best with Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon understood! Isaac alas only came close to understanding. Hess had grown up with Napoleon and his big brother there in Lebanon. They’d been neighbors all their lives and their parents had been friends. They’d grown up together. They’d worked the mule teams on each other’s farms and topped the tobacco fields together. They’d explored the woods and fished the big rivers together – the Clinch, the Holston, the Powell. They’d climbed and hunted the biggest mountains together – Beartown, Rich, Big-A, Paintlick. They’d explored the caves and climbed the cliffs together. And they were great marksmen, all three of them. They could shoot a squirrel’s nuts off at 50 yards – or such was their claim.

As teenage horsemen they’d galloped all over Southern Appalachia together, exploring what was left of the Cherokee towns and Shawnee camps. They’d manned the decayed wooden forts that had once protected their great grandfathers and grandmothers from the “heathen Injuns”. They’d pretended to be pioneers as they camped together in the old log cabins built by Daniel Boone himself, right there Russell County. They’d tramped together down the big frontier road Boone and his fifty axmen had cut from Hansonville to Castlewood.

Of course, they knew “Old Hickory” Jackson had thrown all the Cherokee out of Southwest Virginia back in ’38. There weren’t that many to get rid of because the emerging United States of America had tried to kill every one of them right before the Revolution – to make sure they didn’t fight for King George. The Cherokee had been the most powerful Native American people until Colonel Christian – so ironically named – burned their nation to the ground.

Nowadays most people deny it ever happened, but Johnny and Napoleon knew it was true because Napoleon’s great grandpa had told them how his own pa had helped the Colonial militiamen burn the Cherokee towns in 1776, destroy their winter supplies, salt their garden spots, kill their horses and hang every living Indian they could find, including the papooses, widows and old men left behind. Johnny and Napoleon were proud of Napoleon’s great

grandpa but for some reason the old man seemed ashamed when he talked about the Cherokee. He was over ninety when he’d told the kids and died before they’d reached their teenage years. But they remembered. They also remembered how he’d died in bed, holding a Cherokee tomahawk next to his heart. The old man’s face was contorted and wet with tears when they’d found him dead. He was buried with the hatchet.

The Virginia militia under Colonial Governor Lord Dunmore had taken care of the Shawnee even earlier than that at Point Pleasant. Nevertheless they knew of living Indians who still lived in tiny camps around the Clinch River and visited them often. They pow-wowed and danced with them. They flirted with their dark-eyed daughters. They listened to the old chiefs speak of the white man’s war against them as they sat with braves around bonfires at night.

They had contests with the younger braves to see who could more stoically endure pain without yelling. He who yelled first got thrown in the river and laughed at by the older Indians. After these contests, they ate roasted bear hams cooked on pitchforks hanging over the coals.

Most of their time, of course, was spent to themselves, just the three of them. Johnny could imagine themselves – Napoleon Bonaparte, Isaac and him -- duty bound and honor bound, to country and to each other – like the Crusaders sworn to uphold Christian law and impose Christianity wherever pagans ruled. They’d fight together and risk their lives for each other – they’d watch each other’s back! And together they’d not only defend Christ from the Yankees, but they’d find adventure and glory and purpose and . . . and themselves. They’d find out who and what they really were. With that knowledge, their lifelong friendships would be welded by fire. They’d grow old together, patriarchs and wise men of the Clinch River Valley. They’d be old knights in a new nation . . . under God, under Christ.

That’s the way it was meant to be, Hess was sure of that. Not for nothing had Napoleon been named for the aloof, intellectual, honorable but merciless warrior who defeated Europe and won the love of his countrymen through courage and integrity. He’d read about the French Napoleon in school, too. It was his Napoleon’s fate – as Johnny saw it – to be the “Napoleon” of the Great War for Southern independence. And he would teach lesser men, like Johnny Hess and even his brother Isaac, how to kill gracefully, with style and detachment and Christian righteousness . . . and also how to love gracefully, with style and detachment and philosophical justification . . . in a word, to be elegant in this inelegant world.

Hess and Napoleon had followed the war news excitedly since Hess was fourteen and Napoleon was sixteen.

Isaac was excited, too, but somehow seemed too damn cautious and uncertain. But not Johnny and Napoleon. They’d read with a hot fever of excitement about South Carolina’s vote to secede from the Union that December of 1860.

They’d beamed inside as Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi and Louisiana followed South Carolina in January.

They’d inwardly cheered when the six seceding states created the Confederate States of America in February – a brand new country with Jefferson Davis elected as its president and Alexander Stephens as its vice-president. Their hearts had jumped together when Texas joined the CSA later that same month, and jumped again – even stronger -- when North Carolina, Arkansas and Missouri threw their hats inside the dangerous Ring of Fire the South had ignited around herself.

But most all, they cheered and cheered and cheered when their home state of Virginia threw off the Northern yoke and joined the Confederate States of America in April. If their beloved state gave itself to the Confederacy, then they would give themselves to the Christian Confederacy! Above all, they were Christians and Virginians!

Johnny and Napoleon’s newly found pride swelled almost to bursting when Confederate naval forces fired on Federally occupied Fort Sumter on April 12, winning a hammering but bloodless victory that convinced their own glorious state of Virginia to cast its lot with the Confederacy. Their adolescent hearts never tired.

Their hearts again raced with excitement when they read about the first real battle between the Union and

the Confederacy. It had culminated on July 21 at Manassas, just outside Washington, D.C., with all the city’s highfalooting women and so-called gentlemen watching from their fancy carriages as the good ol’ boys in gray popped the fire out of the Yankees and whipped them to their knees. They smiled when they thought the North’s humiliating defeat, and smiled again when the Yanks were whipped again at Ball’s Bluff near Leesburg. Christ was winning the war.

At Manassas, which the Yanks were calling the Battle of Bull Run, Hess read that Union General Irvin McDowell’s army of over 37,000 blue-bellies had been engaged, defeated and driven back by 35,000 graybacks under Confederate Brigadier Generals Joseph Eggleston Johnston and Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard. After Manassas, he and everyone else would know the generals simply as Johnston and Beauregard.

He read excitedly to Napoleon about the South’s newest hero, then Colonel Jonathan Jackson, who had really showed his grit by holding his ground around a place called Henry House against an almost overwhelming number of Yankees. Brigadier General Barnard Bee had shouted, “Look! There’s Jackson standing like a stonewall! Rally around the Virginians!” This was the first but hardly the last time Hess and Napoleon were to hear about the steadfast heroism of “Stonewall” Jackson.

They were both delighted to read how most of the Yanks had panicked while trying to get back across Bull Run, all in maddening fear, confusion and disorder. They thought about the somber truth pressed on those hoity-toity civilian onlookers from the big city. Those phony folks had realized while watching their mighty Yankees get slaughtered that the Southern cause was more than just a rebellion to be quelled in a few weeks or months.

The southern soldier had proven himself on the field of battle and no one, not even Lincoln, could any longer deny the resolve, commitment and determination of the Confederacy to become independent. Now the North knew that Christianity gave the South a power beyond their imaginations. Losses at Manassas told the whole story and foretold of what was to come. The Union had 460 men killed, 1124 wounded and 1312 missing, while the Confederacy had 387 killed, 1528 wounded and 13 missing. This was going to be a real war – a real shooting war of indefinite duration. The Southern cause was more than a thorn in Mr. Lincoln’s side. It was a harpoon.

As for the Battle of Ball’s Bluff, Hess again swelled with pride inside as he read to Napoleon how Union Brigadier General Charles P. Stone had ferried his army across the Potomac in inadequate boats at the landing of Ball’s Bluff. Union Colonel Edward D. Baker’s approximately 1700 troopers had barely reorganized when they were surprised, drilled with lead balls, chased by howling grayback horsemen, chopped up with sabers, thoroughly demoralized and eventually driven back to the river in chaos by the Rebels.

The Yankee withdrawal became a complete rout when Baker – a personal friend of Lincoln – was shot dead near the beginning of the so-called fight. Disaster engulfed the whole northern army as frightened Yankees ran to and fro, some groveling on the ground, some screaming hysterically, looking like little girls who’d seen a snake. The little boats swamped under the loads of blue-bellies trying to escape – leaving the men to flounder about in the river.

Some were shot, some were drowned and a few made it across, where they high-tailed it out of the battle zone, throwing away their weapons and stripping off their uniforms to look for wounds they’d might have received but not felt. Many indeed were bleeding painlessly beneath their clothes. They usually died a few horror-stricken moments later. When the dying had stopped, a tally revealed that the Union had 49 killed, 158 wounded and 714 missing. The Rebels had lost 153 men in all. Thirty-six had been killed, 117 wounded and two had disappeared. The Yanks weren’t showing much spunk or know-how in this fight between the USA and CSA -- yet. In fact, their performance so far stank in the noses of the generals and politicians sending them to their defeats.

Hess felt a growing sense of destiny as he read about these early victories, thinking perhaps that he was fortunate to be strong and young enough to fight for this brave new nation which was so noble, so honorable, so

determined to cast off the arrogant tyranny of its northern rulers. Closer to home, Napoleon, Isaac and he were going to save Russell County and Southeast Virginia from the invading hordes on the way to destroy them.

Johnny was 18 when the war was just beginning. He was the age when religious passion and romanticism blend with reality. His religion was obvious and displayed by the two-inch silver cross hanging from his neck. But he harbored romanticism in the secret backrooms of his imagination, where too he reserved a space for logic – just in case a time came when using his emotions only might him killed. Johnny wasn’t a complete fool. Almost, but not complete. At 18, he knew his heart could get him killed much more easily than his brain. Still . . . the romanticism was there.

“Hell yeah, I’ll fight them,” he thought with angry bitterness when Virginia seceded, “the Yankees want us to be their slaves!” He failed to see the irony in such a thought because few southerners at that time (and few Northerners) equated the South’s war for independence with the North’s later-to-be-announced purpose to free the slaves. “Freeing the Africans” was a slogan heard but rarely taken seriously in 1861. It became more and more fervent as the years rolled by, becoming in the end a sincere moral determination that crushed the Confederate States of America. No answer was ever found for the magnificent question, “How can you keep human beings as if they were yours and not God’s?” Not even Christ could solve such the South’s moral dilemma.

Her anachronistic racial policies doomed it from the beginning but none of the key players, not even Lincoln, understood this at first. Politicians of both sides believed the war was about money and world power, not human bondage. The war would end before most of them caught on that the bloodbath had been for an ideal, not a buck. And that ideal would overwhelm every other justification for the Civil War, even the Confederate ideal of putting Christianity back into America.

Johnny Hess considered slavery a minor political issue in 1861. Actually, he almost never thought about it – except to feel a strange unexplainable bubble in his heart, as if he needed to cry but had no reason. He felt that same bubble sometimes when he thought of his mother, whom he’d never known. He wasn’t old enough to realize this was his conscience trying to communicate with him. He no more thought owning a slave was wrong than owning a dog was wrong. Didn’t they both benefit from his kindness and affection? Wouldn’t he bring both of them out of the cold, supposing he had a slave? As his grandmother always said, “That’s the way things is.” It was like rising in the morning and going out to labor in the fields. It was life and life was – well, it was life and that’s all there was to it.

“There’s no changing the way things is,” he thought.

He was from a simple family and believed the nationalistic propaganda then flooding the southern media. He knew it wasn’t about slavery, all right. Not as far as he and his friends were concerned. Some people kept talking about it as if it were the main reason behind the war, but Johnny thought he knew better than that. Maybe slavery was a big issue down in the Deep South, what with their big cotton plantations. But who cared about the slaves in Russell County, almost all of whom worked the little tobacco patches that barely brought in enough keep the households going?

Hell! They were free enough to go live in the woods like the wild hogs had done when they wanted their freedom. The Africans must like things “the way they is” or they’d go live like the hogs, Johnny thought. Then they’d be free, wouldn’t they? They must not want their freedom, he figured. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe the Yankees were coming down to free them. He was too clever for that excuse. There had to be a stronger reason. The Yanks didn’t care about the slaves anymore than they cared about the wild hogs. Had they launched a war to free the hogs?

Or was it really to restore the Union? That’s what all the Northern papers claimed in 1861. That was the Yankee’s war slogan. The question was “why?” Why couldn’t the United States just follow what the Constitution said and let the Southern states secede if they wanted to? It was just incredible. The founding fathers themselves had

written that any state wanting out of the Union could leave, simple as that. All of them had signed, hadn’t they? So what was this about waging war to force the South to stay under the heel of the North? But there it was – there you had it. The Yankee papers cranked out bullshit and balderdash and sheer hypocritical lies. It ticked Johnny off every time he saw a Yankee newspaper. Restore the Union, my ass.

Johnny knew what the Yankees really wanted. First, the Northerners wanted to keep their godless nation complete so its leaders could rule as tyrants, getting rich off the poor, just like the moneylenders had done before Jesus kicked their butts out of the temple. The Northerners wanted to be free of Christian compassion so they could work the Southerners’ asses off, so they could lay back and do nothing but smoke their stinking cigars and suck down their rot-gut whiskey. Let the South do the dirty work! Let the South till the soil while they lounged about their fancy cities! Let the South pay the taxes! They had no culture of their own, so they wanted to destroy the South’s real culture – out of spite! They didn’t want the Southern states to teach their children about Christ because their values weren’t Christian. They wanted the Southern states to be their colonies. There, that put it in a nutshell!

The Southern media was more on top of things, he believed – their papers at least said the obvious. They said the North was sending its huge army to force the Southern states to keep Christ out of their citizens’ lives. That was obvious. That got people’s dander up, all right. But what really stirred folks up was reading that the North had to keep the Southern states in the Union so they would keep on paying the tariffs they’d been paying for decades. They’d invade the South with a million men to collect those taxes if they had to, by God! In the process, the Yanks would murder the “rebels”, ravish their wives, take their land and burn their homes. Johnny knew it all. He also knew they come right through Virginia’s back door – his home, his Southwest Virginia. That’s why they were so damn determined to take Kentucky.

Despite the argument against the “tyrannical” North’s threat to invade if the South’s tariffs weren’t paid, Johnny may have known somewhere in his heart that the Confederacy never had a chance because of its one obvious and inexcusable moral flaw: slavery. It’s hard to imagine living in Russell County, Virginia -- where every tenth person was in bondage -- without reflecting on the moral questions surrounding that bondage. But that is exactly what Johnny did.

Hess’ heart was hardened enough to ignore the bubble of bad conscience in it. Only that explains how Johnny could fill the rest of his heart with noble notions of protecting his land while fighting a second American Revolution in the cause of perpetuating Christian values in government. Maybe he didn’t even know about the conditions of slavery which prevailed on most of the small tobacco farms in Southwest Virginia, where the Africans were forced to labor sunrise to dusk without rest, flogged for minor offenses and bred like cattle.

The truth is always hard to find. Hess didn’t know about the slave situation where he lived because he had never owned any himself. So he dismissed any notions of abuse, just as he would dismiss any reports that his neighbor had whipped his horse. Nobody with a lick of sense whipped his own horse! Not in Russell County. It was unthinkable.

Nevertheless, we can gather an idea of how bad it was like to be a slave in Russell County from a former slave named Charles Ball, who wrote about his life in the small Southwest Virginian tobacco fields of the mid-nineteenth century. The book is entitled Fifty Years In Chains (New York, 1858) and gives this account of slave life on small tobacco farms in Southwest Virginia: . . . the hardships and suffering of the coloured population of Southwest Virginia (tobacco farms) are attributable to the poverty and distress of its owners. In many instances, an estate scarcely yields enough to feed and clothe the slaves . . . .

. . . the slaves must be content with the surplus – and this, on a poor, old, worn out tobacco plantation, is often very small and wholly inadequate to the . . . sustenance of the hands. (In Southwest Virginia) nothing is allowed to the poor Negro but his peck of corn per week, without the sauce of a slat herring, or even a little salt itself . . . .

Flogging is practiced with order, regularity and system in the (Southwest Virginia).

. . . the overseer always carries a whip – sometimes a twisted cowhide, sometimes

a kind of horsewhip, and very often a simple hickory switch cut in the adjoining woods. For stealing meat or other provisions, or for any of the higher offenses, the slaves are stripped, tied up by the hands – sometimes the thumbs – and whipped at the quarter. . . .the backs of the unhappy slaves are seamed with scars from their necks to their hips.

Of course, Johnny had little interest in the slavery issue and we can understand why. As for the slaves, he liked the ones he knew. He talked to them almost every day in the general store on Lebanon’s only street, named naturally enough “Main Street”. The Africans were respectful, resigned, funny and warm hearted – this he knew. It never occurred to him to wonder if it was immoral to “own” other human beings. That was just “the way things is”, as his grandmother had said. Slavery had nothing to do with him.

This was the Johnny Hess who debated joining the Confederacy during the last months of 1861 and the first of 1862. Despite the South’s extraordinary victories in 1861, the first three months of 1862 revealed a Union determined to undo the damage done to its reputation and morale by moving mercilessly against the Confederacy. In January, the Union’s turreted USS Monitor fought the supposedly unstoppable Confederate Ironclad CSS Merrimack to a draw, ending the South’s threatened destruction of all wooden ships in the Union Navy. In February, General Grant took Fort Henry on the Tennessee River and Fort Donelson on the Cumberland.

But the excitement and loyalty generated by the creation of the Confederacy and the secession of his state weren’t the major reasons John Henry Hess joined the grayback army when he did that March of 1862. It was instead the perceived threat of invasion that made him decide to give up the farming life. Little else could have driven him away from his hometown of Lebanon – that isolated Eden.

The security felt by the citizens of that place was perceived by Johnny as self-deception. Johnny was sure Southwest Virginia had already been targeted by enemy troops and would inevitably be occupied . . . if he didn’t do something. He believed he had to take the fight to the invaders before they showed up at his door. It was fear of losing not only his land but also his lovely fiancée, Anna Catharine Miller, propelling him to the edge. His fear becomes understandable when we picture her – this hazel-eyed Virginian girl. She was sixteen and beautiful beyond the telling of it . . . but that’s true of all young women.

Beyond youthful comeliness, she had an extraordinarily stunning face which blended the very best of European refinement with Native American spirit and character. She was fair complexioned with long, sweeping auburn hair, lofty forehead, small mouth and high cheekbones. Her lips tasted like heaven. She had mesmerizing eyes, with strange black halos surrounding the irises – those eyes pierced men to their very soul. She had the delicate grace of a swan and the vigorous elegance of a thoroughbred horse. Her alluring purity was exquisite and beyond question. As Napoleon put it, “she’s so lovely I’d eat a poached egg off her stomach.”

Of course, this is being very kind to a young woman who had been born with a veil on her face that almost killed her before she took her first breath. The mid-wife had peeled it off so violently that for the rest of her life a hand-sized, blood-red stain covered the left side of her face, as if she’d been slapped by a giant. Those of us who love imperfection would have doubly loved Anna, for it was this very imperfection that gave her an unforgettable

appearance, a breath-taking glance at Nature gone awry – a beauty made that much more awesome because it was so terribly flawed. She was ashamed of her face, needless to say, but Johnny – God bless him – loved her even the more for it. She was his blemished princess.

Nevertheless, Johnny had to go off to war . . . .

There were those who reasoned he should stay – after all, being a farmer in the rich Clinch River Valley of Southwest Virginia was living a good life compared to the foot soldier’s life sure to come if he enlisted. The valley provided good land, warm shelter, free education and fair laws for him and his neighbors. The crops were bountiful, the livestock fat, the fish biting, the game abundant.

And the region hadn’t been touched yet by the war raging around it. His big brother Harry had joined the service a few months before and had been assigned to the 37th Virginia Infantry Regiment. But he had written only that he was proud to be doing his duty, was eating well and expected to be home soon because everyone knew the war would be over in just a few more months. Johnny must have had doubts about that but his father and other folks around Lebanon seemed sure the North would give up rather than be chopped to pieces with our cannon and sabers in the hands of our bravest young men.

The labor required of Clinch Valley farmers like Johnny and his father had tripled by the first months of 1862 because over three-fourths of the county’s young men had already enlisted. But the labor was better than tolerable, especially when Napoleon and Isaac chipped in. It was a hard but decent way to make a living, even when March came in and he had to plow the rocky fields, sweating as much as the mules pulling the plow but daydreaming nevertheless in the crisp spring air. Besides, plucking your victuals out of the valley’s horn of plenty left long balmy evenings to relax and remember times that used to be – or reflect contentedly if foolishly on times to come.

Most of the older folks spent the day’s last hours rocking on porches, snapping beans, shucking corn, sipping tea, dipping snuff, enjoying breezes, watching the lazy sun sink into the horizon, chatting with passers by, smoking corncob pipes or crude rolled-leaf cigars, wondering about sons, brothers and husbands now carrying arms—and of course discussing the war which seemed so far away though waged just beyond their sight and hearing.

Some of the men gathered in a circle of wooden rocking chairs inside the town’s general store with their feet propped up next to the glowing pot-bellied stove in the center. Everything was made of wood except the nails and hinges. Shelves of store goods lined every wall but one, on which was nailed the balding pelt of a huge black bear killed in Green Valley ten years earlier.

There in the store they sipped corn liquor and hard cider, discussing the war with great authority as if they themselves were hardened veterans – which they were not, except for the few who’d seen action in the SpanishAmerican War. The real veterans kept their big traps shut. They knew no one would listen to their war stories and certainly no one wanted to hear about the bloody times they’d seen and knew were happening again.

Whether on porches shooting the breeze or lounging around the store chewing the fat, few citizens of Lebanon – except for those grim-faced, silent old soldiers -- seemed very worried about the war. Only the younger men like Johnny Hess spent their evenings walking slowly on the dirt avenues, their eyes on the ground, lost in the depths of secret anxieties, inexplicable yearnings and confused obligations – hearing all too clearly the call to arms whispering in their ears and the lock-step marching of Yankee armies heading right for Russell County.

Lebanon was the either the wisest or the most self-deceived place on earth at that time. The town lay languid as a cat beneath the long shadow of Clinch Mountain, dozing contentedly as the country around it convulsed in collective fits of furious rebellion – splitting in half with an inexpressible violence and horrible roar not yet heard by Lebanon’s deliberately deaf citizens. And why should they worry? The United States mail was still delivering letters, wasn’t it? Not much could be wrong if the mail was coming through, could it?

The counties around Russell were more concerned. The militias of neighboring Washington, Smyth, Tazewell and Bland counties had been drilling earnestly every Saturday since South Carolina seceded from the Union the last month of 1860.

Before then, the militias had drilled only when they felt like it, half-heartedly, half-drunk, every other week or so and not at all during the winter. They didn’t see much use for themselves before the secession. The only conceivable threats before 1860 had been bandits and Indians – and there weren’t two dozen Indians left, thanks to Ol’ Hickory.

But things changed drastically when Fort Sumter was attacked on April 12, 1961. The militias except for Russell County increased their military readiness by meeting every day, practicing musket loading, synchronizing firing skills, improving aim, eviscerating scarecrows with humongous Jim Bowie knives, mock-fighting each other with sabers, reading about the Spanish War, electing officers and – absolutely most important -- patrolling their counties for snooping Yankee scouts.

By late 1861 they had transformed their little rag-tag beer & rifle clubs into enthusiastic but inexperienced paramilitary divisions which at least gave the impression they could defend their homes. But their actual fighting ability was absurd. They’d have no chance against the hundreds of thousands of combat -experienced Yankee troops supposedly marching their way. Nevertheless – and this may be important – they did assume a new diligence, discipline and direction, which rallied some of their friends and comforted the rest.

They would be ready to die when war came to them, as they knew it must. They had to be ready to counter attack the Northerners with their half-trained, tiny-numbered cavalry and infantry units -- with names like Bland Rangers, Wythe Grays, Washington Mounted Riflemen, Glade Spring Rifles and Goodson Rifle Guards. Their purpose was not to defend the Confederacy or perpetuate slavery or snub their noses at federal tyranny. It was quite simply to protect their homes and family and land.

There was no doubt in their minds that the Yanks were coming in force as soon as they rid Kentucky of its Rebels. Time would prove them right. The Yanks were coming in whole regiments looking for horses and food. In time whole armies would be crossing Clinch Mountain on their way to Saltville. And as expected, the little militia forces would be no more of a hindrance than the mosquitoes buzzing around the Yankee’s faces or the horseflies biting their horses’ asses.

Johnny knew there were plenty of reason for the Yanks to come to Southwest Virginia – to cut up the railroad, to rob it of its foodstuffs & horses, to make their way to Tennessee, to occupy it as a base – plenty of reasons! Another good reason was the town of Saltville only twenty or so miles from Lebanon, which supplied a big fraction of the salt used to preserve army rations. The yanks were bound to come and Johnny knew it. In 1861, however, it seemed to John Henry Hess that everyone in Southwest Virginia was expecting the worse except the wise old folks of Clinch River’s big valley – where he and his veiled Anna called home.

Russell County carried on as normal, not worrying about their northern neighbors. The county would begin to worry a bit about a year after Fort Sumter was shelled and South Carolina became such a clear symbol of defiance against northern dominance. The county woke up so late because it took them that long to realize – at last – that the North would have to invade the South just to collect cotton and tobacco taxes! The USA wasn’t about to give up that gold mine! There was no doubt in anyone’s mind after Virginia joined the Confederacy.

Russell County finally organized a little county militia called “The New Garden Fearnaughts” in late 1861, which like the other militias became fairly proficient at shooting targets, slicing pumpkins in half with sabers and fancy horsemanship. In fact, the New Garden Fearnaughts and most of the other Southwest Virginia county militias contributed a significant number of both fine horses and horsemen to Confederate cavalry units when push finally

came to shove and the Confederacy shoved back like Hell. Those militiamen who didn’t quite make the cavalry were absorbed into the 37th Virginia Infantry Regiment before the end of 1861. They were in the army for real.

Two of Johnny’s cousins – Henry and Martin Miller of Sword’s Creek (two expert horsemen whose sister Hess was to marry) – joined the New Garden Fearnaughts soon after Fort Sumter was taken in South Carolina. Both were absorbed into the Confederate army – Henry as an infantryman and Martin as a cavalryman. Henry was fortunate enough to return but Cousin Martin was so enthusiastic, ardent and glory-bound that he managed to get himself and his horse killed in action while fighting in Kentucky early in 1862.

Unlike Kentucky, it was still peaceful in Lebanon that early spring, despite the rattling of their neighbors’ big rusty swords. Few hometown folks believed, as did their spooked neighbors, that an overwhelming Yankee army was about to engulf them. Only the hot-blooded teenage kids believed that. For the older citizens, who had seen a bit of time, life was still predictable at the moment and the seasons, they wisely concluded, could be prepared for.

John Henry Hess, however, was grown up now and out of school. He, with the heart of a Rebel already beating in his chest, knew what his elders couldn’t fathom. He read the Richmond newspapers and listened carefully to visitors’ gossip. He knew the countryside just beyond his vision was trembling from musket fire and cannon blasts —even as he seeded tobacco in the peaceful fields, even as he watered the gentle horses, even as he plowed up potatoes from the warm, warm earth. He knew his tranquil farm boy life was an illusion in a world fast running out of illusions.

And he certainly knew whose side he was on.

He had seen the wild hogs and in them seen the enemy – streaming toward his home with blasphemous greed and malice. He couldn’t have imagined that ultimately he would come limping home, knowing in his broken heart and ruined soul that the soldiers he’d killed, and those who had tried to kill him, were not wild hogs at all. They were men.

They were human, all too human. The role of the pigs of power in this war – their hidden identity -- had yet to dawn on him. But it would . . . it would. At the beginning, though, he was a gray wolf about to join the pack of gray wolves!

He was going to defend his soil, his girl, his people, his beliefs, and his state.

Back them – before selfishness had become a virtue in so many human hearts -- a Southern Appalachian farm boy like himself had only one loyalty above the girl of his heart: the green misty mountains that had welcomed him every morning of his life, the southern Appalachian ridges, the tip of the Alleghenies, the hollows and immense grassy glades which had daily nourished his soul. That land belonged to him and his people. That land was the home of Anna Catharine and himself . . . and the children they would bear.

The Yankees could try to take it away, he thought fiercely – but in the end, it was their bloody bodies which would be taken away. He’d spit fire if they came! No, he’d take the fight to them! Yes! He’d take the fire to them while they were still in Kentucky! By God, he’d join up now and go meet them on the way! Ah . . . God bless his teenage soul.

This was the romantic view he took of his Confederate allegiance. In older years he’d realize that in his yearning was also the hunger for great adventure and great respect and, yes, great glory . . . the hunger for the adoring glances, loving kisses, passionate embraces of Anna Catharine, his so-proud, so-beautiful, so-untouchable fiancée . . . and hunger for the worldliness of the man he would become, the man who had been everywhere and done everything, had fought off the invading Yankees, had proven himself a man of uncommon courage and valor in a thousand battles.

To put all this in a single word, he was bored . . . . He was so bored with his repetitive farm life he could scream. The war offered an escape. Not only an escape, but a chance to make something of himself before returning to the land he called his own.

Thanks to the war and the opportunities it would bring, he expected to become one of the wealthiest, most dapper, most respected and most admired men in the Clinch River Valley – married to his beautiful Anna Catharine.

They would live in a twenty room Georgian mansion with huge white columns. They would pamper chestnut-colored thoroughbred racing horses and raise fattened cattle. They would be gentry in this newly formed nation called the Confederate States of America. He would have fought and helped win the second American Revolution. He would help design school curriculums centered around Christianity and say the prayers at the town meetings and swear to Christ against his enemies in courts of law. He would be everything the Yankees said he couldn’t be and do everything the Yankees said he couldn’t do. And his jolly slaves would love him because he’d treat them with such respect and generosity!

In truth, there was another compelling reason to join the service – one that he might not have admitted to himself or Anna. A little newspaper article he‘d noticed in back of the “Richmond Times” before Christmas reported that the new Confederate Congress intended to enact a conscription law in April requiring all able men between 18 and 35 to serve their country.

So it was a foregone conclusion anyway. He’d have to join before he got drafted – it was well known that the professional army threw conscripts at the enemy to absorb bullets before they themselves committed to battle. He’d have to join to avoid being drafted. Oddly, this only fueled his romantic justifications into a white-hot desire for action. His only real regret about joining was he’d not joined a year before – so that by re-enlisting he could reap the fifty-dollar bonus being given to the boys already in gray. More than anything, he wanted to be one of those boys – one of the good ol’ Southern boys, any two of which could lick a dozen Yankees.

It was about duty, adventure, glory, wealth and destiny waiting just over the hills. Hess and the Garretts knew the Yanks were just over those ridges – those ridges known as the Clinch, Alleghenies, Shenandoah, Cumberland.

They knew the Yanks were flooding the South like an ocean of humanity . . . each Yankee a drop of Northern blood intent on drowning the new Confederacy. It was obvious Lincoln was willing to bleed his country dry. Why else would the tyrant be sending millions of his own people to their doom – to the mass graves of Southern slaughter? The newspapers were always full of Southern slaughter – the wholesale and by-god deserved butchering of Yankee herds.

The newspapers were also full of Southern glory and noble victories. They were filled with Southern patriotism and heroism under fire. Boys younger than Johnny were already coming home on furloughs, sporting their jaunty gray kepis and shell jackets, carrying their .69 caliber smoothbore muskets where ever they went, swaggering down Main Street, spouting tales of incredible battles and boasting of beating back the brutal Yankee armies. The dashing young graybacks were even drinking beer with the town’s older men – equals in courage if not in age . . . equals in honor if not in wealth.

For an instant in time they were the devil-may-care cavaliers everyone in the South wanted them to be – though in reality they were doomed dog-faced grunts about to shed blood and eat mud, howling in delirium and thrashing their last convulsions on battlefields carpeted with dying soldiers. At the best they would soon be desperate rebels facing a never-ending stream of Union patriots, who in the end would inevitably destroy the Confederacy and take its shattered soldiers prisoner or leave them walking ghosts trying to find their way home through a devastated South.

Those soldiers who had actually tasted Northern fire were coming home to Lebanon less gloriously – with ghastly looks of horror on their faces, hideous scars, oozing sores, burned bodies, torn ears, bayonet punctures, gangrenous wounds, bubbling lungs, missing eyes, mangled arms, shredded hands, amputated legs. Without fail their silence spoke more eloquently and horribly the truths of war than the puffed-up tales told by the boot-camp babies strutting around town. But the shattered souls who so silently watched John Henry angered him more than frightened him.

In Johnny’s mind, the wounded soldiers’ hollow eyes accused him of not defending his home, his family, his neighbors, his Anna Catharine, his land. Perhaps he didn’t know whether the maggots gnawing his guts out were from

patriotism or fear.

His home in Lebanon must have seemed the worst place an honorable young man could be in early 1862.

Working on his farm and hiking long hikes along the Clinch River could only have given him time to consider his lack of courage, to wish he was killing Yanks instead. He yearned to escape the farm, to see the country, to find adventure.

It must have been unthinkable that soon he would gladly trade the bloody future rushing toward him for the calm mountain scene of the moment – the valley through which the Clinch River ran clear and cold and pure everyday – and he could everyday loaf on its grassy shore, fishing for the silvery trout darting among the river’s million sparkling stones. He must have hated the only place left in the South where he could pretend the tornado of war did not whirl around him with an ever threatening roar of righteous, indignant anger – at him, John Henry Hess, 18 years old, ignoring the call to duty so obvious in his ears.

Johnny may have contemplated his future somewhat more cautiously if he’d been able to enter the secret places deep in the minds of his neighbors. The little town of Lebanon was peaceful only in appearances, not in essence.

Within many of its people were throbbing anxious fears caused by letters received from brothers, sons and husbands battling the despised invaders. These dispatches – however brave – failed to conceal the combatants’ haunting images, bloody conflicts, unbearable foreboding.

A few months before Hess enlisted, his boyhood friend James H. Barrett had written home to his mother from bivouac with the 37th Virginia Infantry at Camp Barrow, Greenbrier River, Pocahontas County. The letter was penned August 30, 1861 . . . eighty-nine days after his and his brother Robert’s enlistment. She knew upon reading it that her sons were already doomed —charter members of the most wretched souls on earth, marching in step with the damned and tortured armies of the South.

“Whenever I hear the name of Cheat Mountain, it makes me feel very serious,” James had written; “Well do I recollect on the 13th day of July of crossing Cheat River, wading it, when its waters were stained with human blood -- it being so stained that the water resembled red wine. At the time and place about seven hundred men were slain. But fortunately only 18 or 20 of our Southern men were killed. I endured more in that retreat than I ever expected that I could possibly endure. It was a providential thing that we ever escaped. . . .

“There is great sickness in our company and five deaths. The names of those that have died are Hawkins, Thompson, Draten Smith, Winchester Farmer, John E. Gilmer and Paris Horten. Also C. C. Fletcher is very low. . . . We have 80 in our company and 40 of that number are unfit for service. Our company has come under par. The Colonel says it will have to be recruited. The recruits will have to come from Russell (County). There will be a chance for 17 men to join this company if they choose.”

James Barrett had volunteered along with Robert on May 2, 1861, writing his mother, “I want to live right, that I may die right”. He was to get his wish on September 20, 1862: killed in action at the battle of Harper’s Ferry in Maryland. There were letters in between, but that first letter left Mrs. Barrett with an inner dread that surely festered into an open lesion on her heart, never to heal after James’ death the next year.

Nevertheless, she was a hardened

Russell County woman and hid the horrible pain as she pretended to go about her business as usual. Life in Lebanon was like that – and for that reason young men like John Henry Hess never saw the truth and believed instead that one day in glory Johnny would come marching home again, hurrah, hurrah . . .

When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah . . .!

Hurrah! Hurrah!

We’ll given him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah!

The men will cheer, the boys will shout, The ladies they will all turn out, And we’ll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching home!

(Thanks to Dean Fowler of ReWEP Associates for permission to use.)

The song – that powerful, inspiring song . . . . By god, he was going to join the army!

Like millions of other young men, he wildly took heart when that particular song broke out among his brethren kin and “Sothern” friends. He’d join in at the top of his voice and feel double determined to fight for his threatened homeland whenever he heard the song spontaneously burst forth from the throats of his fellow patriots.

“When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah . . . .”

“Sothern” is the anachronistic word for Southerners who believed in the Elizabethan values so deeply rooted in antebellum Dixie. The Sothrons believed separation from the United States was the only way to retain those values, which included gallantry but also aristocracy. They were the ones who realized the South was a separate culture but didn’t seem to realize it was based on consolidated family wealth – meaning a descending class system of aristocrats, gentry, artisans, civil servants, merchants, entrepreneurs, dirt farmers, slaves and white trash – in that order. Of course, they saw the Confederate officers as noble and proud knights defending their kingdom from barbarian Northerners. The enlisted men were seen as respectable and obedient pawns, at best paladins. The Sothrons might have fared better if they’d first read Napoleon’s memoirs, which dryly note, “The barbarians always win.”

Johnny considered himself a Sothern but in fact he was just a dirt farmer in the eyes of the real Sothrons, who classed him slightly above the slaves in their estimation of his social rank. This knowledge alone may have given Johnny pause. And he might have reconsidered his decision to enlist all together if he’d been able to read Jim Barrett’s letter to his mother written on July 10, 1862, right after the first battle of Malvern Hill near Richmond, two months before Jim’s death and four months after John Henry’s enlistment: “We have gained a great victory over the Federal Army . . . we whipped them and captured many prisoners . . . we slew thousands on the field. But, Mother, I’m sorry to relate that in that awful strike of bloodshed and slaughter, many heroic sons of the South fell, mangled and slaughtered. The fight commenced on June 26 and ended July 4 . . . I shall never forget that day, should I live to be one hundred years old.

“That day was my birthday and I pray God I never experience another such birthday.

It seemed the very earth quaked under the thundering artillery. I believe there were 200 cannon firing at the same time. Rifles and muskets seem to make a noise like popguns when compared to that artillery.

“We lay on the battlefield that night. Oh! What scenes of horror, hundreds lying cold in death. Many so badly wounded that they were perfectly insensible, while other hundreds

lay wounded in other ways. Some a half dozen balls had pierced. They were still alive and sensible of their miseries. Oh, what groans and screams, and begging for water. I waited on all, as much as was in my power. At length I became so tired and exhausted that I went to my company, where I found Bob lying down fast asleep. He was lying by a dead Yankee. There was just enough room for me to lie between him and the dead body, so I lay down and slept . . . .

“Mother, I am trying to discharge my duties as a faithful soldier in my country’s service. I am also trying to discharge my duties in my weak manner as a faithful soldier of the cross. I want to live right, that I may die right. I beg an interest in your prayers, that I may hold faithful to the end; so that, if I am not permitted to return to you on this earth we may meet in heaven, where the war whoop is never heard, where the cannon and muskets are not known. “ . . . the clouds of destruction gathered thick and broke forth with fiery missiles of death among us, which seemed to threaten to sweep us from the face of creation. It seemed as if I could hear those soft words from an affectionate Mother; my son put your trust in god.

I thank God I was blessed with Christian parents. Give my respects to Pud, Cat and Ned. Tell them to be good children and write to me and Bob often and raise plenty of Potatoes and Beans against me and Bob comes home.”

Truth be known, Johnny likely wouldn’t have changed his mind even if he’d read that letter and the many others like it being read in the candle-lit secrecy of tiny houses on poor little farms in Russell County. Nor would it have made much difference if he’d realized he didn’t count for much in the class system of the Deep South’s selfimage. Hess was sincerely determined to fight for and save his brave new country. He wasn’t afraid of adversity because he frankly didn’t know what the word meant. He knew what the word “death” meant, however, but he wasn’t afraid of that either.

So, in truth, his mind was already made up when he “made up his mind” to enlist in the 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment of the Confederate States of America. He knew it’d be coming to Russell County at the end of March, looking for new recruits. He would marry Anna Catharine, then sign up.

True to his word, he married Anna Catharine Miller on 19 March, 1862, only 18 days before he enlisted. He’d asked for her hand five months before, back in early November of 1861 during the annual social held the night of Russell County’s annual Hog Killing Day Festival. Johnny popped the question because after the slaughter came the most romantic night of the year – Russell County’s Hog Killing Square Dance. It was an affair to remember!

Every fall a huge get-together was held in an empty Lebanon barn to celebrate the holocaust of the hogs in Russell County. Before the dance, however, came a day laden with hard labor, lots of killing, lots of cooking and a great feast in the park. The day began before daylight, with each farmer within twenty miles of Lebanon carting his drove of pigs to town and then parading them afoot down Main Street – right to a big empty field near Ben Johnson’s place which was surrounded by two miles of half-rotted split-rail fence.

There each drove was kept apart from the others with whips and sticks wielded by the humans about to slay them. Hollers, howls, shrieks, whistles, whoops and squeals filled the air with the music of hell as drove after drove was driven into the corral. Eventually an immense herd of two to three hundred pigs and hogs milled around in their respective droves, each one bearing a thick metal ring through its nose with its owner’s initials scratched inside.

The victims could easily have made a mass escape but not one attempted to breach the old fence. It’d been

ingrained into them from birth that fences were insurmountable, so accepted without challenge the strength of this one – though a hard breeze would have blown it down. They accepted their new enclosure and by doing so accepted their fate. There was no panic because it’d also been ingrained into them that the humans were their friends and benefactors. Still, they were curious about the screaming and whipping – it didn’t hurt, but it seemed uncharacteristic of the good folks who’d given them a mud hole to live in and slopped them everyday with delicious blends of dishwater, green meats, turnip peels, spoiled scraps, burnt lard, molded bread and even better stuff than that!

It wasn’t meant to be cruel but we modern folks might think it was. Musket ammunition was expensive, so the hogs were driven one by one through a wooden chute, at the end of which it was whacked on the head with a sledgehammer. If done correctly the hog, no matter how big, would slump down dead in its tracks without a sound.

Unfortunately, the hog killers sometimes didn’t hit hard enough and the poor creature would squeal like a banshee and try to escape, sometimes jumping over the boards and running back to the herd, warning the other pigs -- all of whom would panic and begin howling for their lives as they caught on to what was happening to them. Betrayal!

Fortunately, the panic would end when bushels of dried corn on the cob were thrown amongst the damned and doomed hogs. The escape was shot dead with a musket blast to the head, forever ending its call to arms and convincing the others to calm down, or at least pretend to calm down. Their panic returned only when they were pushed into the chute, but no amount of wailing could extend that panic into the masses. They merely watched as if not believing it could happen to them. No, not to them . . . . but it did. It happened to each and every one of them, one by one, crack! Next please. Crack! Next please. The bodies were brusquely dragged away with chains pulled by two huge slaves loaned to the Town of Lebanon for the day. Johnny sometimes wondered if the hogs would ever want their revenge.

In the end, a half dozen or so hammer-men covered with blood would be left standing over the corpses of several hundred very dead hogs. But the work had just begun, for then every hog’s body had to be hung on racks of peeled logs, stacked like fences so a row of logs stretched about forty feet in each structure. Ropes were strung through the heels of the bodies, enabling the men to hoist each one up to a log. Each body hung straight down.

Then the farmers’ youngest sons got into the act. They had the enjoyable job of slicing each hog’s neck so the blood would flow onto the ground. The kids loved it! They looked forward to it all year. Each of them had their own huge hunting knife with bone handles displaying their initials or drawings of deer or bobcat or ‘coons. It took a big knife and big muscles to do the job right. You had to slice through a lot of blubber, so thick in fact that some of the smaller kids had to use saws. Nevertheless, they cheered and laughed as they did their grisly duty. They wanted to be just like their fathers. Next the wives jumped in with the husbands and sons to slice each hog’s belly open and tear out its organs, which were carefully separated and placed into respective washtubs.

All the tender inner organs had to be cooked and eaten as quickly as possible because canning had not yet come to the Deep South. Hog organs only kept a week or so, even when cooked and covered with pepper and spices.

So on Hog Killing Day, a big feast was prepared by the wives, who by one o’clock were serving up all the goodies on picnic tables set up at Russell County’s shivaree grounds. And after the hog innards shiveree would come the annual Russell County Hog Killing Day Square Dance! What a way to end a wonderful day! Hell, man, it was better’n Christmas!

Hundreds of folks came to the feast as soon as the hogs were hung up, bled and gutted. (They’d be scalded and skinned the next day.) Platters and plates and baskets covered the tables, all filled with just-cooked, steaming hog hearts sliced into steaks, roasted pork lips, boiled tripe, lots of liver & onions, brains mixed with scrambled eggs, headcheese, jowls, strips of half-raw fatback, tenderloins, boiled pig’s feet, boiled ears, pork steaks, backbones, pig tail soups and tongues. The tongues of course were delicacies that could be salted but were best when fresh and eaten

right away, raw or boiled and sliced for sandwiches. The brains were especially excellent eating, too. Most folks ‘round there loved brains with their scrambled eggs.

Some liked the testicles, too, but most of the balls were given to slaves on the tobacco farms because the white folks believed the Africans especially liked them fried up or boiled with collards. Everybody called the Mountain Oysters. About the size of a fist, each hog’s ball first had to be split open with a straight razor to drain the semen out . . . cause it just weren’t right to eat boiled hog’s cum. That stuff was better when mixed with raw cream and poured over blackberries.

Slicing them balls weren’t no worse than lancing a boil. White people claimed the smell of it nauseated them but it just reminded the slave ladies of mimosa trees in bloom. They figured that’s why so many people in that part of Virginia called mimosa flowers “love blossoms”. Johnny and his friends knew it was a bald-faced lie that the hogs’ testicles were only eaten by Africans. They had seen their friends’ parents and grandparents wolfing down their Mountain Oysters with great gusto and relish, as if they were eating the finest steak. Johnny also knew for a fact that the old white men who couldn’t get it up anymore ate their Mountain Oysters raw, semen and all. More than a few of the white studs also ate them raw.

Plenty of the women had their own reasons for wanting a share of the testicles. They made the ladies creamy between their legs – just the smell and size of them. Imagine being humped by a hog! The thought made them shiver with delight. They’d never admit it, but they liked the odor of hog’s semen because it reminded them of their dear husbands when they came, spurting that same kind of juice inside their thirsty wombs.

Back to the feast . . . . What couldn’t be salted, smoked, dried or immediately eaten had to be fixed other ways.

Everything left that was edible was ground up into a meat mush. Then the small intestines were cleaned out, turned inside out and stuffed with the mush, bits and pieces of ham, armpits and rectums, butcher floor sweepings and extremely powerful peppers, salt and spices. They called it sausage. It’d keep a while! Who could tell when it was rotten?

Next, the penises had to be milked, boiled, sliced into strips, stretched and dried – then soaked in salt water, stretched again and dried again before being braided into indestructible but flexible horsewhips. (The twisted pigdicks were called horsewhips but were mostly used on hogs – a cruel irony indeed.) The bladders when dried made fine flagons for storing water. The hides of course had to be soaked for weeks in human urine, slowly dried in the shade, then soaked for another week or so, then dried in the shade again . . . and last pounded with wooden clubs into soft pliable leather for shoes, hats, belts, pants or suspenders. Of course, all these doings were done days after the feast.

The throat cutting had to be performed before the feast because the hams would go bad if not bled. The blood otherwise clotted and rotted in the tissues. Killing hogs in the old South wasn’t like killing chickens in the old South because the birds were fried up or boiled right after they died. You killed a chicken by sticking a sliver of wood in his head and letting it die slowly. Sometimes it took hours to die, meanwhile staggering around, trying to explain to the other chickens, wondering why it had such a horrible headache, eventually giving the sun a final cross-eyed puzzled glance and collapsing in a heap of fluffed-up feathers as it let out one last squawk and one last squirt. The slow death kept the blood in its meat, making for mighty fine eating. Talk about tender drumsticks! And the breast . . . ummmmmmm boy!

The hogs were different, though. Sometimes they didn’t get eaten for years after they’d been killed. You didn’t want blood in your hams, so you spilled it on the ground for the worms. The farmers often found themselves working in enormous ankle-deep lakes of blood after a few hours of killing hogs. They were useful lakes, too, because the worms which drank the blood grew to tremendous size, all fat and red and wriggly, seducing the shyest and biggest

catfish to bite them as they drowned on hooks thrown into the rivers by those who had killed the hogs in the first place. Catfish in the Clinch River, incidentally, often grow over four feet long and weigh in at over thirty pounds.

That’s a heap ‘a catfish. And that was just one more reason – and a darn good one – to celebrate hog killing day in Russell County.

The ritual never bothered Johnny – it was just a part of the farmer’s life. God put animals on earth for folks to eat, didn’t He? Killing hogs is what farmers did if they wanted meat to eat, bacon with their eggs and lard to cook them in. Actually, they couldn’t live without lard. It went in or on everything they cooked – whether it was boiled, blanched, stewed, fried, roasted, broasted, baked or barbecued. Thanksgiving turkeys were well oiled in lard before sticking them in the oven. A half-cup of lard went into every pot of vegetables. Piecrust, breads, spoon breads, batters, cornpone, cookies, flapjacks, cakes, muffins, hushpuppies, fritters and biscuits were thoroughly mixed with lard before baking.

Men and women put lard in their hair and used it to grease their skin when cooked too painfully by the sun.

Men used it as a salve to mix with mint and mustard for aching muscles. Women used it as a base for makeup powders and rouge. They used lard to make soap, candles, paints, shellacs, waxes, axle grease, wood polishes and even candies.

They used it on their hemorrhoids and massaged it into arthritic joints. They poured it on firewood to make it burn easier when dampened by snow in the winter. Some historians insist that cotton best symbolizes antebellum South . . . but I would vote for lard. Lard lubricated their world. Where would they have been without lard? And where would they have been without the hogs who produced the lard?

They were just soulless animals to be slaughtered and butchered to most folks. A hog was a hog was a hog. But to a few folks, a hog wasn’t just a hog. To them, the animals were human, all too human. They had minds just like people and knew what was happening around them and to them.

The hogs certainly knew when they’d been betrayed. You could see betrayal in their eyes when the farmers who had fed and protected them suddenly began forcing them into chutes and beating them to death. You could see betrayal in their eyes as the last to die watched the first to die having their bodies crucified upside down and their throats sliced open to bleed on the ground. They looked at their betrayers with hate and revulsion so intense that it could only boil up from human – or at least human-like -- brains.

Johnny would wonder more about this after the battle of Drewry’s Bluff, when he’d see the eyes of a buddy glitter with that same hate and revulsion after he’d been betrayed by those he’d trusted. And after his betrayed buddy was dead, he’d notice how much his brain -- when seen through a bullet hole -- looked exactly like a hog’s brain. Both were pink, slimy, convoluted, laced with bluish blood vessels and about the same size. Both melted in your hand like marmalade, spilling over in a hideous fluid as millions of thoughts and emotions literally poured through your fingers.

At the Russell County Hog Killing Day in 1861, however, he noticed only that the hundreds of bodies looked like human bodies as they hung so obviously dead from the poles erected to hold them feet up. The flesh was pink and the muscles were red and the fat was white and the guts – those horrid lungs and glands and large intestines heaped up in piles next to the poles – looked just like his buddies’ guts would look after shrapnel had ripped their bellies open.

The hearts looked just like the human hearts he would soon see through human rib cages burst open by tumbling Minie balls.

He held many a hog’s heart in his hands that hog killing day in 1861, wondering how good they would taste when sliced, greased in lard, dipped in corn meal and fried like bacon. Three years later he would hold a human heart in his hand, wondering not how it would taste, but why it looked exactly like the heart of a hog. Could a hog’s heart be broken? Could a hog be heartsick? Could a hog be heartless, like so many soldiers he had met? The connection between hog and human hearts would become more and more apparent to Henry Hess as the years of war dragged

themselves through his own heart.

The Russell County Hog Killing Day Square Dance of 1861 was a great time for Johnny Hess. What a way to end the evening – him being in love and all. At the dance that night, he asked Anna to go outside with him. They held each other and whispered in each other’s ears while all the others were inside – whirling and swinging each other around by the arms, doesy-doe’ing, skipping to the loo my darling. Red-faced and stuttering he asked her to be his wife and she shyly said yes . . . and of course she cried when he laid out his plans to join the Confederacy and kill the Yankees just like he’d killed the pigs that morning. She blushed when he got carried away and boasted, “We’ll hang their bodies from poles and slit their throats! We’ll eat their hearts and boil their tongues! We’ll feed their blood to the worms!”

He felt a bit bad about those remarks but she pretended she was just as Southern and just as hard, saying “Them Yankees got it coming!” Despite her harsh words, however, there was something soft and sad in her eyes as they stared into his. She loved him but didn’t really like this notion of killing people like they were pigs. He picked up on her hidden feelings then and stroked her neck with his bloodstained hands. The scent at first alarmed her because she feared for an instant that her Johnny was a born killer. But the lard-softened skin reassured her and eventually the stroke of his hand against her progressed into an embrace. The embrace progressed even further and the two of them graced the night with their love. She was freshened in the night as their moans split the blood-soaked misty air, momentarily interrupting the cricket and treefrog symphony. Afterward they stared at the big yellow moon together and noticed how much it looked like the face of a pig. It winked at them.

They were deliriously happy for an instant in time. It was one amber moment they were never to forget. They were no doubt in love during hog killing time and somehow it all made wonderful sense. Blood has always been inextricably mixed with love. In their Rebel minds it all came together into a fine blood pudding, sweet and nutritious and good for body & soul. They strolled together between the rows and rows of slaughtered hog cadavers. He never suspected he’d be soon walking between rows of human cadavers. These were just hogs! They’d both known one of the swine victims – a particular big specimen with a big black blotch on its face -- and sat under its corpse together after making love in its shadow. They felt blessed. The hog had died for mankind, as had Jesus Christ. Their souls were baptized in its blood.

Hand in hand they walked along a row of a hundred naked hog cadavers gleaming in the moonlight. Ah, young love . . . . The victims hung in long rows, corpse after corpse, drops of blood still dripping from their snouts. Their last expressions of surprise and betrayal were frozen on their faces. Johnny couldn’t have known it, but he was getting another foretaste of the future through his nose. He was inhaling the same sweet scent of death he’d soon be inhaling at Cold Harbor.

There were three reasons for wanting to marry Anna before joining the Confederate army. They were almost but not exactly the same reasons all other soldiers have. First of all, Johnny loved Anna and wanted to leave children behind to carry on . . . just in case. Even more so, he wanted to feel Anna’s body close to his, skin to skin, breasts to chest, thighs to thighs -- to experience the passion of entering a woman’s womb. He wanted to know intimately the Godly connection between soul and flesh.

He needed this taste of breathless, sensual love to help him resist the temptation of the camp whores he knew would be trying to corrupt his soul and damn him to eternal fire during his stint in the army. He’d heard the stories about the painted Jezebels! He had to resist their lure. He knew his righteousness would soon be tested.

Times were different back then. He really believed in God, Christ, Angels, Devils, the Holy Scripture, Judgment, Hell and Damnation -- all those things we in our sad sophistication have abandoned and thus committed moral suicide. Johnny’s sense of morality hadn’t been ridiculed and made absurd by the logic of Darwin yet. No

Einstein had diffused Heaven for him. Mankind was still divine, made in god’s image. A man’s heart could remain pure. He was cell in the body of God. He had no suspicions that mankind was just a species of fantastic monkey . . . as do we less fortunate modern souls. He was a good man and he intended to remain one throughout the war – oh how differently from our modern times.

The second reason was because he’d heard that Brigadier General Humphrey Marshall – who was then famous for repelling a Yankee army at the Battle of Middle Creek in Kentucky -- was coming to Lebanon to recruit more Russell Countians for the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment. Johnny didn’t know exactly when but sometime before the draft would get him in April. He had to be married before Marshall arrived or he may never get married at all. Her family had made it clear that they believed conscripts were cowards, scraped from the bottom of the barrel.

The brave and strong men enlisted. They’d accept Johnny Hess into their family only if he voluntarily signed up to defend his country and protect Anna’s honor.

Marshall’s visit would also be his opportunity to join up with his Russell County friends who had earlier enlisted in the 29th. They’d all be together again. He could join the ranks of the Gray Rebels right in his home town, surrounded by admiring younger men, his less bold peers, friends and most important of all his wife, father, sister and kin. How proud they’d be of him. How proud he would feel, marching off to war – off to cold-cock the invaders before they could cross the mountains and slay his folks in their beds.

The third and more practical reason to marry her before leaving was that he needed her to cook for his Dad and friends who’d be taking care of his farm. She’d not only have to cook for them, but also help milk the cow, tend the mules, slop the hogs and throw hay to the cattle. She’d have to help till the soil, plow it and plant it. Then when the crops came up she’d have to hoe them, pick off as many bugs as possible and help harvest them. Eventually she’d have to pit, peel and pickle the fruits and vegetables in vinegar. She’d have to dig up the potatoes and store them in the potato cellar, where most of them would keep all winter. She’d have to dry apples, pears and peaches in the sun.

Slices of beef and venison had to be smoked until they dried and turned into jerky. Everything she couldn’t eat or store somehow had to be hauled downtown -- there to be sold or donated to the war effort.

It wasn’t very romantic but she was a Southern woman and would have to learn, have to do it all, while her man was at war. The cattle would be less trouble because she could keep them in pasture during the warm months, pitch them some hay in the icy months, then simply sell them to the butcher man when she needed some money. But she’d absolutely hate them there hogs and would enjoy seeing them hammered between the eyes, be glad to hear them squeal for their lives. And she’d just love the dancing afterward, even when Johnny was gone, because she’d be able to dress up and get out of the house to catch up on the news.

It was sad, yes – sad that such a delicate young woman had to labor while her man was gone, transforming her angelic body into the swinish hulk which was the destiny of all the dirt farmers’ wives left behind by heroic young soldiers. Anna’s mind was made of divine spirit but her flesh – like the rest of us – was made of clay to be shaped and abused by the elements so cruel and uncaring as she kept the farm going throughout the long night of the Southern cross – that crucifixion of the Southern soul. By the end of the war, both she and he would look much like the hogs they’d so thoughtlessly dismissed as brutish leviathans, created by God to feed His favored creatures, this Anna and this John.

Part Two: 1862

By March of 1862, General Humphrey Marshall and his aide had arrived in Lebanon and already delivered a number of emotion-charged speeches which affected Johnny and his friends very deeply. They’d wept at his eloquent eulogies of the South and call to arms. About the same time a recruitment poster had a been nailed to all the buildings in town, demanding in huge letters, “Men of Virginia, to the Rescue!” The poster read in full: “Your soil has been invaded by your abolition foes, and we call upon you to rally at once and drive them back.

. . . Come one! Come All! And render the service due to your

state and country. Fly to arms and succor your brave brothers who are now in the field. . . .

Volunteers, as soon as they report (to their training camps), will be furnished with arms, rations & etc., & etc. Action! Action! Should be our rallying motto, and the sentiment of Virginia’s inspired orator, “give me liberty or give me death,” animate every loyal son of the Old Dominion! Let us drive back the invading foot of a brutal and desperate foe, or leave a record to posterity that we died bravely defending our homes and firesides, -- the honor of our wives and daughters, -- and the sacred graves of our ancestors! Done by Authority M. G. HARMAN, Maj. Commanding at Staunton; J. M. HECK, Lt. Col. Va. Vol.; and R. E. Cowan, Maj. Va. Vol.” Johnny, Napoleon Bonaparte and Isaac read the announcement together and made their oaths together. Yes, they would meet the challenge. They would take the fight to the enemy. They would be men, real men, taking up the sword against the mighty, unholy foe – the stinking lying greedy stinking Yankees coming to destroy their lands and lives and loves and futures. Yes, they would join Marshall’s men – they looked forward to donning the jaunty gray shell jackets and tilting gray caps. They looked forward to killing Yankees and they had not one drop of fear . . . yet.

That drop would form and suddenly swell into a torrent of panic at the siege of Suffolk just over a year later in eastern Virginia. Until then they’d see very little action. After that, they’d be seeing plenty – all too much.

The three friends intertwined their fates by signing their lives over to the Confederacy just after daybreak on that crisp March day in Russell County. All three of them had been born and raised there. Ironically, all three of them had heard and believed Marshall’s brigade would never leave Southwest Virginia during the war. The only place out of state the 29th had been so far was Kentucky, and they’d come back quick with Yankees on their tails. So Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac joined with the thought they’d be within riding distance of home during the whole war. They were wrong. Very very wrong. Almost dead wrong.

They weren’t alone the morning they signed up – almost all of the young men left in Russell County were there because the Confederate recruiters had been reminding them of the “signing-in” day and place for weeks. The General and his aide had been giving impassioned speeches all over town, on street corners, at town meetings, at the general store, at the feed store, at the tavern and even on Sundays in the churches. They’d made it clear that everyone who had the courage to fight for the honor of the South should meet before sunrise at Carbo in Russell County on the 27 th day of March, 1862.

Every volunteer who showed up that morning was mustered into the 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment – then under the command of Colonel Alfred Cleon Moore. Lieutenant Colonel William Leigh was second in command. The young men raised their hands, swore to God and pledged their lives to defend the new Confederacy. Private John Henry Hess, CSA -- the tan-faced, naïve, earnest, sharpshooting Appalachian farm boy – was subsequently assigned to

Company G under Captain Edwin R. Smith. Napoleon Bonaparte and Isaac Garrett were also assigned to Company G. The three Rebels swore allegiance not only to their new country but each other, three Rebels who would die for each other.

On that day they officially became the seventh company in Colonel Moore’s 29 th Virginia. Two more companies recruited from other counties would bring the regiment’s strength up to approximately 700 men in nine companies by the middle of April. The recruits were proud to part of the 29 th because it’d already participated in a bloody battle against the blue-bellies, in a way of speaking. Actually, the truth was a bit less glorious.

Brigadier General Humphrey Marshall had been commissioned by President Jefferson Davis himself and his men were proud of him for giving the Yanks a bloody nose at Middle Creek. But he was really a politician – previously serving eight years as a congressman and one year as minister to China. It’d been an opulent life and he’d been unable to resist the rich foods so abundantly piled on his plate at so many banquets.

Though six feet tall, Marshall in 1862 weighed over 300 pounds, literally bursting out of his uniform. In every sense, he was a jolly good fellow who laughed and drank with hearty abandon and good cheer. He genuinely liked people and was easy on his men even when they broke the rules. The free-spirited mountain soldiers got away with everything from impertinence to stealing pigs to going AWOL to desertion in the face of the enemy. Though their regimental commanders always threatened them with firing squads, the good General always let them off. None of them suffered worse punishment than a few days extra duty, no matter what they did. In the eyes of history, General Marshall was a loyal and sincere officer, but not a particularly effective one.

Not surprisingly, he was liked and even respected by most of the enlisted men because he was – after all – a reasonable man. That was damn rare in an officer. He was also an 1832 graduate of West Point, a commissioned General officer in the CSA and had actually lead troops during battle, inflicting as many casualties as he took.

But he was most admired for his amazingly animated and awe-inspiring gift of oratory, which he used like a drug to seduce recruits into signing up with his brigade and convince bartenders into fronting him a brandy. In fact, it was said his oratory could convince a mule . . . and maybe it could, for it certainly convinced Johnny Hess and Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett to go in harm’s way.

Behind his back, somewhat unfortunately for him, Marshall was also known for his soft heart and willingness to overlook his men’s shortcomings – a flaw which both hindered his command and cost him the respect of a junior officer who would ultimately force him to give up his command.

A young major in the 29th Virginia with the remarkable name of Squealing Porcino believed enlisted men had to fear their officers. If not, Porcino thought, the men would refuse to fight when shoving came to shooting. Perhaps that was true. But Porcino lacked the physical build to command respect without relying on rules, regulations and promises of horrible punishments. Squealing was five foot tall, 180 pounds, a little on the chubby side, had fat cheeks, a pug nose and a baby face with blubbery drooling lips, the lower one which drooped and the upper which peaked like a bird’s beak. His voice was too high and men giggled behind his back.

Like most people, Porcino hated Marshall for having some his own flaws – namely a round shape, jowls and a soft voice. He didn’t realize it was Marshall’s good nature as well as his imposing size which made him so popular with his men. He considered Marshall a soft-touch and a fat coward. Porcino is a name we should remember because we will be hearing it over and over during the events that followed.

Fortunately, Porcino’s opinions were confined to himself at the time. When Johnny signed up, the 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment was part of the little outfit grandly calling itself the Army of Eastern Kentucky, which had been initiated, organized and commanded by General Marshall. Its reputation far exceeded its actual strength. The proud but tiny “army” included the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment, the 5th Kentucky Infantry Regiment, the 54th

Virginia Infantry Regiment, Dunn’s Infantry Battalion, Jeffress Artillery battery with two guns, Simmonds Artillery Battery and a cavalry regiment known as Bradley’s Mounted Rifles. All together they numbered between 2500 and 3000 men. Calling it an army was equivalent to calling a pocketknife a saber. To say they had a high opinion of themselves is putting it lightly.

Like the Army of Eastern Kentucky, the Battle of Middle Creek was a bit overrated. Marshall’s army had just returned from a foray into Kentucky’s Cumberland along the Sandy River when it stopped to recruit in Russell County.

The General’s Northern opponent had been a Colonel from Ohio named James. A. Garfield, whose task it was to drive Marshall’s little army out of Kentucky with his own little army of 3000.

The two miniature armies had clashed when Marshall decided to make a stand at a tributary of the Sandy River called Middle Creek. Skirmishing broke out and shells were fired from cannon, but it really wasn’t much of a fight. Garfield called it quits after three hours, withdrawing from the field. (Garfield claimed that only one out of every thirty artillery shells fired by the Rebels actually exploded.)

According to regimental historian John Perry Alderman, casualties were light but both commanders claimed almost “delusional” kills. Marshall admitted that he’d had ten men killed, but claimed to have killed at least 250 Yankees. By the same token, Garfield admitted that three of his soldiers were killed, but claimed to have removed 85 dead Rebel bodies off the field after the so-called “Battle of Middle Creek”.

Delusional or not, both commanders could honestly claim they’d lead their men into battle, faced the enemy eyeball to eyeball, fought with all weaponry at their disposal, suffered real casualties and lived up to their respective country’s expectations. They were Generals to be respected and admired. In retrospective, who among us can say it wasn’t true? Historians have been harsh but the facts remain the facts.

In the end, however, it didn’t matter how much Johnny and Napoleon admired their first commander.

Corpulent, jovial, forgiving, understanding, home-loving General Marshall would resign in less than a year to take a seat in the Confederate Congress -- where he’d belonged all along, in one historian’s opinion. By then, the 29 th would be fighting for its life in east Virginia under the command of dedicated and determined generals who didn’t mind – even enjoyed -- spilling their men’s blood for their country. Marshall would be remembered as a saint then, missed especially by Johnny Hess as he marched toward thundering cannons or crawled through blood-drenched battlefields.

Everyone but Porcino liked Marshall because he promised to keep his men close to their homes in Southwest Virginia. Porcino, however, disagreed with his brigade commander! Coincidentally but tragically right after Johnny enlisted, he would begin hounding the Confederate War Department into transferring the 29 th to a real combat zone, a place where men actually got shot with guns and shredded by bayonets.

Word of his deeds would get out, as they always do. Almost everyone in the 29 th would wind up hating him, especially Johnny Hess, who would have to stop visiting his new wife and daughter as well as risk never coming back .

But the desk-bound soldiers at the War Department would agree with Porcino and override Marshall and his men’s wish to defend their own homes. Their logic was drowned out by the drums of war – drums beat by men who didn’t have to fight. The prevalence of pigs and power for the first time would make itself prominent in Johnny’s mind. He would begin to put things together.

Squealing Porcino would manage to get the 29th transferred to east Virginia by early 1863, where it would quickly become fair game for officers looking for men to absorb bullets being sprayed their way by Lincoln’s overwhelming hordes. The 29th was to be gobbled up by Brigadier General Montgomery D. Corse’s Brigade. This would weld fear to horror in Johnny’s heart because Corse’s Brigade was part of Major General George E. Pickett’s Division of General James Longstreet’s Corps.

Pickett and Longstreet are well known to Civil War buffs as two of the Confederacy’s boldest and bloodiest

Generals. Hess was to become an intimate part of their defenses against Grant’s 112,000 man Army of the Potomac as it savagely clawed its way toward Richmond. He was to wind up in a dangerous position for which he never bargained. Pickett and Longstreet would be putting the 29th into the very jaws of howling death. The earth would tremble wherever Generals Pickett and Longstreet tread. Johnny would tremble too. But who could have foreseen the future back in 1862?

The 29th Virginia had begun as a single company on July 10th of 1861 when a Captain William Jessee had recruited eight hot-blooded Russell County greenhorns and mustered them into the Confederate army on August 23.

It’d been formally organized into a regiment the following November. “Everyone knew” the boys would spend the war right there in Southwest Virginia, defending the women to whom they were sneaking home every night as their officers’ winked. The war was going to be fun for the 29th, everybody knew it! It’d even be fun when the Yankees came – they’d be cut down like weeds from hidden positions in the mountains and hollers. The men of the 29 th knew the mountains around Russell County like the back of their hands.

Ah, the fates of people, pigs and powers that be . . . . As so often happens, what “everyone knew” wasn’t true at all.

As Hess’ diary attests, the 29th was in some ways the luckiest and in others the unluckiest regiment to serve in the Confederate army. They were certainly lucky in missing Pickett’s ill-fated charge at Gettysburg because Jefferson Davis held their brigade held in reserve to protect Richmond. They were also lucky in miraculously missing that slaughter of innocents called the Wilderness.

The men of 29th, however, were also among the unluckiest -- because they were fated to face Yankee fire at the battles of Princeton, Suffolk, Chester Gap, Zollicoffer, Bachelor’s Creek, New Bern, Bermuda 100, Drewry’s Bluff, Cold Harbor, Gaines House, Malvern Hill, Telegraph Road, Fort Clifton, Howlett’s House, the Howlett Line, Dinwiddie and Five Forks. Johnny would make it to Cold Harbor before being put of commission. Two hundred and twenty-four of the 1438 who served would be killed, wounded, taken prisoner or die of disease before the war was over.

All but a dozen or so of these deaths would be the direct result of Colonel Squealing Porcino’s single-handed feat of getting the 29th transferred from its would-be permanent billet in Southwest Virginia to the lethal environs of east Virginia – under the command of Generals Pickett and Longstreet.

Hess could never have imagined when he’d joined that he’d wind up fighting battle after battle, skirmish after skirmish, in Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, northern Virginia, west Virginia and – worst of all – east Virginia during Grant’s final onslaught. He’d be in the thick of things. He'd be there in his shell jacket and gray cap from the siege of Suffolk all the way to the fall of Richmond. Zollicoffer to Appomattox. This was what he thought he wanted before he joined. This was the last thing he wanted after he joined. And the worst thing was, in Johnny’s mind, he could have spent the war safely at home if a certain little piggy named Porcino hadn’t squealed his displeasure with everyone else’s contentment.

As it happened, he’d fight till the end. He’d live to see the noble General Robert E. Lee weep as he watched Richmond burn from his white steed. He’d live to see General Ulysses S. Grant take a swig of raw whiskey and light a cigar as he gazed over five acres of dead Union soldiers at Cold Harbor. He’d gasp as hallucinated angels came to earth and kissed dying souls as they left bodies mangled beyond repair. He’d watch in horror as the Devil’s own pigs danced under moonlit skies after deafening cannonades had stunned him senseless. Only the fact that Hess somehow survived suggests we call him fortunate to have been a part of so much savage, mad and merciless history.

But it all began so nobly and innocently when Johnny signed up that sunny March morning in 1862. After saying his goodbyes and giving Anna a big squeeze, Private John Henry Hess assumed his place in formation and marched out of Carbo with his new unit, the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment. It took them the rest of the day to march

the twenty miles to Camp Fulkerson in Abingdon, where the new men were to be trained, outfitted and armed. The rest of the regiment would drill, drill, drill, drill and then they’d drill some more.

The men cut it close, arriving about five in the after noon. But after a few hours work, a neat double row of tiny white-canvas tents were set up and the men allowed to crawl inside for the night. The next morning a huge tent was erected in the center of camp to serve as officers’ headquarters and four house-shaped tents erected around it for officers beneath the rank of lieutenant colonel.

Major Squealing Porcino had to quarter in one these tents and he made it clear he didn’t like it one bit. He was an officer, wasn’t he? Majors were not “junior” officers, as he saw it. He should be separated from the enlisted men, he believed. After all, he was a bonafied graduate of Virginia Military Institute and a veteran of the battle at Middle Creek. He was bucking for lieutenant colonel and he’d soon get it, followed quickly by full bird colonel.

Colonel Squealing Porcino – he liked the sound of that.

He wasn’t to become too big of a pain in the ass until he got those spread eagles on his shoulders. He’d become dangerous only when he got to be a bird colonel. Then he was to take command and show everybody in the regiment how much power he could yield and what a brave soldier he could be – with plenty of courage to sacrifice his men for the Confederacy.

As he sat down on his cot that afternoon, Major Porcino crunched his little brain so hard that pus oozed out which quickly congealed into a plot to force Marshall’s resignation and get the 29 th transferred to a hot zone.

Goddamn it, he’d write a letter to the Secretary of War! That’d get their ear. That’d take care of Marshall! That’d get them all into the shooting war! And never again would they put him in a smaller tent than the other officers. He had as much brass as they did.

It’s unfair to say he thought he deserved to be with the bigger hogs because the other officers weren’t hogs.

They were just men, like Johnny and Napoleon, like Generals Pickett and Longstreet, like Robert E. Lee himself.

Porcino alone was the pig trying to get everyone sent into battle just so he could win medals, gain rank, find glory and ultimately waddle with pride into that sty where fattened politicians live.

While Porcino was hatching his plot alone in his tent, General Marshall and his senior officers were being billeted in a luxurious two-story brownstone house a hundred or so yards away from the men’s encampment. There the officers were detached from the common soldiers. Most agreed with this separation because the enlisted men’s army reeked of that peculiar odor common to all encamped armies – the smell of food, shit and gunpowder.

It was a blend of aromas wafting up from the latrine, tents, kitchen, firing ranges and men themselves – an unmistakable blend of sweat, soap, smoke, sulphur, flatulence, vomit, soured urine and feces intermingled with the equally powerful scents of collards, turnips, cabbage, okra, hoecakes, hash, fritters, pork, bacon, fatback, mutton and potatoes. It was a sickening smell to all the officers but Marshall, who inhaled the bouquet with pleasure, knowing it meant his men were safe, properly fed and adequately drained of their body toxins.

The senior officers were served the finest cuisine – inch-thick T-bone beefsteaks, rich gumbos, pork tenderloins, roast beef, sliced ham, fresh trout, candied yams, stuffed cabbage rolls, stuffed tomatoes, steamed cauliflower heads, artichoke hearts, raw oysters on ice all the way from Florida, crab cakes from the Chesapeake Bay, baked apple pies, iced-muffins, angel’s food cake, even iced-cream ala mode and much more. And after suppers came alcohol in the form of bracing Kentucky bourbons, full-bodied Tennessee whiskeys and mighty-fine mint juleps. Huge black juicy cigars, hand rolled in Richmond, were puffed on wisteria covered verandas as the gentlemen officers ended their days relaxing in rocking chairs and thoughtfully watching the sun set in pools of blood. They lived for a week or so in the trough of Cornucopia.

It didn’t seem to bother any of them that their chefs were plantation house slaves who had proven themselves

exceptionally proficient in preparing meals for officers fighting to keep them in chains. Maybe the black chefs understood this and maybe they didn’t. At any rate, there are no reports of attempted poisoning at Fulkerson and the Confederate brass was fed only most opulent and richest foods. All the higher officers of Marshall’s Brigade – especially Marshall himself -- gobbled the goodies up.

Meanwhile back at the men’s camp, an open latrine was dug at one end of the tents and a mess wagon parked at the other. Lime was poured into the latrine over a foot deep but was quickly saturated and overwhelmed by the copious stinking colloids of so many soldiers’ lost suppers, alcoholic spew-ups, morning sicknesses and diarrheic muck. Simultaneously, the mess wagon at the other end of camp was stoked up to issue delicious odors of kitchen smoke and cooking foods into the air. The result was a bizarre aroma which made a man hungry at the same time it made him want to puke.

Most of the other soldiers were sickened every time they took a breath of this omnipresent miasma. For them it was enough to gag a maggot. But not so in Johnny’s case. He found the odor strangely familiar. It awakened in him memories of Russell County Hog Killing Day and the times he’d spent as a child cutting the throats of hog cadavers and afterward feasting on their innards. It was the smell of his past, his childhood, his hours worked in the sundrenched stinking slaughter fields.

It made him think of how he’d courted Anna amongst the hog bodies that night of the square dance, how he’d made love to her in the swine’s shadow of death as the pig-eyed moon winked at them. No, the army camp’s odor – which the others found so repulsive – was nostalgic to him. It was the exciting scent of trapped animal fear mixed with the satisfying aroma of cooking their flesh. It was the thrill of the kill mixed with the joy of gluttony. There was something of the panther in it.

It was the odor of hundreds of sweating, pissing, farting, grumbling, unsuspecting, doomed hogs enclosed in a fence. It didn’t bother him that it was also the odor of hundreds of humans enclosed in a fence, also sweating, pissing, farting, grumbling, unsuspecting and doomed. In fact, the analogy didn’t matter to him. The odor arose from the juices of life and the juices of death. It made no difference to him whether the odor rose from the juices of humanity of the juices of hogs. They both made him feel that Nature was as it should be and the processes of being were journeying through their cycles. God was in His heaven and all was well.

At any rate, the juices meant life. He would eventually come to love and trust the odor because you never smelled it under fire. You only smelled burning sulfur and a bitter fear when marching toward the enemy or watching them march toward you. The odor of camp life, on the other hand, meant you were back behind your lines – you had your safety, security, buddies, blankets, something to eat, a place to crap and a place to sleep.

On the third day, Johnny and the other new recruits were issued uniforms, equipment and arms – the latter being reworked .69 caliber Model 1842 smoothbore muskets with accurate ranges of only 80 yards or so. The soldiers called them “pumpkin slingers”. Muzzle loaded with loose gunpowder and round balls, their potency lay not in range but quick loading. They could be fired three or four times per minute. The result was much like a marble being shot out of a modern .410 shotgun . . . with about the same accuracy. You might hit a man at 80 yards but you’d be lucky to hit a horse at 100. They were so inaccurate that manufacturers didn’t even bother to put rear sights on them.

Johnny ran his hands along the wood and metal of his new musket, sensually caressing its well-oiled hardwood stock and blue-steel barrel bound by ribbons of iron. It was a damn sight better than the old flintlock he had at home. Instead of flint, this one used copper percussion caps filled with fulminate of mercury. All you had to do was place the pea-sized cap over a nipple, cock the hammer and pull the trigger. Every time – Wham!

With his old gun, the hammer scraped a piece of flint against a rough piece of metal known as the frizzen pan cover. This showered sparks onto loose gunpowder already sprinkled in the pan, which hopefully ignited the main

powder charge inside the barrel. You crossed your fingers every shot. It worked about 75% of the time. All too often the frizzen pan fizzled. In his mind, the 1842 Model was a technological wonder! Johnny literally loved his new gun and stroked it over and over, as if it were a woman’s shapely calf. He even ran his lips along it, feeling an excitement welling up from its velvet feel against his skin. What a beautiful weapon, he thought, not realizing it was already on the verge of obsolescence and would virtually be useless in battles after 1862.

Actually, it wasn’t much different than the muskets used in the preceding century when American colonies were rebelling against the Crown and Napoleon’s Grande Armees were sweeping over Europe. The same weapons had been used during the war of 1812 and the Mexican War. They were deadly in close confrontations -- but in the words of Colonel George Hanger, a British officer who fought in the American Revolution, “ . . . a soldier must be unfortunate indeed who shall be wounded by a common musket at 150 yards . . . and as for firing at a man at 200 yards with a common musket, you might as just as well fire at the moon.”

The rifled muskets were a different story, being able to hit a target the size of a chicken at 300 yards. Despite their availability, however, both Southern and Northern armories had huge inventories of smoothbores but almost no rifles at the beginning of the war. So both sides were armed with similar weapons during the first two years and the Rebels could give as much as they took. In retrospect, we know the North would have quelled the rebellion within a few months if it’d stockpiled rifles instead of smoothbores. As it turned out, however, neither side benefited from the other’s lack of long distance firepower. In some ways, it made combat even more terrifying and wrenched even more courage out of its participants. The lack of range was made up for by the savage ferocity of hand to hand combat.

Having to come close to the enemy meant fighting him eyeball to eyeball. So the bayonet, knife and club were still the most decisive infantry assault weapons when Johnny was first learning the art of war. Neither he nor his officers realized hand to hand combat would virtually disappear before the end of the year.

Nevertheless, he was taught Napoleonic warfare at Camp Fulkerson that spring of 1862. At that time, the officers of both sides still lined their men up in ranks, marched them toward the enemy and ordered them to begin firing at approximately 75 yards -- about a stone’s throw. The soldiers would only get a few volleys off before finding themselves face to face with the enemy – which meant stabbing each other with bayonets, ripping each other’s guts out with knives and shattering each other’s skulls with gunstocks.

Commanders in 1862 shortsightedly expected this kind of combat to persist throughout the war, despite the obviously swift proliferation of longer-range rifled muskets and cannons. In fact, the commanders never caught on that new weapons require new tactics. They’d been taught Napoleonic tactics in war college and were determined to use them no matter how much the face of war changed. Tens of thousands of men were to die in battles after 1862 without seeing the riflemen who’d killed them, thanks to myopic commanders who refused to see the obvious.

Gettysburg, Drewry’s Bluff and Cold Harbor were to be the most hideous examples of no-longer grand Napoleonic charges.

The men of the 29th wouldn’t have their pumpkin slingers replaced with new .577 Enfield rifles until June 17, 1863. They were among the very last to get rifles because smoothbores were adequate for relatively small conflicts and skirmishes, like those fought by the 29th till they were transferred to the East Virginia Theater of War in early 1863.

After that, they’d be no more “minor” battles or skirmishes for them – they’d need the rifles just to survive. The Confederate War Department had to issue the 29th real rifles or write the 29th Virginia off as a viable fighting force.

Pumpkin slingers were no match for rifles.

There’s no doubt the regiment would have perished all together if not issued the Enfield. The newer weapons not only had rifled bores, but used aerodynamically shaped bullets instead of round balls. This gave them a deadly accurate killing range of 450 yards instead of a smoothbore’s mere 100. And the new rifles could be loaded just as fast

as the smoothbores, firing three times per minute – thanks to expanding greased bullets cast slightly smaller than the rifle bores.

God Himself must have been with Johnny because he was issued his Enfield rifle three weeks after the battle of Gettysburg – in which his regiment was supposed to have participated as part of General George Pickett’s suicidal charge. Their pumpkin slingers would have been useless as only 150 of Pickett’s 15,000-man division ever got close enough to the Yankees to use non-rifled weapons. The 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment would certainly have been mown down to the last man as they tried to get close enough to use their Model 1842 smoothbores. Only President Davis’ last minute decision to hold Corse’s Brigade – including Johnny’s 29 th Regiment -- in reserve saved them all from annihilation.

In fact, Johnny and other men of the 29th had nothing but good luck all the way through 1861, 1862 and the first two months of 1863. They never had to fire their muskets in anger except in minor battles, skirmishes and when hunting wild hogs to augment their diet. So it wasn’t the disaster it might have been when Johnny and his regiment were issued smoothbores instead of rifles.

But it certainly would have been if Lieutenant Colonel Squealing Porcino had managed to get the 29 th sent to the front lines sooner than he did. He had begun begging the Confederate War Department to relieve General Marshall and send the 29th into real battle while it was still in training at Camp Fulkerson, only a few days after Johnny had signed up. At that time, the soldiers of the 29th were no more ready for battle than their pumpkin slingers.

With his Model 1842 musket that second day, Johnny received the accouterments necessary to use his weapon. These included first of all a black leather cartridge box capable of holding 45 to 50 pre-manufactured Round Shot cartridges, each containing a .69 caliber ball and about 55 grains of black powder wrapped together in paper. He was shown how to tear the paper casings open with his teeth, pour the powder down the barrel and follow it with the ball – then the paper as a wad to hold it in place. Next he was issued a black leather cap box to contain the percussion caps necessary to ignite the powder; a black leather bayonet holder; and a black leather belt with chest strap on which to carry everything. The belt had a Confederate buckle saying CSA in large raised letters.

Also issued was a wooden, drum type canteen; a knapsack to be thrown away after the first long hike; a mess kit containing a tin plate, a cup and a wrought iron fork/spoon implement; a sewing kit called a “Soldier’s Housewife”; and a canvas bag called a haversack to carry food, a waterproofed blanket cover called a “gum poncho”, a blanket and his personal items like a miniature testament, playing cards, writing paper, “toilet paper” (in Johnny’s case an old copy of Maryland’s Cecil County Whig newspaper), a pencil and a hidden bottle of whiskey to dim the horrors of battle and the deadening hours of boredom between battles. Johnny was rigged for war.

As for his uniform, Johnny received a steel-gray felt cap with jaunty tilted flat-top and leather visor, a cap cover, a steel-gray short-waisted woolen shell jacket with leather collar, four pairs of steel-gray woolen trousers, four white flannel shirts, one blue flannel shirt to be worn as a blouse, four pairs of unbleached cotton under-drawers, four pairs of linen socks, a pair of leather high-top shoes with leather soles and leather laces, a flannel blanket and a gum poncho.

He was issued such an inclusive rig only because it was early in the war. Few Confederate soldiers would receive such complete uniforms after 1862. By 1864, gray dye and decent wool would be so scarce that uniforms would be made of cheap muslin cloth dyed a stomach-turning yellowish color called “butternut”. Underneath the butternut jackets, caps and pants they’d mostly have to wear clothes sent to them from folks back home or taken off the dead. Few would have shoes and almost none would have socks – except what they could scavenge from battlefields filled with dead and dying soldiers after combat. But all this was unknown to Johnny at the time, who felt the wonderful confidence then so prevalent in the Confederate ranks. He felt a heart-stirring gallantry in his new

uniform and couldn’t wait to show it around Lebanon. And how proud Anna would be!

Johnny underwent training for several weeks afterward, joining the rest of the regiment in practicing tactical drills. Ninety-percent of these were based on the single battle line in which each company lined up in one rank -- with the tallest man always to the right of the shorter – and walked toward the enemy firing, pausing to reload as they advanced. An officer, usually a captain but sometimes a lieutenant or sergeant, accompanied each company and shouted orders when to advance, when to fire in unison, when to fire at will, when to regroup and when to retreat if necessary. A single battle line could stretch miles across a battlefield or be short enough to clear a road. A variation on the single battle line was the double battle line, which lined up two ranks one in front of the other – front rank and rear rank -- to keep the men from bumping into each other. The man in back fired between the two heads in front of him.

These two methods were the most commonly used offensive tactics in the Civil War, though also the bloodiest.

An entrenched enemy simply mowed down the approaching line if it had enough ammunition and manpower. The moving battle line depended on overwhelming numbers, superior firepower and pulverizing artillery bombardment to work.

Johnny knew he would mostly be fighting in battle lines. But while at Camp Fulkerson, he also learned about a rarely used but devastating Napoleonic tactic that might have changed the course of the war if it’d been employed more often during the first two years. Called “firing by ranks”, it arranged companies into two or more lines, one behind the other – beginning with a first rank and a second rank. Any other ranks were numbered third, fourth, fifty, sixth, etc. The result could be two lines of soldiers or a rectangular phalanx of soldiers line up in four, six, ten or even twelve rows. In actual battle, the multi-ranked companies could be joined together or be combined to form maneuverable regiments, brigades or even divisions. Such moving phalanxes could fire volley after volley with the velocity of a modern machine gun.

Each rank begin by standing in line, one in front of another, measuring the distance by stretching the men’s right arms straight out and touching the shoulders of the men to their right. Then one rank would take a step left while the remaining rank stood still. This allowed space for the soldiers in one rank to move forward or backward without bumping into soldiers in the other rank. At the same time, it allowed each man to fire his weapon without deafening the man in front of him.

The officer commanding the unit (usually a company or regiment) would shout, “Prepare to fire by ranks!” at which time the first rank would aim their loaded weapons at a real or imagined enemy. The second rank would meanwhile stand with loaded weapons at their shoulders and ready to fire upon command. At the officer’s order of “First rank, fire!” the front rank would fire.

Immediately the first rank would begin reloading their weapons as the second rank behind them took two steps forward with weapons aimed. The officer would shout, “Second rank, fire!” and a fusillade of lead would blast out from the second rank. Meanwhile the first rank would have reloaded their weapons, stepped in front of the first rank and aimed their muskets by the time the officer could shout “First rank, fire!”

The period of time it took to reload no longer slowed the advance because at least half the massed guns were firing all the time. The result was particularly effective because the ranks could advance on the enemy behind a wall of uninterrupted fire as the officers shouted “First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! First rank, fire!” on and on until the enemy was either destroyed, overwhelmed, routed or shocked into surrender. When multiple ranks were used, each rank would be assigned a number corresponding to its place in the phalanx. In these cases, the officers would shout, “First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! Third rank, fire!

Fourth rank, fire!” and so on till the last rank had fired its weapons. At this time the first several ranks would be ready

to fire again and the process would repeat itself.

Firing by ranks – on the rare occasions when it was employed -- was used almost exclusively during the first two years of the war because it was designed for short-range smoothbore muskets. The idea was to get so close to the enemy battle line that those who hadn’t been shot could be engaged in hand to hand combat – which is to say bayoneted, stabbed, bashed over the head with a gunstock, throat-cut with a straight razor or ripped open with a huge hunting knife carried for the purpose.

This accounts for the preponderance of bayonet, knife and club inflicted flesh wounds during the earlier battles like Bull’s Run, Shiloh and Perryville . . . where rifles were used only by sharp shooting snipers firing from cover. The foot soldiers had no choice but to fight eyeball to eyeball . . . and that meant a lot of bleeding and screaming and stabbing and slicing and gouging. Rifles drastically reduced the amount of hand to hand combat by early 1863 because you could kill your opponent without having to get near enough to bayonet him. The rifles also bring an end to firing by ranks, substituting a steady advance – though still in two ranks – with each soldier firing at will and as fast as he could. The terms “First Rank” and “Second Rank” were accordingly changed to “Front Rank” and “Rear Rank”.

It was fortunate for Napoleon that all this drilling had an end in sight. He knew he’d be okay if he could last out basic training at Camp Fulkerson. His bum foot gave him trouble and lots of it – almost instantly blistering under the leather of his high-tops. He tried not to show his discomfort during drill, staying as much as possible in the center of the columns. He also cut a hole in his left shoe so his hammertoe could stick out. The officers conducting drill noticed, of course, and put him on report.

There would have been hell to pay for this infringement of rules if Johnny hadn’t come to Napoleon’s rescue.

Johnny didn’t tell his friend what he was going to do because “it wasn’t done”. Nevertheless, Johnny requested permission to speak with General Marshall, and with exceptional courtesy and respect managed to explain about Napoleon’s bum foot. Marshall, being the nicest officer in the Confederate army, issued orders to the junior officers of the 29th – in particular Captain Smith of Company G – that Napoleon’s hole in his shoe was to be overlook and his limp tolerated without complaint.

At first Napoleon was furious that Johnny had asked for and received special privileges for him. But he eventually cooled down and accepted the favor with grace, because he’d be able to keep up with the regiment on even longest marches, so long as he could keep his hammertoe from rubbing against the top of his shoe. Everything else, even the big bunion, could be tolerated – and besides, bigger, tougher calluses would grow over his bunions. So throughout the rest of his war, or at least till the battle of Drewry’s Bluff in 1864, Napoleon marched around with a huge hole in his shoe with his crooked, frozen second toe sticking out. Again, Marshall’s compassion for the common soldier had kept the rules from harming his men. At the end, it wouldn’t matter anyway because few of the remaining rebels had shoes at all. Even shoes with holes cut in the tops would be luxuries worth risking death.

Major Porcino didn’t like “pretty boy’s” special treatment but could do nothing about it until he managed to take command of the 29th. That was to be over a year later and Napoleon would suffer for his privileges at that time . . . in fact, suffer a gunshot to the lungs. Porcino remembered petty offenses. He never forgot and even kept a little log of names, listing the men of the 29th whom he planned to “pay back” when he got promoted to Colonel. John Henry Hess was at the top of the list and Napoleon was at the bottom.

For the first month after training, Johnny, the Garrett brothers and the rest of the 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment – as part of General Marshall’s little brigade -- did nothing more exciting than hang around Southwest Virginia, showing off their new uniforms, marching in ranks, firing at targets, cleaning their guns, electing new officers and casually going AWOL when ever they felt like it to spend time with their families. They never got in trouble for

disappearing – their officers overlooked it. The farms needed tending’ and the wives needed loving’.

In fact, Johnny sneaked off almost every night to hop in bed with his beloved Anna Catharine. Everyone in the regiment knew he was taking off, including Company G’s commanding officer Captain Edwin R. Smith and the 29th’s regimental commander Colonel Moore. Even Squealing Porcino, the regiment’s second in command, knew about it. But whenever anyone tried to write him up for being AWOL, General Marshall would let him off with a wink and warning.

But no one really cared because Anna, as if to pay the army back for its understanding, brought to company G every Sunday two wicker baskets full of fried chicken, sausages, pickled pig feet, boiled eggs, roasted squirrels, smoked ham hocks, smoked hog jowls, hog tongue sandwiches on homemade bread, venison stew, deer jerky, boiled peanuts, black-eyed peas, sliced mush melons and more.

The nights at home were good for Johnny’s attitude and his testicles. But the seed which would sprout into their first child had already been planted five months before, during that magic night after Russell County’s Hog Killing Day Square Dance. A daughter was right then growing inside of Anna. She’d be born in July and named Magdalene. She’d be known as Maggie Hess, beautiful black-eyed Maggie Hess.

She’d be just like her mother, with those spooky hazel eyes ringed with black halos. Witch’s eyes, some thought. Others – not as kindly – would think Maggie really bewitched because she born of a veiled woman. More than a few folks in Lebanon thought Anna might be a witch because of the red birth-mark emblazoned on her face.

Johnny wasn’t superstitious about it. In fact, he thought the veil made Anna special and chosen by God to be his wife and the mother of his children. He wasn’t concerned with the gossip of Lebanon’s hen-house of clucking old ladies.

He loved her as much as he could, as long as he could, as often as he could. “Thank God for General Marshall,” he would whisper every night to the stars; “Thank God for General Marshall.”

All good things come to an end, especially wonderful things like Johnny’s nightly going and coming and going again. The end for his nights with Anna came on May 13th, when Marshall’s Brigade was ordered to form ranks and march the 28 miles from Tazewell County in Southwest Virginia to Mercer County in what is now West Virginia. (West Virginia formally split from Virginia in 1861 and was admitted into the Union as a separate state in 1863.)

Federal troops had occupied the county seat of Princeton in April after seizing it from a Confederate cavalry regiment. Though the Rebels had dutifully tried to burn the place down before withdrawing, they’d left intact about fifty out of the town’s hundred or so buildings. What remained was subsequently occupied by Union troops -- who added to the destruction by burning the courthouse and two churches.

The Yanks needed Princeton to billet two brigades of U.S. Brigadier General Jacob B. Cox’s District of Kanawha Army, including four companies of the 28th Ohio Infantry under a Major Bohlender, a detachment of the 34th Ohio Infantry under a Major F. E. Franklin, four companies of the 37th Ohio Infantry under Lieutenant Colonel Louis von Blessing, and a detachment of the 2nd Virginia U. S. Cavalry.

Cox’s whose mission was to cripple the East Tennessee & Virginia Railroad wherever possible by blowing up its locomotives, burning its trestles and ripping up its tracks. Almost incidentally, it was also ordered to ambush and massacre all Rebel troops being transported on trains unfortunate enough to be stopped by concealed explosives. War was war, after all.

Before attacking the T & V Railroad, Cox’s force had to breach the Alleghenies -- and Princeton of Mercer County was the perfect launching pad. The powers in Richmond consequently ordered their forces in Southwest Virginia to chase the blue-bellies out of town. They knew as well as well as Lincoln that the Confederate armies wouldn’t be able to respond quickly enough to the North’s impending invasions of the Shenandoah and Southwest Virginia if strategic parts of their major transportation system were reduced to ruptured locomotives and tracks

twisted into pretzels. Neither did they like the idea of massacred troops lying all over the place.

The plan was for three Confederate military columns to converge on occupied Princeton at the same time, overwhelming the Yanks and driving them so far north that they’d no longer pose a threat.

General Henry Heth in Dublin was to attack from the east with the 22nd, 36th & 45th Virginia Infantry Regiments, the 8th Virginia Cavalry (dismounted) and three batteries of artillery. Colonel G. C. Wharton’s 51 st Virginia Infantry Regiment in Wytheville was to attack from the north. And General Marshall’s Brigade was to attack from the west. The three columns were supposed to converge on the Yankee-held town at the same time. Of course they didn’t.

Marshall arrived first; Wharton arrived about 12 hours later; and Heth – with the largest force – never arrived at all.

The 5th Kentucky of Marshall’s Brigade encountered a few Union pickets about four miles inside Mercer County on the evening of May 16th and easily sent them running back to their own troops in Princeton. Johnny Hess and the rest of the 29th watched without firing a single shot -- but a real battle seemed imminent. The brigade excitedly prepared for combat . . . at last! The brigade was jubilant!

Marshall obligingly formed a battle line and grandly entered the town with readied arms, beating drums, whistling fifes and waving battle flags -- only to find it abandoned by the enemy. Cox had ordered the retreat because he wasn’t sure how large was the Rebel force about to attack his two brigades. He knew that three columns had left Southwest Virginia and were supposed to coordinate their attack on Princeton, so he cautiously decided to pull out until he knew who, what and how many he’d have to fight.

Some historians say Marshall was timid in not having his men occupy the town while they had the chance.

Apparently Marshall wanted to wait for the other two Confederate columns to arrive, fearing that his otherwise victorious brigade might not be able to hold the place if the Yankees returned.

Well, the Yankees hadn’t intended to return -- but changed their minds when they learned Marshall left the town unguarded that night by having his men camp several miles west of the city limits to insure their safety. This gave their scouts time to visit Marshall’s encampment and ascertain its size. When Cox discovered only one brigade was facing his two, he sent his Yankees scurrying back into town like rats to firmly entrench themselves in defensive positions by morning.

Marshall was embarrassed when a scout informed him of his blunder shortly after sunrise. Now the town had to be retaken! He was even more embarrassed when he and his men heard gunfire coming from the direction of Princeton. His face turned beet red and his hands trembled. His geniality was suddenly eclipsed by the anger boiling up inside him – but his anger just as suddenly subsided. Marshall then bowed to caution and decided to wait for more scouts to report before taking action. He couldn’t have received worse news when they galloped in with what they thought was a desperate call for help.

Colonel Wharton’s late but eager 51st Virginia Infantry Regiment had arrived at Princeton earlier that same morning, unhesitatingly taken up battle positions and let loose a thunderous volley of lead which peppered the just awakening enemy with demoralizing shock, devastating wounds and sudden death. Cox’s two brigades fought back furiously despite the surprise -- recovering so swiftly that they soon flanked Wharton’s single regiment on two sides and had his men fighting for their lives.

More than a few of Marshall’s men were disgusted and mortified by the apparent cowardice of their commander -- who stood there thinking things over while the battle raged in Princeton. Long minutes passed. His face bunched up into red rolls of fat as he concentrated. His mouth pursed as if he’d eaten a persimmon. He scratched the side of his face and rolled his eyes toward the sky. His roly-poly, 300-pound figure seemed to quiver as the gears of his brain slowly meshed and painfully ground out a decision. Then he delivered that decision to his brigade, whose officers had already formed into a column ready to march.

It wasn’t the decision his men expected. In fact, they were astonished to hear that they – the mighty Army of Eastern Kentucky -- would wait for Heth’s third column before marching to Wharton’s aid. It was more important to know you could win a battle before jumping into one, Marshall explained to his men. He wanted absolute and overwhelming superiority over the enemy before he risked their lives.

Most of Marshall’s men were infuriated and a thunder of dissent rumbled through the column as they heard the news. No attack! Exasperated officers thought of conspiring behind their general’s back and the men openly muttered mutiny. They wanted to rush to Wharton’s aid right then . . . even if it meant ignoring orders. The men clamored and bitched and swore, but in the end they did nothing but angrily return to their tents. Almost every one of them thought they should be on their way to help Wharton’s regiment, which alone stood against two Yankee brigades.

But a few were glad to wait and Johnny was one of them, wanting only to go home in one piece. He wanted to get back to Anna as quickly and safely as possible. It was more important to live for their sake than die for the Rebels’ sake. He’d figured out by then that the Yankees weren’t about to waste an army on his little hometown in Russell County. His farm was going to be there when all the killing ended, no matter which side won. Clinch River would keep running and the mountains would remain. The land would be waiting for him, as would his family. The point of the war was to survive, simple as that. It was up to him to provide for his wife and child. The Confederate States of America wasn’t going to do it. He’d already learned the great secret of contentment – tend your own garden.

But not Napoleon. He pretended to stew, holding his breath till he appeared livid with rage and seething with impatience. His face was redder than Marshall’s. He feigned a savage desire to kill the goddamned bluebellies and pounded his thighs in faked frustration. He loaded his musket, fixed its bayonet and paraded around camp, raring to go, trying to electrify the others with his vehement fervor. Damn it all, he shouted, do we stand by while our comrades die? Perhaps he didn’t admit to himself that inside he was breathing secret sighs of relief. Perhaps he didn’t admit to himself that his lame foot was swollen and his hammertoe was badly blistered on top.

Isaac didn’t react at all. He was willing to fight, especially if it might save some of their men. But he wasn’t commanding the brigade. He wasn’t commanding the regiment. He wasn’t even commanding his company. The responsibility fell on other shoulders. He yawned and scratched his ass. What the Hell, maybe Marshall was playing King Solomon – he didn’t care one way or the other. The horizon was turning a bit hazy over Princeton, he noticed; but that was no skin off his ass. The brigade’d get going when it was told to – then he’d get his gear and head on out.

But Marshall wasn’t about to do anything soon. Might as well use the time, he thought, and disappeared into his tent to write a letter to his mother to see if she’d send him some socks and underwear. He wrote in a big careless scrawl, not bothering with periods or commas. He wasn’t nervous about anything, no sir.

Marshall waited all day for Heth to show up, occasionally checking his big railroad watch and cupping his ear to listen to the battle raging in Princeton. Most of his men were fit to be tied and champing at the bit. It was time to go! Now! Their brothers waited! But the general ignored them, obeying his conscience, refusing to jump into the boiling cauldron into which Wharton had so willingly jumped. His number one job, as he saw it, was to protect his men from over-eager officers like Wharton, who’d gotten his men into an unnecessary cul de sac filled with fire. If he’d waited like he was supposed to, Cox’s Army of Kanawha would now be whipped and on its way back home.

Marshall wisely refused to admit his part in the botched attack. Such self-depreciating thoughts wouldn’t help the situation. Besides, how was he supposed to know the Yanks would sneak back into town during the night?

Marshall planned to fight on the 18th but Heth still hadn’t shown up by late afternoon of the 17th. So the general finally mobilized his brigade and marched it to Princeton, where he discovered the 51 st had driven the Yankees back into town all by themselves and didn’t want any help from the likes of him. They’d carried the ball alone this far

and they’d finish the job alone.

But Wharton needed help whether his men would admit it or not -- so sent a runner to Marshall’s brigade asking it to attack from the opposite side. The little but furious Army of Western Kentucky obligingly formed a battle line and advanced behind a fusillade of lead, forcing Cox to split his forces to meet the unexpected attack coming from his rear. Half of his men were forced to run to the other side of town and open fire on the approaching graybacks, which they managed to stop but knew they couldn’t defeat. Now they were outnumbered and trapped, caught between Wharton and Marshall. Cox knew his situation was hopeless. He might hold out for a day or two at most, but by doing so he’d lose hundreds of troopers and most of his provisions.

Just before dusk, Marshall’s brigade again formed a battle line and advanced, firing volley after volley into the besieged town. The Yankees lashed out with a vicious counterfire, hoping to confuse Marshall’s troops and drive them under cover. It worked. A similar action was simultaneously taken against Wharton with equal success. There was silence for about half an hour, and during this time Cox’s men time were able to call retreat and withdraw from Princeton without being decimated.

Four of Marshall’s men were killed and 12 wounded during the skirmish, though none from the 29 th.

Wharton’s report has been lost to historians but we do know his losses were considerably worse than Marshall’s. The Yankees suffered 23 killed, 69 wounded and 21 missing – almost all inflicted by Wharton’s fierce 51 st Virginia.

As it turned out, General Heth had a good reason for not being there as planned. One of his battle units had been engaged in a battle of its own on the 17th, at a place near Princeton called Pigeon Roost Hill. While moving toward his rendezvous, Major Peter J. Otey’s artillery battalion had accidentally marched between two units of Cox’s third brigade, commanded by the Union Colonel named Von Blessing. Major Otey fortunately spotted the Yanks before they spotted him and ordered his men to form combat ready ranks on both sides in case of an attack. They were surrounded but they needn’t have worried. The Yanks were preoccupied.

Von Blessing’s men had earlier that day captured a Rebel medical supply wagon filled not with medical supplies but whiskey. The temptation became unbearable when their commander mounted his horse and galloped away to check the terrain between his men and Princeton. The soldiers partied while he was gone, falling on the wagon and downing the firewater like lemonade till they were stinking drunk. Together but out of harmony they sang,“Muh eyes hash sheen da gory of da comin of da rord, he ish stampin’ out da vinshid whur da grapes a rafa stord . . . .”

When Von Blessing saw the Rebel battalion and realized it had wondered inside his perimeter, he rushed right back to his men, told them to line up in battle formation and ordered them to attack. They obediently lined up – swaying, reeling, puking – and staggered toward Otey’s position. The Rebels, already entrenched and ready for a fight, rained fire and lead on them so fiercely that the besotted Yanks fell back in confusion.

Most of them were so smashed they could only stare stupidly at the Southern guns with their mouths open and drooling. Those who didn’t fall stopped in their tracks, trying to figure out what was happening to them. They were shot down like diseased steers in a coral until some of the alcoholic fog lifted and they understood their fellow drunks screaming “Run!” The survivors, though still outnumbering the graybacks ten to one, broke ranks and fled in the opposite direction.

Seeing the enemy in confusion, Major Otey ordered a full charge and watched as his men rushed the befuddled Yanks with mounted bayonets. Von Blessing’s men saw what was coming, threw down their guns and ran away in panic, slipping and sliding, falling on their faces and asses, puking and choking, coughing their lungs up . . . .

Mass hysteria and pandemonium overwhelmed them as they ran for their lives. They did every thing but sober up.

Most keep on running till they could hide behind something. More than a few fell on the ground and rolled up in fetal balls, only to straighten like springs when bayoneted and curling back up when the bayonets were yanked out.

A few ran toward the Rebs with heir hands up, hollering, “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!” These were hustled back to Otey’s cannons and hitched like mules. It was a humiliating little spat that cost the North 88 men – 18 killed, 56 wounded and 14 taken prisoner. The Rebels lost 10 men – one killed and nine wounded. The best thing was Otey’s battalion got 32 new pairs of stout English army shoes, along with 32 fine metal canteens, 32 Enfield rifles, lots of ammunition and 32 blue caps as souvenirs.

While this was occurring, Wharton’s 51st Regiment was taking care of Princeton. After being run out of town, General Cox’s forces combined with other Union forces in Charleston on the Kanawha River, where they tried to regroup and rethink their plan of action. But they’d been decimated by the battles and would take a long, long time to recuperate, reorganize and launch another campaign. By that time, Lincoln would have given their mission to another Union army.

There was something else in the way of their hopes but they wouldn’t know about it until they were surprised a few months later by Confederate Brigadier General William Wing Loring’s Northwestern Army as it flooded down the Kanawha to take Charleston. Loring’s men would chase the Yankees out and occupy the city.

There was little they could do but stew. The battles of Princeton and Pigeon Roost Hill were uncontestable Confederate victories because neither the Tennessee & Virginia Railroad nor the Shenandoah Valley were any longer threatened by Union armies bivouacked in West Virginia. An added bonus was that Southwest Virginia was safe from Cox’s Army of the Kanawha District.

Marshall’s Brigade marched back to Southeast Virginia after mopping up in Mercer County. It spent the rest of the summer doing not much of anything except drilling and setting up camps at various sites in Russell and Tazewell counties. Duty was easy and discipline was lax. Marshall became his old live-and-let-live self again. So Johnny resumed his regular visits to Anna and his farm during the nights – and all too often when he was supposed to be on duty. He was rarely there for morning muster because he liked to get his gun one more time in the mornings before he left Anna’s bed. No one seemed to mind except Major Squealing Porcino, who told him several times, “You’ll be shot for desertion when I take command.”

Johnny didn’t take the remark seriously because there were several officers higher up than Major Porcino.

They had seniority, too. Certainly the reigns of power would fall into the hands of a lieutenant colonel if Marshall gave up his command. But as they said in the infantry back then, “taint necessarily so”. It was wise of Porcino to look ahead, as it turned out. General Marshall was getting tired and tried to resign on June 16 th, 1862. He changed his mind only when his political friends talked him into staying so he could run for high office, maybe vice-president or even president, after the war was won. The people would be voting for war heroes.

While Marshall’s Brigade was taking it easy in the sunshine of Southwest Virginia, all hell was breaking loose in Kentucky. Though the state had claimed neutrality when it heard the United States tearing itself in half in early 1861, it was involuntarily “admitted” into the Confederacy on December 10th. It got a star on the Rebel flag that day whether it wanted one or not. It didn’t. Instead, Kentucky ignored the annexation and planned to fight against both sides to retain its neutrality.

It had a double-pronged defense – on one side a pro-South Home Guard of about 10,000 men under the rich aristocratic West Pointer Simon Bolivar Buckner -- and on the other a Pro-Union State militia of about 10,000 men under a U. S. Navy Lieutenant named William Nelson. Kentucky was prepared to repulse whichever side tried to invade her borders. But the balance was lost when Lincoln-loving Buckner resigned and his army disbanded. Its weaponry was given over to the Rebel-sympathetic Home Guard and Kentucky seemed lost to the Union completely.

Not at all happy with this, the Federals sent a 6500 man army under General George Thomas, which successfully pushed the Rebels out of the state by January 20th of 1862. Kentucky then replaced the Stars and Bars

with the Stars and Stripes, being occupied as it was by Yankees. But the Rebels, never ones to give up, believed the state could be forcibly taken back with a fierce enough offensive. It was at this time that Johnny Hess and the Garrett brothers were joining the Confederate infantry, believing in their naiveté that the Yanks would be driven out and Kentucky would then fight with the South to certain victory.

They still had this overly optimistic viewpoint seven months later on September 6 th when Marshall’s Brigade – the Army of Eastern Tennessee – was ordered to Lexington, Kentucky, to help two Rebel armies chase the Yankees out of the state. Things looked good for the South because Confederate General Kirby Smith’s 10,000 man Army of Kentucky had already occupied Lexington after whipping the Yanks at Richmond -- and Confederate General Braxton Bragg’s powerful 17,000 man Army of Tennessee was successfully battling its way north through Tennessee with every intention of taking Kentucky back from the Federals.

General Smith had attacked the occupying Union forces just south of Lexington below the small town of Richmond about two weeks earlier on August 30th. The Yankees had lost almost all of their men – 206 killed, 844 wounded and a humiliating 4144 taken prisoner. This meant a total loss of 5194 Yankee soldiers out of the 6500 engaged in combat. The Rebels had suffered a total loss of only 451 men out of the 6800 Rebels engaged. Of these, 78 had been killed, 372 wounded and one had come up missing. It was an incredible victory for the South. For a wonderful moment, it seemed the Rebels would take Kentucky back.

Things looked even brighter two weeks later. Johnny, along with Marshall’s Brigade, was still marching toward Lexington when General Bragg besieged the 4000 man Union force at Munfordville on September 14 th – demanding and getting Union Commander Colonel John T. Wilder to surrender his troops on September 17 th.

Bragg’s Army of Tennessee was still enjoying its triumph when it discovered Union Brigadier General Don Carlos Buell’s 37,000 man Army of the Ohio had marched into Kentucky from its stronghold in Nashville and penetrated all the way to Bowling Green. Its goal was to overtake and destroy General Braxton Bragg’s brash and cocky Confederate force.

Buell was in striking distance of Bragg’s army but wasn’t ready for a major battle. First his men needed rest, provisions and fresh supplies. They needed time to prepare for a major confrontation. Buell had 37,000 men to Bragg’s 17,000 – but superiority in numbers wasn’t enough if his men couldn’t fight like the devils they’d have to be to beat the gray wolves at bay.

His soldiers were exhausted after chasing the Rebels all the way from Tennessee. In contrast, Bragg’s victorious men were rested, fed, combat-hardened and super confident. They were primed for battle and wanted to fight it out right then and there with the stinking weasels who’d been stalking them. So Bragg waited a week in Munfordville . . . but nothing happened. There was no attack. The Union’s great Army of the Ohio never showed itself.

The Rebels thought their pursuers were scared and laughed at them. They called Buell’s men the Weasel Army of the Republic. Cowards, they thought, they’re all cowards.

General Bragg eventually moved his troops to Bardstown to be closer to Smith’s army in Lexington. He hoped Smith would bother to march the short distance and combine their two armies into one force – but Smith had his own agenda. He was busy planning to invade Ohio with his so-far victorious Army of Kentucky.

This was close to insubordination because Smith had been ordered to combine his force with Bragg’s even before they left Tennessee. When the time had come to invade Kentucky, Smith had jumped the gun, rushing ahead to grab the glory and prove his capability as a general officer. His less intelligent soldiers worshipped him, thought him the picture of courage and valor. But his most intelligent soldiers – few though they were – despised him and drew pictures of him with big pointed ears, round rubbery snout and tiny pretzel tail. Over these caricatures they’d later write, “This little piggy went wee wee wee all the way home.”

Smith had been fortunate not to have run into a large Union contingent during his march to Lexington. Now that the other Confederate army invading Kentucky was on the verge of facing a Union army over twice its size, Smith still refused to combine forces. His plans to invade Ohio came to nothing because of his refusal to help Bragg, who in his eyes was a rival, not an partner. In the end, his arrogance – or his cowardice, for one can never be sure – cost the loss of Kentucky. Bragg would be metaphorically kicked in the ass, sending him back to Tennessee in a most undignified manner . . . limping and whimpering and sniveling like a whipped dog. Smith would also be sent running home in a most undignified manner . . . squealing worse than Squealing Porcino, wee wee weeing all the way home with his little tail coiling and uncoiling as rancid black liquids dribbled down his hams.

Bragg realized the danger in which he had unwittingly put his army when Smith failed to join him at Bardstown by late September. It all came to him in a flash of insight. When he’d left Munfordville, he’d unwittingly left the main road to Louisville open and unguarded. Seeing his opportunity, Buell had sped to the city and occupied it. There his men were rested, replenished and regrouped.

The Union general had refused the bait at Munfordville and at Bardstown. The coming battle would be on his terms. Bragg – having been abandoned by Smith and received no support from the Kentuckians themselves -- moved to Frankfort so he could report to his superiors that the Army of Tennessee had occupied the state capital. It was better than explaining why he’d allowed a giant Union army to occupy Louisville and threaten his mission.

The climax came on October 8, 1862. It began at the Old Capitol Building in Frankfort as Richard Hawes of Bourbon County was being inaugurated as the new Confederate governor of Kentucky. The former governor, George W. Johnson, had been killed at Shiloh. Generals Bragg and E. Kirby Smith were both there because, simply put, they were already playing politics in anticipation of future careers. Though Bragg’s entire army was present, Smith had only his aide and a company of riflemen.

As the ceremonies were underway, Smith and Bragg were flabbergasted to see several regiments of Union General Buell’s 58,000-man army appear on the hills west of Frankfort and pause to watch the inauguration with much amusement. The Rebels could hear Buell’s men guffawing and shouting taunts at them. They all jumped when a Yankee cannon blew the day apart. They all seethed with anger when every bloody soul in the Yankee army threw their caps in the air while shouting Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Bragg issued an immediate call to arms and ordered his men to march to Versailles so they could counterattack Buell as he attempted to take Frankfort. But Buell had no designs on Frankfort – he was leading his army to Bardstown, exactly where Bragg had expected him to go in late September instead of Louisville. Again Bragg had misunderstood the intent of his opponent.

The chase was on! Contingents of Bragg’s army caught up with contingents of Buell’s army at Perryville in Boyle County, about ten miles from Danville. There the armies clashed in what was to be the biggest, bloodiest and most vicious battle fought in Kentucky during the war. In a confusing series of fights, approximately 20,000 of Buell’s 58,000 man army -- under the command of a then unknown General named Phillip H. Sheridan -- were attacked by a smaller force of about 16,000 Rebels under Bragg’s command.

General Buell, who was a few miles behind the lines of engagement, failed to send in reinforcements because a strange atmospheric phenomenon so muffled the sounds of gunfire that he didn’t realize his forward troops were under fire. Consequently, Sheridan’s troops had to go it alone against Bragg’s advancing Confederate infantry ranks, artillery and cavalry troops. Within ten minutes, Rebel infantry ranks were advancing toward Sheridan’s pinneddown soldiers, firing volley after volley while their officers shouted, “First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! First rank, fire! Second rank, fire! First rank, fire. . . ” on and on as the Rebels slowly but steadily and surely advanced toward the Yankee line, sowing death as they came. The rank fire ceased as the Rebs closed in and the blue-bellies could hear

the mounted Rebel officers changing their order to “Fire at will! Fire at will!”

Most of Sheridan’s men had been surprised while marching across a seemingly endless, waterless, shadeless bluegrass glade. When the Rebels opened fire, they had no choice but to drop to the ground behind a pitifully tiny ridge running across the length of a it. They weren’t in the best of shape to fight, having had to march through drought-stricken middle Kentucky, where they’d shared their meager water sources – little muddy streams and stagnant, fetid pools – with wild hogs. Exhausted, dehydrated, surprised and clueless when attacked, they expected to be riddled with bullets before they could organize enough to return fire. There were no trees, no ravines, no boulders.

Nevertheless, the Federals got to their feet and attempted to file into position for a counter attack with massed musket and artillery fire -- but proved no match for the resolute lines of Rebels marching toward them behind a sheet of fire.

Their situation can best be understood by looking at the plight of a particularly unlucky Union regiment, the 21st Wisconsin Infantry of Colonel John C. Starkweather’s 28th Brigade. The unit numbered only about 500 men because another 500 men had been left behind during the scorched march to Perryville. The stragglers hadn’t caught up yet when the Rebs opened fire. Nevertheless, the remaining 500 were ordered to enter a cornfield supposedly protected by Union artillery set up on two hills overlooking it.

Before they could enter the cornfield, however, both artillery units were heavily engaged and overrun by the Rebels. The Yankee artillerymen panicked and fled down the hills and through the cornfield, ultimately running right through the 21st Wisconsin as it prepared to enter. Though realizing things had gone wrong, the Yankee regiment followed orders anyway because orders are orders. As they began walking into the cornfield, none realized that the cannons covering them were unmanned -- nor that two thousand Rebels were coming right at them, prepared to fire at the first sign of blue.

Five hundred men of Brigadier General A. P. Stewart’s Confederate brigade had linked up with Brigadier General George E. Maney’s 1500-man brigade to wipe out every blue-belly in the cornfield and on both hills surrounding it. No sooner had the 21st begun to march into the rows of corn when dozens of Confederate battle flags suddenly thrust above the stalks on the other side and thousands of gray clad soldiers stood and fired pointblank into their ranks.

Meanwhile, Yankee reinforcements had retaken their cannons on the hills. Seeing the advancing Rebels, they began firing into the cornfield in a desperate bid to stop the oncoming advance. The 21 st Wisconsin was caught in the crossfire. All of its officers were killed along with dozens of men. All the survivors could do was lay down until they could see what was happening.

The resulting firefight was so confused and furious that the surviving Union troops of the 21 st Wisconsin panicked and ran back toward their own lines, even though --in ironic fact -- the Rebels had finally been stopped and the Union was retaking its original positions. Before it was over, the 21 st had lost over a third of its force, having 42 killed, 101 wounded and 36 missing.

Most of the Union soldiers surprised at Perryville felt they’d been led right into an open killing field where they’d be wiped out. They openly blamed their officers. Some regretted bitterly having laughed so loud at Hawe’s inauguration with Bragg’s whole army within earshot. The suspicion of neglect made them feel as if they’d been abandoned to the gray wolves like sheep in a pasture. Some thought surrender was in order because they’d been betrayed and left to die. The rest of Buell’s army was just over the hill but made no attempt to save them from sure annihilation. Where were they!

They were saved by one man. As sometimes happens, the hopelessness of the situation aroused certain prehistoric and cold-blooded instincts in Field Commander Philip Sheridan – who under pressure evolved into the

savage but bold and crafty general he’d kept hidden inside. He sized up the situation, refused to give in to the fear of impending disaster and told his men that they were either going to win by themselves or be defeated by themselves -because no cavalry was coming over the hill to save them. They’d been left to fight it out by themselves or die. And nobody gave a damn one way or the other! So, die you simple sons a bitches, die if you want, Sheridan shouted, waving his sword in the air . . . kill those Rebel bastards or die yourselves!

This information, true as it was, infuriated his troops so much that they changed from sheep to tigers at bay – rising to their feet, falling into ranks and opening fire with a single unimaginable blast . . . pouring enough hot lead on the amazed, stunned and reeling Rebel ranks that a collective scream was heard above the roar. When the remainder of the advancing gray line closed within a hundred yards, the enraged Yanks – now insane with unconscious animal passion -- pounced on Bragg’s surprised infantrymen with such fury that the Rebs literally turned tail and ran south, leaving hundreds of bloody and wounded would-be wolves behind them to die or be imprisoned -- to sit and wonder for the rest of the war how this reversal of fortune had happened.

The Rebels were driven off because Sheridan’s outraged and abandoned infantry obliterated about one fourth of Bragg’s effective force in about half an hour. The Rebels suffered 519 killed, 2635 wounded and 251 missing for a total of 3405, while the Yanks lost 845 killed, 2815 wounded and 515 missing for a total of 4211. Though the Yanks suffered significantly higher casualties, the battle ensured the South’s loss of Kentucky because Buell still had over 40,000 fresh Federal troops waiting to engage Bragg’s exhausted 14,000 or so graybacks. The defeat at Perryville signaled both E. Kirby Smith and Bragg – not to mention Johnny and his come-lately brigade -- to the get the hell out of Kentucky as fast as they could march.

A retreat began the next day, October 9th, much to Johnny’s surprise. They’d just got there and not fired a shot! Again! Now they had to run back home with their tails between their legs. He was relieved and angry at the same time. No, he didn’t want to die, but at the same time he wanted to keep the Goddamned Yankees out of Kentucky so they’d stay out of Southwest Virginia.

He hadn’t signed up to avoid fights with the invaders. Sure, he wanted to see his wife and child . . . but Christ!

It’d be better if they’d thrust the 29th into the middle of the fighting at Perryville and inflicted as many casualties as they could before retreating. Why were they there at all, if not to fight with Bragg or Smith? Now the momentum was lost and with it the state of Kentucky.

As they began their long march back to Southwest Virginia, Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac kept their eyes straight ahead, occasionally shifting their eyes a bit so they could glare at Marshall’s back. He was a great guy, he really was, but most of the men thought he wasn’t worth his salt. Johnny reserved judgment but not so Napoleon and Isaac. They kept telling each other, “we ain’t going to win no war with pussys like Marshall leading us.” It was the first time they agreed with Porcino, who was already composing in his mind a letter to the Confederate War Department about Marshall’s lack of backbone. Meanwhile Marshall steadily marched forward to the rear, knowing his 3000-man Army of Western Kentucky stood no chance against Buell’s 58,000-man Army of Ohio.

Marshall had more on his mind than getting out of Kentucky. He rode his horse with a strange look of confusion on his face, as if something had happened so bewildering that he had yet to understand its implications.

And indeed, something had happened. Several couriers had ridden into camp the past two days, each one carrying worse and worse news. But the one who had troubled him most was the man who told Marshall how his men had been forced to bury the dead in shallow graves because there just wasn’t time to bury them deeper.

His commander had said, “bury them 18 inches beneath the dirt so the sun won’t turn them black so quick, so they won’t stink the place up so quick.” They had buried them exactly 18 inches deep, as instructed, using bayonets to measure the depth. But during the night, peeping through holes in their entrenchments, they saw wild hogs rooting

bodies out of the graves and eating the remains. The beasts didn’t care what uniforms were worn by the dead. They didn’t worry about the dead’s politics or causes. They just ate the meat cast so conveniently before them.

Hundreds of hogs roamed the battlefield. The moon was out so no one could fire on the ghastly swine. To fire they had to lift your eyes above the barriers, inviting a dozen sharpshooters on the other side to draw beams on their heads. So, they had no choice but to watch the men eaten, as once the men had eaten hogs. This meant something horrible to Marshall -- but he wasn’t philosopher or poet enough to understand. Johnny would have understood, though – and he would understand it fully after Cold Harbor. Human warfare was just God’s way of slopping the hogs.

Kentucky indeed was lost but the battle of Perryville wasn’t a complete failure for the Rebels. First of all, considerably more Yanks were lost than Rebs. It proved once and for all that the Confederacy meant business. The new nation wasn’t going to be beaten without horrible and bloody consequences for the United States – now its archenemy. With its larger population, the North thought it could simply bluff the South into giving up its pretensions of sovereignty with a show of indomitable numbers and superior firepower. It had expected to simply snatch Kentucky out of Rebel hands by sending in an admittedly huge and superbly equipped army. It didn’t work. First the Rebels gave Union General Ulysses S. Grant a whipping he’d never forget at Shiloh in April, then Buell at the amazingly savage if inconclusive fight at Perryville in October. It was going to be a longer and more brutal war than anyone had expected.

Dejectedly, Johnny and the rest of Marshall’s Army of Western Kentucky began their march back to Southwest Virginia -- passing through Nickolsville to Bryantville and then back to Nickolsville, where it made camp by Hickman’s Bridge along the Kentucky River. Though Marshall expected and apparently wanted a confrontation with the Yankees at Hickman’s Bridge, it never came and the itty-bitty Army of Western Kentucky marched to Salyersville, then on to Abingdon in Virginia – where it arrived on November 1, 1862. From there, it marched about 80 miles northeast to Wytheville’s Camp Jackson in Wythe County. Johnny was only forty miles or so from Lebanon and his beloved Anna. He would get to see them again, but not for long.

From Hess’ diary and official records, we can safely say that the men of the 29 th – enlisted and commissioned – were glad to be home and looked forward to some rest and relaxation with their families at their own homes.

Certainly Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac took the opportunity to split for while. The adventure to Lexington was fraught with potential danger and they were justly proud of themselves for their part in the campaign, even if it failed. True, no one in the 29th fired a shot, but the will and courage and intent was there – if only the Yanks had dared confront them! Smith and Bragg’s armies got the luck and the glory and the accolades, but the 29 th got a little seasoning . . . and that was just as important.

Johnny Hess got a little something extra – he was gifted with the insight that he didn’t want to fight the Yankees after all. He’d seen warfare at close hand by then and it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Napoleon and Isaac were quick to agree with him, and with him fervently agreed that they sure hoped the 29th was going to stay right there in Southwest Virginia, just like General Marshall had said they would. The boys believed their homes were safe enough from Lincoln’s hordes. After all, the Yanks had been chased out of northwest Virginia and badly mauled while taking Kentucky. They weren’t going to bother Southwest Virginia for a long, long time. What would they want from them? A passage to Tennessee? Nope, they could launch an attack from the Cumberland now. Tear up the railroad?

They might try that, but Marshall’s army would be there, wouldn’t it?

Even if an army was sent to invade their homes, it would be a small one – not more than a brigade or two, like in Princeton. Marshall’s Army of Western Kentucky could take care of them. So why should they leave? Why should the 29th Virginia Regiment ask for death? The officers as well as the men felt this same sentiment about staying home,

near their homes and wives and families. It was right there in Southwest Virginia where they could do the most good for the Confederacy.

Almost everyone in the brigade looked upon Marshall as a kindly old father who wasn’t about to risk his sons in a misadventure. And Marshall seemed to enjoy the role they’d thrust upon him, continuing his policy of letting them go home at will, miss musters, skip drills and just leave when the crops needed tending or the hogs needed killing. There were big things to deal with and there were small things to deal with. Bringing children into the world and tending one’s garden were among the big things to Marshall. Winning medals and glory were among the small things. He did just the opposite of what the Confederate War Department expected of an officer.

As always, there was a whiner who complained and bitched and talked about how much the regiment needed to be in the thick of action. That was 31 year old Lieutenant Colonel Squealing Porcino, of course, who was livid upon returning from Kentucky without firing a shot or taking any casualties. He blamed Marshall, though a good argument could be made in Marshall’s defense. After all, the 29th had emerged unscathed from the Battle of Princeton and managed to avoid the bloodletting at Richmond and Perryville. Most of the men were grateful.

But Porcino could see only one side of an argument and that was his own. He would sit on his cot for hours, smoking a pipe furiously, knitting his brow and cursing Marshall and his merry band of cowards. Christ, no discipline at all! Marshall keeps them safe in their tents during battle, then let’s them run wild when they’re supposed to be training.

That’s right old man, he sneered behind Marshall’s back, keep them away from the Yankees. Let them avoid their duty. Let them slop their hogs instead of shooting blue-bellies – let them play cards instead of charging with their bayonets! He, at least, wasn’t a damn coward. He had honor and integrity and courage. He was a soldier and his job was to kill Yankees. He was an officer and his job was to kick his men’s asses until they too killed Yankees.

Men had to fear him more than they feared the enemy, he believed. Men are like mules, he thought, you have to beat them to make them do anything.

Seething, he decided to write President Davis himself – go right to the top and damn the chain of command!

He’d let the War Department know what was going on here. Imagine, John Henry Hess running off to his wife every night! Imagine him leaving whenever he felt like it! By God, he meant it when he’d promised to have Hess shot when he got command of the 29th. There’d be some drastic, painful changes when he took over from fat man Marshall.

Taking a pencil, he wrote from Camp Jackson on November 28, 1862: To the Most Honorable President of the Confederate States of America, Jefferson Davis, For the last twelve months our regiment (the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment) has been under the command of Brig. Gen. Humphrey Marshall. During this period we have been in sight of the enemy but twice and have had but one small skirmish with him. This we acknowledge with shame is all the service we have rendered the Confederate States.

The fault of having done no more rests not with us. Early last summer feeling that we were in a position to do but little credit to ourselves and our country in behalf of the Regiment I applied for a transfer to another Brigade. This request not being granted, we were compelled to remain in a state of inactivity in a region remote from the enemy. The consequences of that inactivity are now being duly felt. The Regiment became demoralized.

The men having nothing to do applied for furloughs. In many cases they were granted. When refused, they deserted, remaining away until they desired to return or until they were apprehended and brought back. In either case this Deserter was dealt with leniently – slight reprimand or a few extra hours of guard duty being the greatest punishment inflicted for desertion.

This laxity of discipline produced its natural result: men soon learned to regard desertion as a small offense and now as prevalent as it (is) in our regiment that although the Muster Roles show the rank and file to be eight Hundred and ninety, yet we can hardly muster more than six hundred men.

This is the true condition of our Regiment. It meets with the approbation of neither officers nor privates and we trust will no longer be tolerated by the Department. It is the unanimous wish of all that we shall be transferred to another field.

The following are some of the reasons inducing us to make this request: the confidence which we at first had in our Commander has, during the last twelve months, been greatly impaired if not entirely destroyed. The state of discipline in this Command is such as to impair the efficiency of the troops, ours having already suffered greatly, and we have no hope of it being restored as long as we remain here.

The companies composing our Regiment were raised in this and the adjoining counties and are consequently in the immediate vicinity of their homes. The temptation to desert is therefore much greater than it would be if we were removed from this section. It will be impossible to keep the men in camp if we remain here.

We therefore must urgently request that your Excellency will recommend to the Department the transfer of the 29th Va. Regiment to some other Brigade beyond the limits of western Virginia.

I have the honor to be S. Porcino, Lt. Col. Comdg. 29th Va. Regt.

Porcino’s complaint didn’t go directly to President Davis but was forwarded to Secretary of War James A. Seddon. This was extraordinary in itself because the letter hadn’t been signed by any other officers of the 29 th.

Porcino was second in command of the regiment but its first in command – Colonel Alfred C. Moore – had either not seen the complaint or refused to sign it. Nor had any other officers signed it. It was obvious he didn’t represent the regiment he claimed to be behind him. His letter was forwarded only because those who first read it thought they could most injuriously tumble Porcino from his high horse by showing it to Seddon – who could roast and barbecue a squealer like Squealing Porcino.

Seddon found the contents of the letter so audacious that he passed it around the War Department and sent a transcript of it back to the officers and men of the 29th. Most were furious that Porcino had attacked Marshall and even more furious that he’d demanded the 29th be transferred out of Southwest Virginia. The officers at the War Department were also outraged – not because he’d asked them to transfer his regiment to a war zone, but because he’d jumped the chain of command. Porcino had slapped them in the face. Junior officers were considered mutinous when they tried to bypass their immediate superiors.

The result might have been the end of Porcino’s military career but he was saved by Marshall’s political opponents, who were only too happy to have their rival trashed by a subordinate officer. Marshall wouldn’t have a chance on the political front if he were relieved of his command. In an attempt to further discredit the good-natured General, they personally spoke with President Davis and expressed their opinion that Porcino’s accusations were of such a serious nature that they had to be addressed.

Pressed by these anti-Marshall politicos, Davis prevented the Secretary of War from hauling Porcino over the coals and instructed him to correct the situation. Wheels turned and gears engaged. An investigation was launched in which some officers from the 51st Virginia testified that Marshall had indeed stood by while the 51st was engaging the

enemy at Princeton. They found, however, many more officers who testified he had efficiently organized the Army of Western Kentucky and performed admirably at the Battle of Middle Creek. The absentee problem Porcino claimed was rampant in the 29th proved to be no worse than other regiments assigned outside the perimeters of actual warfare. As a result, Marhsall wasn’t relieved of duty but he did lose his devoted 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment.

The Confederate War Department issued orders that the 29th Regiment be transferred to east Virginia before the end of 1862. Marshall remained with the remaining troops of his brigade in Southwest Virginia for a short while afterward, but was so disheartened by the incident that he resigned his commission in early 1863. But he’d been spared public disgrace and retained his loyal constituents, who elected him to the Confederate Congress upon his return to civilian life. As far as transferring the 29th into a combat zone, however, Porcino accomplished his mission.

They were all going to the gates of hell and jump into the inferno. At last they’d have a chance to die for their country.

He let loose a little squeak of excitement when he heard the news.

While all this going on, the men of the 29th had been taking it easy at Crab Orchard in Bland County. All of them except Porcino – who was from Danville – were within easy riding distance of their homes. Leave and furloughs were easy to get signed. And if no one would sign their requests, they just took off and paid for their disobedience with a few extra days guard duty when they returned.

With the exception of Lt. Col. Squealing Porcino, their officers knew the Southwest Virginians were honorable at heart. They were independent and proud, yes. But above that, they were loyal. The free-spirited farm boys and backwoodsmen could be trusted to return in time to perform whatever drilling or work was necessary. And they’d certainly be there if a fight loomed ahead. Though they might have seemed unprofessional to hard-liners like Porcino, they believed in the Confederacy and would prove their dependability -- and fierceness – in the battles to come. The Yankees would test their metal time and again, only to find it as tempered and reliable as a Wilkinson sword.

Every Sunday dozens would leave without permission to attend their childhood churches and sup afterward with their folks on heaps of fried chicken, hog hocks, grits, collards and pone. Almost all of them had left for hog killing day to help with the slaughter – lingering afterward to dance with their girls among the hanging cadavers of swine. The girls loved their uniforms. They didn’t have to labor as hard as they had on the farms. They got in a lot of catfishing and ‘coon hunting and swilling the damn-it-all ‘shine. They loved the army – they’d never had it so good.

So they weren’t happy at all when they found out what Porcino had done. The orders came on December 15 th.

That meant leaving the protective wing of General Marshall, whose command of the 29 th was assumed by Col. Alfred C. Moore, with Lt. Col. Porcino remaining second in command. Hasty good-byes were said or sent by last minute letters. Only Porcino was eager to go. On December 17th they were marched 21 miles to the railroad station in Wytheville and told to prepare for duty in the real army. They arrived in the evening and waited in the rain for the train to come chugging up. They knew the jig was up.

They were going to east Virginia to kill some Goddamned Yankees, Porcino told them. Their asses were going to be shot off if they didn’t shape up, Porcino added with a vicious little smile. He personally was going to shoot them in the backs if they didn’t follow orders. The men listening to him noticed his tiny close-set eyes were red – not like he’d been crying, but shining like an animal’s eyes sometimes shine in the last rays of a sunset. Silvery -- evil looking . . . ominous . . . hateful. He strutted around the men with his hands clasped behind him, his chin stuck in the air, looking down at them over his nose. He hoped enough of them would get killed to teach the others how to be good soldiers.

The only thing that worried Porcino was that John Henry Hess couldn’t be found. He wasn’t aware that Colonel Moore had given Johnny three weeks furlough and the soldier was quite legally at home. Legal or not, Hess became an obsession that day as Porcino looked everywhere, asking everybody where he was, threatening to have him

court-martialed when found. He spent half an hour storming up and down the ranks as they played cards, cleaned their muskets, sharpened their huge bowie knives.

The men said nothing because they enjoyed watching Porcino’s face swell up and turn blood red when told Hess hadn’t been seen in days. The liked the way his eyes narrowed to little slits, making his face look like a pig’s face with weasel eyes. They also liked to watch his fists clench so tight they trembled. They hoped he’d have a stroke and keel over dead. Almost every man in the regiment hated his goddamned stinking guts.

While his fellow soldiers were entertaining themselves by infuriating Porcino that December 17 th, Hess was sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch, sipping a cup of hot molasses-sweetened sassafras tea, sucking a homecarved dark-oak pipe and pondering the preponderance of pigs in the world. He was also pondering the odd, extremely unpleasant feeling he’d had in his stomach since seeing his first man shot. He didn’t like what seeing death had done to him.

Johnny had come to his senses since enlisting. He’d heard the news about the 29 th being transferred to the real war and didn’t want to go. They expected him to come a’ running but he had furlough till the 23 rd and he wasn’t leaving till he had to. He was angry inside, especially at Porcino. Thanks a lot, you son of a bitch, Hess thought to himself.

He wanted things to stay the way they were so he could continue seeing his new wife and help with the farm work. He especially wanted to stay so he could take care of his first child, Maggie, who’d been born in late July – the little girl who called him Daddy. Him, John Henry Hess! He had a daughter . . . . He still couldn’t believe it. Maggie had come as one heck of a surprise, seeing as how they’d only been married four months. Actually, Maggie had been conceived that night at the Hog Killing Dance in Lebanon -- though neither Johnny nor Anna admitted to their kinfolk that the wedding had been just a tad late.

Maggie, who had been born with a cap of black curly hair, already liked to hug his neck and snuggle in his arms. She would gaze into his eyes as he held her on his lap and rocked on the porch. She giggled and laughed till she cried when he tickled her ribs. She grabbed his nose and refused to let go till he stuck out his tongue. They’d sit on the porch and rock for hours, watching the humming birds and listening to the treefrogs, more content than they’d ever be again. She hugged him tightly at night as if she knew he was going away.

He loved her with a fullness beyond the telling of it. She had hazel eyes with black halos around the irises, just like her mother. How he would miss those bewitching eyes when was gone! Anna’s, too! He wondered if he’d ever see his girls again, now that Porcino had gotten the 29th transferred to the front lines. What if he didn’t make it back?

Johnny couldn’t imagine a future without his two girls. The thought of never seeing them again was more than he could bear. He didn’t want to be a hero anymore. He just wanted to stay home with his wife and daughter.

Knowing he had to go back made him feel so terrible that he wept at night while slopping the hogs, where no one could hear him. And he prayed aloud at night, ten sometimes even fifteen minutes, kneeling by his bed, clasping his hands – begging that his life be spared for the sake of his wife and child.

He wasn’t a coward but seeing his first human being killed had changed him inside. Plenty of men in the 29 th had died of disease during the last year but they’d all been at their homes or in hospitals far out of sight. The only person he’d actually seen die was a man from another regiment who’d gotten himself shot in the guts at the Battle of Princeton. Johnny often replayed the memory of that day as he rocked back and forth on his so peaceful and isolated porch . . . .

That day a courier from another regiment had galloped up to their ranks on a horse, jumped off, announced himself as Captain Leonidas Elliott, and shouted that he had a message for Captain Smith. He ran up and down the line till he found Smith, then snapped to attention, exposing himself to the Yanks. He looked very military and tough.

Then there was a thud and he toppled over on his back as if pushed by an invisible hand. The guy seemed okay for several minutes, looking around, even joking, accepting a cigar, clamping it defiantly in his teeth, grinning. Oh, he was tough, all right. A hole about the size of nickel could be seen on his jacket, just left of his belly button, with a dark stain slowly growing around it as blood seeped into the wool.

The dying itself came as a surprise to the victim as

well as the men around him. One second he was alert and talking and bragging about his luck. Then the next second he got quiet. A worried expression came over his face. His belly began to swell up. He sweat big drops that made him look as if his whole face were crying. Then his eyes widened and he began to murmur, “hep hep hep hep hep hep . . . .”

The 29th’s Chaplain Alex Phillippi grabbed both his hands and tried to talk to him about Jesus and how God was waiting for him in heaven. He put a Holy Bible over the dying man’s heart, knowing it would stop beating when too much blood had drained out its ventricles and into his peritoneum. Internal hemorrhage. The preacher’s eyes filled and brimmed over, streaming down his cheeks. He was ashamed and said to the men around him, “I’m sorry, this man deserves better than I can give him” -- but the men knew it wasn’t Phillippi’s fault.

The chaplain never felt so embarrassed. He was crying like a baby over a man who was dying and knew it, who was hurting and afraid, who needed comfort not words. He cried because words of faith and promises of heaven didn’t ease the man’s suffering. Then the preacher seemed to understand something he hadn’t understood before.

Whatever comfort the victim felt was coming from his touch, not his words.

Ignoring the stares of the other men, he lay down next to the man and hugged him. He lifted his head and placed his right arm beneath it like a pillow. He stroked the dying soldier’s forehead with his left hand. And damn what the other men thought! Chaplain Phillippi’s body-to-body hug calmed the dying man, who even perked up a bit just to make the preacher feel better. He talked a little, saying “It don’t hurt much as I thought . . . it don’t matter, chaplain . . . it were meant to be . . . don’t get yourself all blooded up on my account . . . tell my sergeant to get the letter I told him about . . . make sure he sends it . . . . ” The chaplain’s heart was breaking because this was the first innocent man he’d ever seen die in his prime. He expected the other graybacks to snicker but they only stared. They somehow knew the chaplain was giving this man an extraordinary gift. Not heavenly promises but human love. They all felt they’d be lucky to die someone’s arms instead of alone in the mud. The chaplain heart was breaking and he himself was breaking. But they knew he’d heal and he’d be there for them. In fact, each of them, in their secret minds, hoped this particular chaplain would be with them if they got themselves shot. After this, the chaplain would be whole and wouldn’t waste time with words. He’d hold them as they slipped away. A chaplain had to be shattered before God could reassemble him into a man who loved humanity as much as he loved divinity.

That much the Rebels learned that day about being a soldier. The point would come when they’d each be completely shattered and it would seem they would never be whole again. But they would. Time and god would be the glue holding them together.

None of the soldiers made a sound as the drama unfolded. An unseen fist gripped their throats, blocking off the air. They all felt a horrible despair when a ghastly whistling noise began to rattle from the dying soldier’s lungs.

They were transfixed, despite the enemy bullets zinging over their heads as they crouched over the chaplain and his embraced. Phillippi held him tighter, even as the Great Blackness seeped into the victim, filling his mind and dimming his vision.

The wounded man looked into the chaplain’s eyes for an eternity of twenty seconds before he went into a choking fit. Then the life in his eyes suddenly disappeared and everyone knew he was just a dead man. They knew the very instant when he died. The light winked out like a lamp. The soul that animated him took the light with it as it leapt out of his body. Chaplain Phillippi let go just as the dying man let go. He leapt to his feet and looked down at the

body.

The victim hadn’t gone to sleep or passed out – he just wasn’t a person anymore. He was a cadaver with no more life than a slab of bacon. The whole regiment stared at him with disbelief mixed with an unexpected resentment.

The mound of flesh and bone left behind disturbed them. They couldn’t comprehend how it’d come to replace the person who had animated it only a few minutes before. The lifeless body burdened them with a weight they didn’t want to bear. They hadn’t learned yet that the minute a man dies, no matter how loved, no one wants to be around him anymore. Everyone was embarrassed by his confusion and lack of understanding. The air was sucked out of their lungs again as a heaviness settled on the whole regiment like a suffocating blanket.

Johnny had seen it all and for the first time wondered how this could be real. How could people do this to each other? His feelings would harden considerably – harden to stone -- when he’d see thousands killed at once in battles to come. They’d be hard as diamond by the time he’d see a human being’s head lopped off by a cavalryman’s sword. He’d feel nothing. But right then – for that first time – he believed in the marrow of his bones that this couldn’t happen twice, that the hideousness of being gut shot would shock everybody involved in the war into realizing it was a senseless, certain sin.

As he’d watched that day, several soldiers had helped the chaplain roll the body over to see where the projectile had exited. A bloody little wound, no bigger than the entrance wound, was exposed. Plenty of blood had gushed out and lay in an obscene pool beneath him. But the hole itself seemed little and harmless . . . .

He’d been shot with a .69 caliber round ball, which left a smaller wound than a Minie ball. It was certainly better to be shot with a .69. But he’d been shot through the stomach. There was no stopping hemorrhage of the stomach. He might have survived if it’d gone through his intestines, though that was horrible and dangerous enough.

But the stomach . . . that meant death every time, and pain, plenty of it, of an agonizing kind that causes even the hardest man to cry for his mother. This man, at least, had managed not to scream.

Johnny thought about this months later as he sat and rocked, sat and rocked . . . puffing his pipe, sipping his tea, back at home on furlough. No, he didn’t want to go back, that was for sure. But he hadn’t been raised to be a liar.

Or a coward. He’d signed up and that was that. He’d said he’d fight and he would, and that was that too. As much as he hated the idea of leaving Anna and Maggie, there was Napoleon, Isaac and the regiment – which he considered his other home. It was up to every man to live up to his country’s expectations and he expected himself to be steadfast, loyal, true-blue and brave. He had to join back up with his regiment, that was all there was to it. But he had written permission to be gone till the 23rd and he had it coming, so he’d take it. He’d have to meet the regiment wherever it went. But not till December 23rd, by God. The same evening they’d marched to Wytheville, the 29th Virginia Regiment’s approximately 750 men boarded the train bound for Richmond. Many had never ridden on a train before and were excited as children. They piled in willy-nilly, everywhere, finding room where they could. It was so crowded that some had to stand up in the aisles, nuts to butts, but they didn’t mind. You couldn’t find a comfortable place anyway. Even those lucky enough to find room in the booths were still choked by thick black smoke and constantly showered with burning embers sucked in the windows. Everyone had to wrap bandanas around their noses and put little fires out as they ignited on their clothes.

But it was no big deal. They weren’t about to close the windows, smoke or no smoke, embers or no embers. No sir!

Though it was the middle of winter and snowing, it was still too damn hot inside and the windows had to be kept open.

Most of the men were thrilled. Oh, it was chilly but who cared about that? They had blankets and jackets to break the wind. Besides, the locomotive could pull the cars at only ten or fifteen miles an hour so they needed all the fresh air they could get, cold or not. The smoke and embers were nothing. They dismissed the conditions because they were so impressed by the massive steam locomotive, made of iron with its high smokestack belching fire and its huge

thumping pistons attached to wheels taller than them.

Six men had to ride on the cowcatcher but they didn’t mind because it was exciting and the smoke couldn’t get to them. All they had to do was wear blankets over their shoulders and keep their balance and hold their muskets loaded and ready to fire. It was really easy once you got the hang of it. They liked being guards on a troop train. They felt like soldiers and that’s how they were supposed to feel.

There were so many men and such little space that over a hundred had to ride on top of the cars, where they sat cross-legged, wrapped in blankets and ponchos, rocking back and forth, back and forth, as the train lurched back and forth.

They traveled the night of the 17th and most of the 18th, chugging up and down the mountains, over scary wooden trestles spanning thousand foot ravines, through thick forest, across immense glades, through covered bridges over deep creeks and yawning rivers. All were exhausted and covered with soot and little burns by the time they arrived at Lynchburg the evening of 18th. They’d traveled 132 miles in about 20 hours. Still, it beat marching. Better stiff than sore. They all disembarked in Lynchburg for a few hours before reboarding for the trip on in to Richmond, 126 miles away. The whole trip took about 48 hours.

Isaac and Napoleon were lucky enough to ride in a boxcar, along with thirty other soldiers. Straw had been strewn on the floor. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been because everyone had space to sit down and the doors were left open, allowing a draft to keep the men cool. Most played cards to kill the time, though a few read bibles, a few slept and another few – like Isaac and Napoleon – managed to maneuver themselves toward the doors until they could sit with their legs hanging out and their faces in the smoky but snowy rush of air.

Sitting together like that, they talked a bit about the soldier they’d seen shot at the Battle of Princeton, the same one Johnny had seen. They whispered in low tones and avoided each other’s eyes. It was a sore subject. They hadn’t liked the experience at all but neither one could admit he’d been moved. Neither of the Garretts had shown the slightest empathy – neither had shed a tear. They’d both watched the drama unfold with an apparent indifference that appalled most of their buddies. Johnny had wondered if his friends were as heartless and cold-blooded as they seemed while watching the grayback bleed to death.

It wasn’t true in Napoleon’s case. He’d hidden his emotions with an experienced and disciplined air, consciously keeping a straight face for his fellow infantrymen. It was important to be seen as a hardened soldier because he was more fearful than the other men and he couldn’t let it show. He knew they’d pick him out and torment him with dares and curses. They’d challenge him to fights and make fun of him during drills. No thanks! Such things – like a heart that raced when faced with danger – had to be concealed and guarded. In his eyes, it was a sin to be afraid of anything, even people shooting at you and cannonballs exploding in your ranks. No, if you were a coward, you did the noble thing and kept it hidden. You owed it to your fellow men in arms to at least pretend to be brave, even if you got killed in the process. Death was preferable to exposure as a coward.

When they’d all been growing up together in Russell County, Napoleon had been the last to work up enough nerve to swim across the Clinch River. He’d shaken like a leaf when firing his first double-barreled shotgun, fearing its fierce kick. He’d been afraid to fight the bullies who challenged him at grammar school. He’d taken months to work up enough nerve to grab a rattlesnake around the neck. He’d been reluctant to go bear hunting with the others. A man could get himself torn up bad by a bear! He trembled when the pretty girls looked at him and was terrified at the thought of talking to them.

He was even afraid of kissing his own mother goodnight, lest his dad think him a sissy. He lived in fear as if it were a fog that always surrounded him. Sometimes at night he’d lay awake in bed with his heart quivering with anxious fears of no specific origin. Afraid for no reason at all! Once he’d worked himself into a panic and had spent the night

outside, pacing back and forth, back and forth, until at last his heart calmed and he could sleep.

This had all happened before he turned thirteen -- but by then the damage was done and his friends and enemies alike expected him to be afraid, no matter what happened. So throughout high school, Napoleon had tried to win back the respect he had lost as a child. He picked fights with the biggest guys, going into a fury of fists and kicks and bites until the giant was down on the ground, balled up for protection while Napoleon worked out his fury by kicking him in the ears and eyes. He hunted wildcats and even mountain lions with nothing but a flintlock pistol, though more than one hunter in Russell County had been badly mauled for trying the same thing. He was a wildcat himself when it came tot he girls, brazenly approaching the loveliest ones and asking them too cute questions that made them blush.

When war came along, the same rules applied and Napoleon was ready to die before letting anyone see that he was terrified inside – and when the soldier at Princeton had been shot and died, Napoleon indeed had been terrified.

This is why he’d kept a dispassionate expression on his face, holding his body rigid and deliberately breathing with slow breaths so he wouldn’t gasp. But no matter . . . he was about to see a thousand deaths and keeping a steely glare would become second nature to Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett. He’d never get over that queasy feeling of fear but he’d always have his steely glare. It was sad in a way, for Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett never realized that two out of every three people on earth suffered the same fears and anxieties that he believed were his alone.

As for Isaac, he was a philosopher. He kept his fears at bay by thinking about universal truisms. What would be, would be. To him everything was destiny and beyond his control. He had a sleepy look about him that reminded you of a nestling songbird whose eyes have not quite opened. A thick gooey mucous rimmed both lids and big dark bags fell from each eye, making him look much older than he was. Actually, he’d had a case of pinkeye when he was ten that never quite went away. It was just as well, however, because his temperament certainly fit his appearance.

Nothing excited him. Nothing angered or pleased him. He accepted what came with a profound indifference.

On the train that night, he at first sat with his brother in the boxcar’s door, dangling his legs over the side. But eventually he grew weary and lifted one leg up on the sill while bracing his back against the side of the boxcar’s wall, allowing the wind to hit him directly in the face. Against this wind he pitted his will by attempting to smoke his pipe, which like the train’s smokestack belched smoke and fire that was blown back into his face. He didn’t seem to mind, preferring the nicotine high to the discomfort.

Wasn’t life like that, he wondered; wasn’t it always a choice

between unpleasant states of being? He could have stayed on the farm, for example. But that would have meant bearing the weight of his brother’s missing labor as well as enduring the crushing boredom. On the other hand, he could sign up and endure the hardships of a foot soldier, with its inevitable monotony combined with the sporadic bouts of terror. Some choice! But there was no alternative, so he simply flipped a coin and it came up heads, meaning he’d stick with Napoleon and take his chances against the Yankees. In truth, he felt as much fear as did his brother, but managed to fool himself into complacency by telling himself over and over again that his future was already written down in a great big book -- somewhere in the preordained cosmic scheme of things.

He’d phlegmatically accepted it as fate when he heard how Porcino had gotten them all transferred to the fighting in east Virginia. So what? What was the difference between dying behind a plow or in front of a cannon? You were just as dead. When your time came, it came, and there was nothing you could do but take the Reaper’s hand and go quietly into the night. He had no hope about anything – he just let life happen. He didn’t know it, of course, but he was a sort of Zen Buddhist monk in his ability not to care, not to believe, not to react, not to fight change. Life rolled over him like a boulder.

That was lucky for him because he was insensitive to the fears and uncertainties that had already begun to haunt the hearts of Napoleon and Johnny. Napoleon, he believed, would be fine because he had conquered fear before

and triumphed over his nerves. He also believed Johnny would be okay, because Johnny was religious and the religious can’t be touched by absolute despair. That’s what really killed a man, Isaac believed – absolute despair.

When you see no hope, there is no hope. Isaac didn’t need courage or hope himself – he just smoked his pipe with a strange little smile on his face and waited for life to happen.

The train was nearing Richmond when Napoleon shouted, “Look at them hogs!” He and Isaac stared at a troop of twelve wild hogs gathered near the tracks and standing around two dark mounds. The brothers were traveling slow enough to see the swine looking back at them as they crawled past. None of them made a sound; none of them moved. They just stared back at the two men staring at them. They formed a circle around the mound, which the men soon recognized as a dead hog who’d been hit and cut in half by a previous train.

They’d not quite passed the grisly scene when the hogs bowed their heads all at once, as if honoring their dead companion. The two brothers interpreted the scene differently. “They’s Catholics,” Isaac said with a smirk; “that’s their Feast of the Assumption. They’re gonna eat their dead” – and he laughed heartily at his own joke. Isaac didn't give a damn but Napoleon saw an omen in the hogs’ prayer. This time Napoleon was right – it was indeed an omen of things to come. The hogs were not so dishonorable as to eat their own dead. Had he been there long enough, he would have seen the hogs as they each snuffled the expired member of their pack around the head and shoulders, as if kissing their dearly departed for the last time. “He’s in hog’s heaven now,” Napoleon thought; “the dead are lucky.”

The scene was preying on his mind as the train pulled into the Richmond station. It was a chilly winter afternoon on December 18, 1862 -- and the great city was bursting with forced jubilation, pulsating with enticing sexual pleasures and singing an inappropriate but deliriously joyful song.

It was the South’s swan song but no one knew it yet. Gaudy girls in red dresses and painted faces surrounded the cars as the men disembarked. The girls sashayed up and down the station walk, advertising their plump padded rears and huge heaving bosoms. They blew in the soldiers’ ears and smiled seductively with tongues stuck teasingly out of their mouths. The simple Southwest Virginian boys were astonished and stood mute as the bedroom girls flashed their tantalizing white thighs and licked their lips.

Children cheered and ran through their ranks, touching their uniforms and weapons . . . as if touching imbued them with the fighting spirit they’d need when the Yanks came. A band also awaited the soldiers, playing Dixie as they tried to hear their sergeants’ orders over the din. Hundreds of adults milled around, grinning, congratulating, shaking hands, handing out bottles of whiskey and wine. The regiment to the man wanted to take leave, to stream into the city of loose women and hard spirits, where they could lose themselves in existential bouts of sheer hedonism – taking their fill of flesh and alcohol before marching out to meet the invaders.

But it wasn’t to be. A short, no-necked, barrel-chested sergeant from another outfit bellowed “fall in!”. When they were in place, he shouted, “A-tennn-hut! Shoulder . . . arms! On the leeeeeft foot, march! Left, right, left, right. left, right . . . come along, boys, sing! . . . Rebels! Tis our dying name! For, although life is dear, Yet freemen born and freemen bred, We’d rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear . . . Rebels! tis our sealed name! A baptism of blood! The war-eye and the din of strife – the fearful contest, life for life – the mingled crimson flood . . . left, right, left right, left right. . . . ” The crowd cheered and cheered as the boys chimed in and soon the crowd chimed in to, singing “Rebels! Tis our dying name! For, although life is dear, Yet freemen born and freemen bred, We’d rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear . . . Rebels! tis our sealed name! A baptism of blood! The war-eye and the din of strife – the fearful contest life for life – the mingled crimson flood . . . .”

Seven hundred and fifty muskets jutted into the air as the column snaked out of the station and marched eight miles to a bit of high ground in a bend of the James River called Drewry’s Bluff. There a Confederate fort had been built in 1862 to protect the Richmond wharves with cannon; hulks had been sunken in the river and piles driven

into it bottom. None of the 29th could have known the regiment would fight its bloodiest battle there just a year later.

They bivouacked five days and on Christmas Eve marched twenty miles south to a camp near the equally great and corrupted city of Petersburg, where waited just as many painted women and just as much flowing alcohol. As one man, the 29th rejoiced! That is, all except Napoleon, whose secret lame foot felt as if it’d been scraped raw with a rasp then smashed with a sledgehammer. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this kind of marching without falling behind, to be captured or declared a deserter.

It was at Petersburg the men discovered they were now part of the troops commanded by General Raleigh E. Colston, whose primary duty was guarding prisoners of war. Again the 29 th rejoiced! What light duty! What luck! They weren’t to become cannon fodder after all. But their relief was a bit premature because they were destined to leave Petersburg before April. They were teetering on the edge of a cliff and didn’t know it.

Johnny rendezvoused with the regiment on the 23rd, just as he’d promised. So he, Napoleon and Isaac celebrated the last days of December horsing around Petersburg, wallowing in the delights of its war-style Southern hospitality – meaning debauchery. Johnny resisted the lure of the loose ladies but not Napoleon, not Isaac.

The Garrets knew they were taking a chance with syphilis but couldn’t care less – after all, they might be dead tomorrow. They didn’t even care about resenting the Yankee whores, who had to be inspected for disease and certified as a healthy prostitutes before being used by the soldiers. Besides, all Southern men knew a bit of turpentine in pineneedle tea every night for two months would clear up a case of sylph. The clap didn’t scare them because it wasn’t fatal and it went away in a few months anyway. So what the hell? The girls leaned out of balconies, exposing their sweet plump breasts, as the boys walked through the streets of the doomed city. They cried out, “Hey, cherry boys!

Your mommies ain’t here! Come and git it while its hot and creamy!”

Napoleon of course had to show the others he was man enough to ride the back of a whore by picking out a juicy Georgia peach and disappearing with her inside a house painted pink. She led him by the hand upstairs to her room. But his demeanor changed once standing by the bed. His heart began to race with fear instead of desire. His age showed itself as she unlaced her dress and exposed her breasts. Napoleon touched one of them gingerly with the tip of a finger and asked, “Are those yours?” Immediately he was crushed by his stupidity! She grunted “yeah” as he desperately tried to think of what to say, what to do. He was terrified. His knees knocked so loudly he thought the woodpeckers outside would answer him. His spine turned to jelly. “Forgive me, man” he stammered; “I forgot something outside.”

Panicking, he ran out the door, down the stars and locked himself in a bathroom. He didn’t dare show himself for at least twenty minutes. Johnny and Isaac had to believe he’d actually gotten a piece of tail. His trembling finally eased up a bit and he peeked out, seeing a sitting room filled with whores and soldiers. Pulling himself together, he strode into the room, plopped down casually on a sofa and ordered a double whiskey . . . which he poured down his throat. It burned like fire and seared the inside of his stomach – but it did calm him down enough to pretend he’d been a real man when he rejoined his snickering but admiring friends in the street. They fell for it. Napoleon had become a man in their eyes. “Biggest crack I ever seen,” he told them with a leer; “Gad, what a gash! She looked like she’d been hit with an axe!” Their respect for him doubled as he said it. They thought even more of him when the whore shouted to Napoleon from the balcony, “Hey, cherry boy, you hung like a stallion!” Johnny and Isaac missed the mockery in her voice but Napoleon would hear it echoing through his head till the day he died.

Isaac didn’t give a damn about proving anything – so simply and honestly satisfied his lust by jumping on a tubby Charleston whore with a missing tooth and pounding her till he went off with a shout followed by a string of sighs. “AH! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh . . . .” He didn’t bother to thank her as he paid his Rebel dollar and walked out humming a tune. He had a shit-eating grin on his face when he found his buddies. “I done screwed my brains out” he

told them.

Johnny made up for his prude behavior by getting stinking falling-down drunk. Even in the gutter he was true to Anna and his faith, forgetting his earlier desires to taste the forbidden fruit before renouncing it forever. Anna and Maggie were his loves and needed no taste of anyone else’s love – especially after he saw the whores’ clownish painted faces and heard their coarse cursing voices. Nevertheless, he painted the town red with Napoleon and Isaac in his own way . . . so inevitably and naturally they all welcomed in the New Year with hellish hangovers and nerves wrapped in wires. But they were happy enough – believing as they did that they’d spend the rest of the war guarding prisoners in Petersburg. It’d be wine, women and song every night . . . they so foolishly thought.

1862 had been a year of missed battles and scary skirmishes for the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment. But their luck would run out with the beginning of April, 1863. Tens of thousands of Lincoln’s young lions were already streaming down from the North to pounce upon and disembowel their beloved Confederacy. The 29 th Virginia would be in the thick of things, battle after battle, till in the end they would taste their own bile and choke on their own blood. But Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac were blissfully ignorant those last weeks of 1862. They reveled in intoxication, lust and delusional bravado. They drank to a victory never to be, turning their shining eyes and confident grins toward an uncaring sun about to eclipse.

Part Three: 1863 The horror for Johnny Hess began March 25, 1863. Before then, Johnny’s regiment did little more than perform light duty at a prison near City Point, about 10 miles away from Petersburg. The men mostly stood guard duty along the James and Appomattox rivers, watching the comings and goings of boats bearing flags of truce as they traded POW’s. They watched the prisoner exchanges, pulled guard duty, repainted wooden barracks, picked up horse shit, polished brass, scrubbed floors, drilled in ranks and applied for furloughs home, most of which were approved by Colonel Moore – who, though hardly as lenient as Marshall, was still compassionate enough to let his men go home when they could be spared.

Actually, Moore was more compassionate than anyone knew. Upon arriving in Petersburg, he’d immediately requested that his whole regiment be transferred back to Southwest Virginia. The request was granted on March 24 th but mysteriously remanded and changed the same day. Instead of going back to their homes, the men would be going to combat.

The new orders were so shocking that the 57-year-old Moore resigned his commission one week later “owing to advanced age and failing health”. In truth he was healthy – but he was deeply disappointed he’d been looked over for promotion to brigadier general. Six months earlier a long letter recommending his elevation had been signed by all of his regimental staff. At the same time many of Virginia’s most prominent politicians had urged his promotion, citing his gallantry at the battles of Middle Creek and Princeton. But it was all to no avail. The problem was simply that he was long in the tooth, so he’d thrown up his hands in disgust and quit the service when his efforts to get the 29 th sent home were changed. He was mustered out on April 8th.

That was bad luck for Johnny and the others because Moore couldn’t get the orders changed back without being a general. As a colonel, he had to accept the new orders and eat his complaints. It was also bad luck because Moore wouldn’t be there to protect them from further meddling by Lt. Col. Squealing Porcino.

Porcino had gotten the orders changed by earlier writing President Davis a long letter explaining why the 29 th should be sent into battle instead of back home. Davis – upon hearing the 29th had been handed orders back to Southwest Virginia on March 24th -- had the orders instantly remanded and replaced with orders to join Brigadier General Montgomery Dent Corse’s Brigade the very next morning. Corse’s Brigade, as noted earlier, was part of Major General George E. Pickett’s Division of General James Longstreet’s First Crops – which was even then besieging an entrenched army of 25,000 Yankee soldiers garrisoned under the command of Union General John J. Peck in Suffolk, Virginia.

The men, especially Johnny, blew a fuse when they got wind of what had happened, where they were going and who had caused it. Resentment against Porcino made life so uncomfortable for him that he requested and received from General Corse a transfer to the 32nd Virginia. He was replaced with Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Herbert of the 17th Virginia, who was simultaneously promoted to full Colonel and given command of the 29 th Virginia Infantry.

It seemed Porcino was going to miss the combat for which he’d been begging because the 32 nd would be remaining in Petersburg to continue guarding prisoners. The irony was not lost on the men of the 29 th. But at least the bastard would be gone, they agreed as one man.

Unfortunately for everyone, including Corse, Porcino decided he didn’t want to be in the 32 nd after all because his promotion to Colonel would be delayed. His new regiment already had a full bird Colonel. It didn’t need two of them. So Porcino – pain in the ass that he was -- wrote another letter directly to President Davis, requesting to be transferred back to the 29th.

Again the Confederate War Department tried to get Porcino properly torpedoed and demoted for his

audacious habit of jumping the chain of command. But all they could do was delay his request. In the end, the bureaucracy was too large and unwieldy to give the agitator what he really deserved -- so he was ordered to transfer back to the 29th on May 11th. By then, the men of the 29th – thanks to him – would be up their necks in a battle they could have avoided if Porcino had kept his goddamned mouth shut. To make things worse, the War Department ordered Colonel Herbert to return to the 17th Virginia on the same day Porcino arrived. By that time, Porcino would have received his promotion to full Colonel and would consequently grab command of the 29 th -- despite the fact that every man in it hated him with a seething passion that stopped only a millimeter short of murdering him.

Porcino would be agog with joy when he got the news he was being transferred back come June. Not only was th

the 29 already in a hot zone, but he was being promoted to regimental commander! Full Colonel! Hot damn! At last he could pay his underlings back for their cowardice, laziness, disrespect and insubordination! That slacker John Hess would finally get his due for desertion and that pissant Napoleon would stop whining about his stinking feet!

The whole regiment would pay for the way they’d treated him for trying to be a good soldier and fight for the Confederacy instead of hiding way off in the mountains with the wild hogs. All Porcino had to do was wait till June 6 th.

He could have saved his venom. Fate had already buried its fangs in the 29 th when the War Department decided to add it to the Corse’s Brigade and send it to Suffolk. It wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. It’d be dodging bullets, bayonets and cannon balls from now till the end of the war. No more skating. When Porcino was to take command in June, the 29th would forever after be known to its men as “Our Damned Regiment” – and aptly so.

So on March 25th, the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment marched out of Petersburg, making its way down unpaved roads through Prince George, Sussex and Surry counties to Tucker’s Swamp Church in Southampton County.

There, at Ivor Station, the regiment saw for the first time it’s new regimental commander, Brigadier General Montgomery Corse, come to accompany them to the siege of Suffolk about to ensue. He was mounted high on his horse – a stately roan stallion – silently and aloofly watching them as they marched up and snapped to attention, covered with sweat and mosquito bites and that thin veil of scum that somehow coats everyone nearing the black swamps of southeastern Virginia.

Johnny noticed at once that Corse was nothing like Marshall or Moore. He looked magnificent in his major general’s double-breasted frock coat with ornately swirling gold striping embroidered on its sleeves and high white collar emblazoned with three gold stars. He was wearing gold epaulets on his shoulders and had a Le Mat revolver enholstered on his belt. Also on his belt hung an ominous but authoritative, lion-headed saber. A forage cap covered with gold embroidery topped everything, giving him a dashing but absolutely deadly air. It was obvious to everyone that he’d worn his dress uniform to impress them – and it damn sure did.

The forty-seven year old general had a glare that penetrated to the marrow of Johnny’s bones. It was the look of a wolf, an intense unblinking single-minded stare that said, “You men will do what I say or die”. He had the frightening presence and cool, calm demeanor of a man determined to win at any cost. Johnny could almost see the muscles rippling under his crisp uniform as they prepared for action. His eyes seemed fixed on Johnny Hess, as if he were about to attack him and drag him out in front of the regiment as an example. To slap him around with those snow-white gloves to humiliate him. Hess couldn’t have known it but every single soldier in the 29 th felt exactly the same way, as if they’d each been mesmerized by the eyes of the wolf and were paralyzed with fear. Too late to run! A sense of doom settled on them like a cloud of despair. They were in for it now. Their time had come round at last.

Corse was no dilettante. The military was in his soul. He was made for war and lived for war. He’d attended Major Bradley Lowe’s military school as a child. In 1846, he’d mustered a company of Virginia volunteers to fight in the Mexican War, serving gallantly as its captain. Afterward, he’d signed up in Sacramento City as captain of the Sutter Rifles, a position he held until 1856. He’d joined the Alexandria Home Guard in 1859 and was elected served as

1st lieutenant – then captain – then major -- of the Old Dominion Rifles. As a major, he’d served as assistant adjutantgeneral until the evacuation of Alexandria, after which he’d been promoted to colonel and appointed regimental commander of the 17th Virginia Regiment in the Confederate States of America’s regular army. Then his military career really began . . . .

As part of Longstreet’s and later Kemper’s brigades, he’d fought in the battles of Blackburn’s Ford, Manassas, Second Manassas, South Mountain, Yorktown, Williamsburg, Boonsboro, Sharpsburg, Seven Pines and the Seven Days. When only 56 of his brigade were left at the battle of Sharpsburg, Corse had continued fighting till only he and six other men survived. He’d been wounded in that action, also at Second Manassas and Boonsboro. His 17 th had captured two Yankee battle flags, prompting Robert E. Lee to write to the Secretary of War, “ . . . this regiment and its gallant colonel challenge the respect and admiration of their countrymen.”

By the time Johnny saw him, Corse had been promoted to brigadier general and given his own brigade – of which the 29th was now a part. It also consisted of the 15th, 17th, 30th and 32nd Virginia Regiments – almost 4000 men at arms. Their mission was to participate in the siege of Suffolk scheduled to begin on April 11 th.

General Corse promised a bad moon rising. There would be hell to pay. The only good news was that Porcino was gone at least for April and May. The bad news, of course, was that Porcino would be returning as their commander in early June. They’d received and confirmed this bit of unwanted news from a friend of Colonel Herbert stationed back at the War Department. It was going to happen and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The orders were already cut. Only Herbert was happy to hear the news. He’d be returning to guard duty in Petersburg, where it was safe and warm and a man could get a drink.

The others would fight the real war. General Lee had decided to contain the 25,000 man Yankee army garrisoned at Suffolk because it posed an obvious threat to the Confederate Capitol of Richmond, being less than fifty miles away. They’d tenaciously held the ground since 1862 in an attempt to control shipping to and from the Rebel’s top town. The Yanks hadn’t tried to move out of Suffolk but they could mobilize at any moment. A Union attack from Peck’s army could be fatal if coordinated with an attack from Union General George G. Meade’s Army of the Potomac – which was already massing just north of Virginia. Lee knew it was wiser to split some of his forces now than wait till he had to fight on two fronts.

To keep them from advancing on the city, Lee had ordered General Longstreet to march two divisions of the Army of North Virginia to the Department of Virginia and North Carolina, an area that stretched between the James and Cape Fear Rivers. One of those divisions was lead by General Pickett and contained Corse’s Brigade, including the damned 29th regiment. His mission was not only to make sure Peck stayed where he was, but if possible retake the former Confederate Fort Huger on the Nansemond River to cut off Union communication with its Suffolk garrison.

Johnny was part of the massive force assembled to intimidate General Peck into staying where he was or retreating back North. After having his master sergeant explain all this to the men of the 29 th, Corse himself took the lead of the column and led them southeast toward Suffolk, 28 miles away. About 700 Southwest Virginian Rebels followed behind at shoulder arms, four abreast, each company separate and kept in step by the sing-song cadence of its ranking sergeant. Corse was on horseback, along with the company captains – each riding alongside his men. Every now and then, the general would pause and stare back at the marching column, as if daring anyone to miss cadence, whistle, even whisper . . . . They were silent as walking dead men. Most believed they were indeed walking dead men.

They’d marched about twelve miles when the going got downright eerie. The regiment followed Corse along a dirt road that eventually became a tunnel, covered overhead with a canopy of interlaced cypress branches and flanked on both sides by swamps of stinking stagnant black water spattered with leafless bushes. On the bare limbs were hundreds of water moccasins and impossibly long, fat watersnakes basking in the dim sunlight filtering through the

trees. Corse paused a moment, turned to look at his new men, and shouted, “Okay, men, strip off your clothes and dive in! Time for your baths!” He did not laugh.

Confused, many of the men – including Napoleon – began to strip. With a disgusted sneer, Corse shouted again with something akin to a laugh, “You idiots get back in line! Them’s moccasins out there! Sergeant, get them going again.”

The master sergeant – smirking openly and spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco – shouted, “Ready up, ho!

On the left foot, march! Right, left, right, left . . . you idiot hillbilly mountaineers, you never learn . . . yore asses the Yankees are gonna burn . . . right, left, right, left . . . .” Even as the men moved forward, however, a loud sound caused them all to look to the left. A gaunt mud-colored wild hog climbed out of the deeper water, shook itself like a dog, and casually grabbed one of the larger moccasins and began crunching it up like a crispy twist of taffy. All the other serpents instantly dropped into the water with a crescendo of splashes. The water swirled madly as they swam for deeper water with panicked coils churning the water, making waves lap against the shore. The doomed snake bit it’s attacker over and over – on the nose, on the lips, around the eyes – with no effect at all. The troops were amazed as the mangled snake died with its mouth wide open, half-inch fangs extended, thrashing back and forth as it gasped for one last breath. Then it disappeared down the hog’s gullet like a fat limp length of scaly rope.

As this was happening, dozens of other wild hogs began to emerge from the black water and line up along the sides of the road. Soon about thirty lean wild pigs lined each side of the road. They showed no fear at all, not even when the master sergeant leveled his musket at one of them. He didn’t fire because General Corse had halted and was staring back at his men.

He’d seen this before. But Johnny felt a cold clammy hand moving up his back, causing the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. It was too bizarre but there it was – they were marching through a herd of swamp hogs. The big beasts stood silently as the humans passed, watching them with black beady eyes rimmed with raw red flesh. They blinked again and again as they studied the soldiers. They seemed to be thinking something over. They seemed to be angry and curious at the same time, Johnny thought. The Garrett brothers whispered to each other about having the heebie-jeebies. Captain Smith remarked just loud enough for his men to hear, “I hope they ain’t hungry.” The honor guard of hogs stretched about a quarter mile, though which passed the damned 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment.

General Corse motioned for the column to stop where it was and whispered instructions to the master sergeant. The sergeant then shouted, “Companies, halt! Le-left, face! Saaaa-lute!” The order was passed down the line of company commanders, who shouted them to their men. As one, the men saluted the wild hogs to their left.

“Companies, at ease!” shouted the sergeant, immediately shouting again, “Attennn-hut! Companies, a-bout face!”

The captains again repeated the orders at the top of their lungs. As one man, the regiment spun on its heels and found itself facing the hogs lined up on their right. “Companies . . . saaaaaa’lute!” And the confused men of the 29 th saluted the hogs lined up on their right. “At ease!” shouted the sergeant.

“Regimental chaplain, front and center!” he shouted again, listening to his orders echo down the line.

Chaplain Phillippi smartly marched to the front of the column and awaited orders. Corse didn’t hesitate, whispering his intent into his ears.

The chaplain walked down the line until he was in the center and shouted as loud as he could, “Can everyone hear me?” A collective “Yes sir!” arose from the regiment.

Phillippi continued, “The general has instructed me to inform you that the presence of these animals means nothing.

We are not marching into hell, though it may seem so. You are not to abandon hope, you who enter here! I am about to read aloud the 23rd Psalm and you will follow suit at my signal. All of you know the 23rd Psalm or should know it. If not, listen to your buddies! Together now!” And the chaplain opened his testament and began to read in his loudest

voice . . . and his voice was immediately drowned by the 700 voices overpowering his as they all recited to themselves, their officers, their general and the hogs: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall Not want; He maketh me lie down in green Pastures, He leads me besides still waters; He restoreth my soul.

He leads me in the path of righteousness For His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley Of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff; They comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me In the presence of my enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil, My cup overfloweth.

Surely goodness and mercy shall Follow me All the days of my life; And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord Forever.

“Amen!” shouted the preacher and the men shouted “amen!”

General Corse watched as the chaplain returned to his place in the column and the sergeant shouted, “Le-left face! For-ward, march!” The men had been moved and marched with quiet dignity past the honor guard of hogs. The beasts seemed as moved as the humans, bowing their heads in silence as the men passed. Only a little grunting could be heard, as if the pigs were whispering to each other about the great comfort they’d heard their human counterparts’ recite. The men were absorbed in their own thoughts and silently marched on. No one understood that the wild hogs had seen dozens of army columns march through this particular swamp and come to realize they were harmless as long as their guns were on their shoulders or on the ground. They knew only the guns were deadly, not the humans.

They wild hogs therefore came not to threaten, but out of innocent curiosity and -- as Johnny was to soon discover -hunger for human flesh.

They saw no more hogs past the tunnel but did see thousands of waterfowl taking to the air as they passed and saw dozens of stately lonesome egrets and herons wading in shallow water. Once the scream of a panther sliced the

day and another time the shrill cry of an eagle woke the sleep ones from their walking slumber. The screeching of millions of birds filled the air – though it’d been silent as a tomb when the hogs were watching them. Treefrogs, bullfrogs, insects trilled madly, adding their cacophony to the swamp’s orchestra. It sounded to most of the men as if they were in a huge steamship with a leaking valve. But to Johnny it sounded like the sweetest kind of music, composed no doubt by God Himself to reassure mankind of His love. To Napoleon the din was frightening because it hid the sneaky bushwhacking Yankees he thought were waiting ahead – while to Isaac it was simply annoying, a terrific noise to keep him from humming his own songs.

Some of them grew tired as the miles passed under them. Seven fell behind as they neared Suffolk, expecting someone to come back for them. Napoleon was one of these who just couldn’t keep up. His lame foot had never been asked to march 28 miles before and began to hurt horribly around mile ten. The top of his hammertoe, even though exposed, nevertheless blistered around the edges and burst, oozing a bloody thin fluid into his shoe. His bunion – the bone sticking out of his sole – not only blistered but burst and ulcerated, causing him indescribable agony with every step.

It was too much and he began to drift behind the others – letting out a series of sharp sobs as soon as he was out of earshot. Exhausted and searing with pain, he dropped along the side and lay with his lungs heaving for air and his eyes crying for relief. Desperate for consolation, he took out his testament, thinking to read again the 23 rd Psalm for reassurance. Instead of finding the Psalm, however, he randomly opened the text and stuck his finger on a chapter – Job 25th – and read: Behold, even the moon is not bright And the stars are not clean in His sight; How much less man, who is a maggot, And the Son of Man, who is a worm.

The words did not comfort Napoleon and he wept alongside the road. He could hear, or imagined he could hear, the wild pigs in the swamp eating maggots and worms.

The other six stragglers had fallen even further back. Corse heard the men had been left behind but refused to slow down for them, though he himself was mounted. Since leaving the valley of the hogs, the men were passing through territory that no doubt contained Yankee patrols. Corse, on full alert now, wanted out as soon as possible. An ambush might be around any bend. The master sergeant, as tireless and muscular and willing as all master sergeants, strode up and down the column, literally kicking men in the asses to keep them going. But the seven men who’d fallen behind had disappeared. The regiment could only hope they would somehow limp into camp later by following the road through the swamp – or manage to survive the night until a wagon could pick them up in the morning. Either choice was dangerous because the woods were full of Yankees. Dozens of Union patrols constantly combed the area around Suffolk, knowing full well the Rebels were coming in strength. They’d kill as many stragglers as they could -then go rushing to warn General Peck.

Taking one of the biggest chances of his life, Johnny waited till the master sergeant had his back turned and ran back down the road to find Napoleon. He found him several miles back, weeping and cursing, refusing to budge.

Several wild hogs were thoughtfully watching them from the swamp, twisting their fat heads this way and that, as if trying to hear what was being said. The testament lay on the ground, still open at the passage from Job. Ignoring his cries of pain, Johnny lifted him to his feet and helped carry his weight as he walked – taking the pressure off his bad foot enough to go forward a step at a time. They arrived in camp seven hours after the others but at least they made it.

Johnny and Napoleon were luckily recognized by the sentries and allowed into camp, where they asked until they located Isaac’s tent and hid inside. The next morning, Napoleon would be there for muster. The other six were not so lucky.

Three of them were picked up by a Rebel wagon the next morning and driven to camp, where they were placed under arrest and scheduled for court martial on charges of desertion. His friends who’d made it to camp okay were furious and shouted their anger – but General Corse meant to make an example of the stragglers. Five days later, the three would be condemned to die by hanging -- by a jury of three colonels.

On the appointed day, the unlucky three would be put on horses with their hands tied behind them, their heads hooded and their necks noosed. The sergeant would pretend to begin the execution when a courier would run up and announce so everyone could hear that the condemned men’s death sentences had been “commuted”. They would be instructed to return to their tents and remember their lesson. It was all a sham, though the three men were punished for real by having to dig two six-feet-deep holes every day for a week. Corse was preparing for officer’s graves – the enlisted men would not be buried so deep. Everyone remembered, all right. The creeping terror that had haunted them since leaving Petersburg got a little closer . . . .

The other three men who’d lagged behind, it was later discovered, had been captured by a Yankee patrol which had been tailing the regiment. Fortunately, the yanks had been so many miles behind that three of the six exhausted men managed to hide as they enemy approached shortly before dawn the next morning. The three who were captured were treated as deserters by the blue-bellies and allowed to take an oath to the United States of America. Then they became Yankee soldiers . . . simple as that. It made Johnny’s head swim when he heard what had happened. Napoleon might have been better off if he’d been captured. Surely the Yanks would have bandaged him up and discharged him. As it was, Napoleon wasn’t even missed and therefore didn’t dare report to the infirmary.

Napoleon was stuck. He’d have to continue hiding his deformed foot. Corse damned sure wouldn’t have any pity. And Porcino – when he returned – would have even less. In fact, Porcino would have him court martialed for malingering. The world was just getting darker and more dangerous for Johnny and the Garrett brothers. General Corse was like the wild hog who ate water moccasin for lunch – while Porcino was like the water moccasin itself. Their only hope lay in getting Corse to chew up Porcino and shit him out like the pile of disgusting dung he was. Meanwhile, there were the goddamned Yankees to worry about . . . .

Corse’s Brigade was encamped in a matrix of camps, all with small triangular white canvas tents stretching in straight lines from dozens of headquarter tents. Thousands of smoke trails rose from thousands of individual campfires, from each of which steamed the delicious smells of coffee and hoecakes. From the scrumptious odor, you wouldn’t know the Rebels were running low of supplies, especially food. You couldn’t have guessed that even then a full half of Longstreet’s First Corps was scouring the countryside for provisions. The rest of the soldiers in gray – thousands of them -- milled around or sat by their fires cleaning their muskets or sharpening their knives or sewing up rips in their uniforms. In all, it looked like a vast but homey camp – with more people in one place than Johnny had ever seen. Not even hog killing day back in Russell County had brought together so many folks.

Pickett’s entire division was ordered to assemble before their corps commander the next day. About 6000 men in four brigades marched into the empty field south of the camp, halted, shouldered their arms and stood sweating in the sun for two hours as their new commanders determined the relative strength of their troops compared to the enemy entrenched in Suffolk. But the show did more than give their generals a chance to judge their men, it gave their men a chance to judge them. For the first time, Johnny and the men of the 29 th got to see their new divisional and corps commanders.

Lieutenant General James Longstreet was commander of the First Corps of Lee’s Army of North Virginia and first in

command of the siege of Suffolk. He sat mounted on a huge dappled steed. Next to him, mounted on a sleek dark thoroughbred, sat Divisional Commander George Edward Pickett. They looked like two lean, hungry lions.

Like Corse, Longstreet carried himself with a formidable and absolute military bearing that struck everyone as determined unto death – not only his own, but theirs. Riding among them on a high podium, he returned their salute with a snap of the hand. He was a giant of a man, fully six feet and at least 200 pounds of pure muscle. But not a dimple of fat could be seen anywhere on him. He was all steak. His carefully trimmed beard and long brushed curls gave him a refined look which was strengthened by his eyes – which were brilliantly blue, intelligent and calculated.

Unfortunately, those eyes were also intensely troubled and tortured. They were the eyes you’d expect to see on a man whose three children had died of scarlet fever in Richmond only a few months before.

Longstreet knew it was his fault his children had died. Somehow the lethal seeds he’d sown on the battlefield had caught the wind and been blown back to his own home. There they’d taken root in the innocent hearts of his children and grown into vines that wrapped around their lungs and slowly suffocated them in the night. Those vines one morning had ultimately burst into flames and boiled the blood in their veins as he watched. He could do nothing but weep for them as they hopelessly cried for their father to save them – just as so many of his mortally wounded troops had hopelessly cried for their general to save them. Because he had no choice, he hardened himself to death to avoid the pain he’d felt for the first time upon the death of his children. In truth, he went too far – for never again would he weep for children. Never again would he weep for the Confederate dead. The closest he would come to weeping for men he’d sent to their deaths would come later in life when he’d read the poet’s words, “red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the Confederate dead . . . .”

It was good that Johnny was assigned to Longstreet when he was. It would save his life, having a general who wouldn’t tolerate children in his army. He personally made sure every naïve young man from the farms or towns tasted his wrath before tasting enemy fire. Had Johnny been assigned to Longstreet’s First Corps only a year earlier, he’d have seen not the dour Longstreet of 1863, but the always smiling, poker-playing, hail-fellow-well-met “Old Pete” Longstreet commander – best friend of Robert Lee -- known for his good humor and twinkling, laughing eyes. He’d have known the hearty always optimistic Ol’ General “Pete”. He’d have known the relaxed good times he permitted and encouraged in his camp. But those days were over by the time Johnny became his private soldier and Longstreet by then was a grim and intensely serious son of a bitch. Johnny wouldn’t realize till long after the war that General James Longstreet saved his life by being that grim and intently serious son of a bitch.

General Longstreet was made of military. Born in South Carolina in 1821, he had graduated from West Point in 1842 before signing up for the Mexican War in 1847, where he experienced extensive service in both the northern and southern theaters of war. He’d led detachments that helped capture two Mexican forts guarding Monterey. He’d learned the vicious art of street fighting in Monterey – and also at Casa Marta and Churubusco, where he’d personally planted his regimental colors on the walls of the fort. He’d been seriously wounded during the assault on Chapaltec while “in the act of discharging the piece (i.e. cannon) of a wounded man”.

He’d remained in the service after the war, regarded with great respect as a war-seasoned veteran and one of the “Old Army Regulars”. On May 9th, 1861, however, the South Carolinian officer had resigned his prestigious position with the United States Army to join the new Confederacy first as a Brigadier General (as of June 17, 1861) and then as a full Major General (as of October 7, 1861). His glory became legend after successfully commanding troops at First Manassas, Seven Pines, the Seven Days Campaign, Second Manassas, Antietam (i.e. Sharpsburg) and Fredericksburg. He was appointed a lieutenant general in the Confederate army on October 9, 1862. His reputation was well warranted and virtually all of his men, including the 29t h, loved and respected him. Johnny and Napoleon certainly admired him and vowed to follow him anywhere, his judgment being much more likely to save their lives and

kill more Yankees than their own.

Johnny also got to see his new divisional commander. Unlike his massive corps commander, Major General Pickett was slender, wiry and tough as deer jerky. Also unlike Longstreet, he had a long, curly, straggly goatee and larded hair combed close to his head. Refinement was not the word for him. Ironically and unbelievably, sensitivity was the word for him, despite his extraordinary war record.

And another word: savage . . . . He was that joke

told a century later, “an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum”. He was at once both Christ like and savage beyond the telling of it. He was beyond comprehension. You only accept him for what he was, as you would accept a gentle, loving rattlesnake in your bed.

His war record was as impressive. An 1846 graduate of the United States Military Academy, he’d served as a nd

2 Lieutenant of the Second Infantry during the Mexican war, also serving in the Seventh and Eighth Infantry Regiment. During this time he’d fought at Contreras and Churubosco, earning promotion to 1 st Lieutenant for gallantry under fire. He subsequently served with the Eighth Infantry on frontier duty in Texas till 1855, when he was promoted to captain of the Ninth Infantry.

In 1856 he occupied San Juan Island with 60 men and managed to fight off the landing of British Troops, winning the thanks of the territorial legislature for his “gallant and firm discharge of duty” and a commendation for “cool judgment, ability and gallantry”.

His first commission in the Confederate Army was a major of artillery in the regular army and colonel in the provisional army. On February 28, 1862, he was promoted to brigadier general and ordered to report to General Longstreet to command a brigade. In this capacity, he won another commendation for “using his force with great effect, ability and his usual gallantry” at the battle of Williamsburg. During Seven Pines, he was particularly distinguished for his good generalship during an attack by Hooker’s command. He received this award for refusing to withdraw his brigade from battle despite orders. In the words of General Longstreet, “Pickett, the true soldier, knowing that the order was no intended for such an emergency, stood and resisted the attack” for several hours against odds of 10 to one.

At Gaines’ Mill, fighting on the right with Longstreet, Pickett attempted and almost succeeded in leading his brigade to take possession of important Federal reserve artillery – but was seriously wounded in the attempt.

Nevertheless, the wiry general survived and his exploits earned his men the name of “the gamecock brigade”. In October, 1862, he was promoted to major general and given a division brigades in Longstreet’s First Corps, including his old brigade, Armistead’s, Kemper’s and Corse’s brigades, and Micah Jenkins’ South Carolina Brigade.

But his appearance was not what Johnny expected of a division commander, not at all . . . .

Pickett’s eyes were Christ-like in their compassion, as if he knew his men loved him but many would have to die for that love. they were also haggard and intense, capable of brutality, determined unto death, as only a great soldier’s eyes can be. In fact, his appearance was an anomaly – a mixture of tenderness and bloodthirstiness that confused the men of the 29th, especially Johnny, who saw his own dilemma in Pickett’s wise but desperate face.

Pickett, like Johnny, had a deep sensitivity to life but knew simultaneously that he had to take that life away from those who possessed it. No one in history can be better compared to George Pickett – physically, emotionally and mentally – than Edgar Allen Poe. Pickett was a poet in love with horror.

Between the two, Johnny knew he was going to get killed, if not by the Goddamned Yankees than by his Goddamned generals. Both looked at their troops with a strange, sad, damned look in their eyes as the division marched off the field. Johnny noticed that the men talked of the two generals as if they were their parents combined with God almighty that night around their campfires. They weren’t far from understanding the truth about Longstreet and Pickett.

The camp seemed to operate smoothly until the morning of April 14 th. Then the calm was shattered when the battle bugles blew. The thousands of men grabbed their guns and strapped on their leather and hung their haversacks around their heads – then ran pell mell toward their formation sites, there to snap to attention and await orders.

Johnny and Napoleon weren’t exceptions – they and the rest of the 29th had to assume marching formations fully prepared for battle. Ripples of fear and anticipation ran up and down the spines of everyone. At last, this was it! They were going into battle, real battle, for the first time!

It was even grander than they expected. As they watched, Suffolk was surrounded by a hundred or so brigades of men, their regiments and companies building and hiding behind earthen works – over which their muskets fell, pointed toward the city. Horses and artillerymen pulled hundreds of cannon into place, all overlooking the seemingly doomed city. Enormous pyramids of cannon balls were erected by each cannon. Meanwhile, inside the city, they knew the Yanks were entrenching themselves behind thousands of barriers made of every conceivable bulletproof material – earth, wood, sandbags, log cabins, brick buildings.

General Corse directed the placement of his brigade from a high spot on a hill, using his colonels to convey orders to the captains, who in turn conveyed them to their sergeants, who then informed the men of their companies.

The chain of command could not be broken, not at this point. The thrill of battle filled the air – so much so that some of the greener troops felt panic gripping their throats. The veterans knew what to expect and calmly but excited waited for the shooting to start.

The air stopped moving an hour before the attack was to begin. Everyone was silent and ready to shoot and be shot at. General Longstreet, about a mile behind the front lines, sat on his horse like a statue with his saber held in the air. As everyone watched, he let it fall – and every gun and cannon fired at once, instantly filling the air with a thick acrid yellowish haze and deafening the ears of every man there. The earth shuddered with shock. They could see through the haze as their lead and explosives hit their marks, causing the earth to tremble a second time. Then from the besieged town came the response – a terrible vengeance, a hellish reply of ten-thousand guns and cannons hidden and invisible behind the Suffolk entrenchments.

Surprisingly to the green men, like Johnny, he saw none of his fellow men fall, nor any other men fall from any of the hundreds of regiments spread in a horseshoe around the city. Whistling lead certainly spun all around them and cannon balls and canister loads exploded with unimaginable “Whams!” But no one was even scratched.

Johnny’s captain studied the enemy’s positions through a telescope, noting to his sergeant that there seemed to be terrible damage but no casualties. What kind of war was this, Johnny wondered aloud.

Actually, no one but Longstreet knew what kind of battle this was to be. He had orders not to attempt an invasion of Suffolk unless Union General Peck first evacuated it. It was obvious after the first attack that peck had no such intention and any further use of firepower by the South would be a waste of ammunition. So, against the protestations of his colonels, Longstreet sent down orders to cease fire and maintain positions, with the intent being only to keep Peck bottled in. Napoleon, who had shit in his pants at the first cannonade, was visibly disappointed but internally relieved. The noise had rattled his brains and he couldn’t think – he certainly couldn’t hear. The gun smoke had burned his eyes and the firing of his musket over and over had exhausted him. So he ranted and raved against the orders but fooled only himself. The veterans saw at once – and smelled at once – the truth about Napoleon. He was a snot-nosed kid pretending to be tough. But they all had been snot-nosed kids trying to be tough. So they left him alone.

Johnny didn’t know what to think and Isaac simply accepted the news as good fortune for him. For the next two days, Longstreet’s divisions lay in their battle lines doing nothing more than firing an occasional shot just to break the monotony. A lazy shot would return from the Yanks. The only excitement came when one of the Yanks apparently

went crazy and charged out of the city alone at the Confederate positions. He was hit at once by dozens of bullets, knocking him over. His face was gone and his belly was a big clot of blood. His buddies came out under a white flag and pulled him back in. It’d been fun for the Rebels, for about twenty minutes.

Johnny was “lucky” a few days later when Pickett’s Division, now including Corse’s Brigade and Johnny’s 29 th Regiment, was ordered to push right to a flanking position on the Edenton Road, parallel to the Nanesmond River.

The intent was to place artillery batteries along the south shore in order to prevent Union communication with the garrison at Suffolk by closing river traffic to Yankee shipping. The enemy forces could hardly launch an offensive with neither communication nor reliable sources of supplies and reinforcements.

In the process, the Confederates reoccupied Fort Huger, which had been evacuated by the Rebels when the Yanks had taken Suffolk the year before. Having cannon strategically placed on Hill’s Point -- an rise of land overlooking a long stretch of the river -- and mounting other cannon in the old fort gave the Rebels the control they wanted. To insure their complete control, they established other cannon batteries along the Nansemond River, some positioned near the Norfleet house just upriver from Fort Huger.

After the division had entrenched itself, some of Company G -- Johnny’s own boys -- were ordered to help an artillery unit construct a cannon position on Hill’s Point at a place called Rocky Knob. It sounds so simple but simple it wasn’t. From Johnny’s perspective it was damn near impossible. He and fourteen other men of the 29 th’s Company G were given the order to position one cannon on top of Rocky Knob, which was only about fifty feet high but gave artillerymen an almost straight shot at any craft traveling on the river. It seemed an easy task . . . ha!

First they discovered that one wheel of the cannon was frozen in place, meaning they would have to literally skid it uphill while the other wheel would be simultaneously forcing them to careen right. Second, no mules or horses were available and Johnny received a look of disgust from the colonel in charge when he made the request. They’d have to wait and wait they did, two hours before a scrawny, half-dead, starved mule with a missing tail and crap all over its heels was released to him. He had to sign his name on four different forms before the beast was his for the next six hours. After that, he’d be shot if it wasn’t returned as healthy as when it was released, said the quartermaster – who himself was mule-headed and about as handsome.

The caisson was hard but not impossible to pull up the knob, using the mule and seven men to pull from the front while the other seven men pushed from the rear. It would have been easier had there not been fifty 32 -pound cannon balls inside. Not even a mule and fifteen men can easily haul 1700 pounds of lead up a fifty-foot knob. But they made it, afterward laying on the ground for half an hour gasping for breath. When they were able, the men returned down the slope with the mule to tackle the cannon.

That was a different story. It absolutely refused to budge for the first fifteen minutes, after which it slid along inches at a time, digging a deep rut with the frozen wheel while trying to revolve and go back downhill with the rolling wheel. It took an hour and a half to force the piece to the top – but when they were unhitching the mule, the cannon slid backwards with fifteen men trying to hold it as it tumbled end over end to the bottom. Everyone was bruised and sprained and sore. Everyone had horrible headaches. Some of the men were weeping with frustration and exhaustion, including Johnny, while the rest were cursing not only the mule and cannon, but all generals and colonels, Robert E. Lee and the great Confederacy itself. Hours later they finally managed to force the cannon to the top a second time, carefully tying it to a thick tree before unhitching the poor mule, who was sweating huge thick wads of a sickening sticky substance and gurgling through some unknown liquid – probably blood – in its lungs. Bloody feces were also dripping out of its rear end.

As the men of Company G lay struggling for air, the artillerymen in charge of the cannon scampered up the hill and enthusiastically began to position the piece over the river. They laughed and poked each other in the ribs;

they smoked pipes and took huge swigs of whiskey. They told jokes and sang tunes. They were having a great time!

Meanwhile, Johnny and the others watched them with an unmasked contempt. Why they hell couldn’t they move their own goddamn cannon? Johnny even asked them. The answer, “’cause y’all got told to do it, ya bunch a ig’nert hayseeds!”

Despite their exhaustion, Company G managed to start a brawl in which Johnny proudly lost his first tooth in a fight. Tasting his own blood caused him to begin swinging wildly, connecting with one of the artilleryman’s jaw, felling him unconscious on the ground. He reveled in his own power! He could lay out a man with one blow!

Nevertheless, he was relieved with the stricken gunner rose to his feet and rejoined the melee.

They fought till the artillerymen were also exhausted, after which they all fell to the ground, shook hands all around, and chug-a-lugged the whiskey till the bottle was empty and another had to be fetched from its hiding place in the cannon’s barrel. Johnny staggered back to the quartermaster, returned the mule and staggered back . . . to find everyone passed out around a third bottle that was still half full. He emptied it, passed out too and in the morning woke to find Colonel Herbert kicking his ass.

If this were all of the story, it wouldn’t be worth telling here. But it was hardly the end. Pickett’s Division remained around Hill’s Point till April 24th, when -- to their surprise -- three Union gunboats appeared on the river and opened fire. They were the Mountain Washington, the West End and the Stepping Stones, all of the United States Navy’s James River Division, North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. All three ships were under the command of Lt. William B. Cushing. Together they rained down a hail of solid cannonballs and exploding shells on the Rebels’ just won position along the Nansemond.

When the first shots shattered the morning’s stillness, Johnny and his men had been sleeping in tents at the bottom of Rocky Knob. The artillerymen were sleeping at the top, next to their piece. The cannon was already in place and firing by the time Johnny got to the top to see what was happening. He rubbed his eyes when he saw the three gunboats shelling their position. Johnny again was astonished – it seemed impossible to mount and fire so many huge cannon on a mere boat. He didn’t realize those “boats” – though shallow bottomed – were ships over forty feet wide and almost a hundred feet long. Each carried a full compliment of howitzers, mortars and cannon.

Then, without warning, the big gun on Hill’s Point was stuck point blank by a solid 32 pounder ball, causing it to spin in circles, striking three of its crewmen and killing them instantly. An exploding shell followed immediately, showering shrapnel over the survivors. A fourth crewman feel to the ground, stunned and bleeding from a deep shrapnel wound neatly slicing through both thighs. The fifth, which had been farther away trying to spot the best target, stood motionless and unbelieving as he stared at the bloody remains of his left arm. His hand and wrist lay on the ground. His false teeth had been knocked loose and jutted out of his mouth.

Johnny had been spared only because he’d been watching from behind a huge old oak, standing safely outside the loose cannon’s spinning rigadoon of death. He was still shaken up. He’d heard the shards of metal and wood whizzing by his head and slicing into the trees next to him. Much worse, he’d heard the flesh being torn, rib cages being split, bones being shattered and skulls bursting open with loud cracks he’d still be hearing on his deathbed.

What disturbed him most, however, was that for the first time he’d almost been killed.

This was the first time he’d seen anyone die of wounds since that day at Princeton when the courier had been shot through the stomach. This was different because the three bodies were crumpled and mangled and torn open – their intestines falling out of huge gashes in their bellies and their heads half gone. You could see the bloody gray brains quivering like jelly inside what was left of their skulls. They dripped out in slow drops of marmalade. One of their faces had been ripped off by the second blast, leaving a raw horror mask of red muscles and white tendons and

broken ivory teeth, out of which stuck an obscenely swollen tongue already turning black.

It was the only battery destroyed by the Union attack that morning. The Yankee gunboats lost their advantage once they lost their element of surprise. Manning their cannons in minutes, the Confederate artillerists showered the ships with 20 and 32 pounders of their own – plus a few dozen rounds of canister shot -- severely crippling the Mount Washington and forcing all the ships to retreat. The Union suffered fifteen men killed and wounded and lost a crucial stretch of the Nansemond River.

The next day, however, the Union had placed dozens of artillery batteries across the river and began to shell the Rebel positions with special concentration on Norfleet’s house. Four more Rebel batteries and their crews were put out of action. Then, a few days after the bombardment, the Union launched a surprise amphibious assault on Fort Huger – which was defended desperately before finally being overrun and occupied by the Yanks.

Pickett’s Division, deployed mostly along the Edmonton Road adjacent to the Nansemond River, took a terrible pounding. Johnny and his Brigade were back with Pickett’s division then and suffered with the others as thousands of cannon balls ripped through their ranks. Miraculously, only a few Rebs were actually killed – though there were considerable nonfatal casualties. One of the oddest was the unlikely case of the 29 th’s Company D’s Sergeant James Webb. Thinking he was protected by a house he was hiding behind, a lucky Union 32 pounder solid ball struck its chimney, covering poor Webb with a load of stones that broke both his arms and a leg in four places. He survived but never again walked.

Johnny wasn’t hurt but he certainly saw plenty of action as the amphibious force assaulted Fort Huger with a whole regiment of Yankee infantrymen, screaming and hollering, running as fast they could toward the fort with mounted bayonets. Dozens were mown down before reaching the old fort but it was hopeless. The Rebels reluctantly gave it up and retreated back to Pickett’s line.

The Northerner’s had successfully captured the fort and it could have easily regained control of the shipping lanes. But unexplainably, they abandoned the fort only hours after taking it – as if they’d only been making a point.

Behind them they left a score of dead Yankees to rot on the shores and slopes of the bloody Nansemond. They’d died for nothing at all.

So it wasn’t surprising to anyone when sentries the next morning reported Yankee bodies floating in the river.

Pickett forbid the recovery of any enemy bodies but Colonel Herbert, being a short-timer anyway, ordered two of his men to sneak down to the river’s edge and see if they could haul one of the dead up to the 29 th‘s camp. They had no trouble locating one and dutifully dragged it back to the 29th Regiment, where it was hidden in an extra officer’s tent thrown up for the purpose.

They viewed the body company by company. The Yank was just a teenager around 16 or so, about 160 pounds, with soft hands and a too-white plump face covered with freckles. Unsettlingly, he’d died with a smile on his face. He had dimples in fat cheeks with a pug nose. His blue uniform was startlingly new, with only a bullet hole through the trousers marring its perfection. He’d been killed by a shot to the groin, which made the men groan – except for a few old veterans, who snickered at the poor man’s undignified end.

In his pockets were found a child’s drawings of a sunrise over a little cottage by a stream. Fantastic colorful animals surrounded the home and glowing lightning bugs illuminated the air. A rainbow graced the background despite the stars and half moon. The pictures were all outlined in bright royal blue, which had run in little pale streams across the vision. Napoleon snickered like the vets but only to show how tough he was. Isaac refused to look – he didn’t want to see it. It was the first dead man some of the men had seen – perhaps that’s why Herbert had ordered it be displayed. Maybe somewhere deep inside him, Herbert was a human being and wanted his men to know the enemy was human too. Corse would never have disclosed such a secret – neither would generals Pickett and

Longstreet.

Chaplain Phillipi at first threatened to report the incident to General Corse, who would have punished them severely for their gruesome curiosity. Johnny didn’t think it was right, either. Something sacred was being violated.

It was downright sacrilegious, he thought as he viewed the body. He felt angry inside, as if his fellow Rebels were peeking at one man’s private tragedy – the remnants of a man that should be left for mourning by his kinfolk, his wife and the child who’d drawn the fantastic scene which would never again be seen by its father. It just weren’t right . . . .

The body lay exposed all day. When night came, Herbert gave instructions to slide it back to the water’s edge and set it adrift after Taps. About two in the morning, Johnny was unlucky enough to be chosen for the job, along with four men he didn’t know from Company D. He had no idea that Herbert had especially picked him because he’d shown himself to be a decent man and could be counted on to give the Yankee soldier a dignified sendoff. He knew Johnny would say a few words from the Holy Bible. Unfortunately, Herbert was not so choosy when picking the other men.

At the water’s edge, under a dim moon blocked by clouds, the five chosen ones stood over the body to be returned to the river. Instead of getting the job over with, two of them men began stripping the corpse until the shockingly white body lay naked. “I wanna see what’s inside the bastard,” said one of them, whom Johnny now realized were ghouls. The man’s name was Isam and he stood less than five feet tall, was bandy-legged, hunched over and couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds. His face was roadmap of ugly experiences – his eyes shone like a wild animal’s. His hands, fingernails and what were left of his teeth were yellow with tobacco stains. He hadn’t bathed in four weeks and his butt stank of diarrhea. His companions watched and Johnny was too afraid to open his mouth – especially when Isam yanked out his “Arkansas Toothpick”, an eighteen inch long knife with razor edges on both sides.

“I bet it’s same as a hog inside,” Isam said as he plunged the knife into the man’s breastbone and drew it straight down toward his belly button, neatly slicing apart the two sides of his rib cage. Grabbing a side in each hand, Isam pulled them apart until the heart and lungs were exposed. First he tore out the lungs and threw them in the river, where they floated downstream looking as macabre as only severed lungs can look. Then, without a flinch, the knifeman cut out the heart and held it in his hands. “Here,” he whispered, throwing it to Johnny, who caught it without thinking. He held a human heart in his hand. It was hard and soft at the same time, dripping blood on his hands. Glancing back at the cadaver, he noticed how much the inside of his rib cage looked like a rack of pork ribs.

Isam grinned and grinned.

An outrage grew in Johnny’s own heart, which he dared not expose to these ghouls.

Trying to be

nonchalant, he tossed the victim’s heart back to Isam, who caught it with one hand. With his knife he cut into the heart, reached in with his free hand, and wrenched out a piece which looked like a plug of tobacco. Holding it up to his lips, he blew through it, making a ghastly whistle that literally sent the Fear of God shivering up and down Johnny’s spine. “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. . . . It’s a valve,” Isam said; “Wheeeeeeeeeee. . . . It won’t blow but one way.” He blew from the other end and nothing happened. “See there?” Isam said; “ain’t it just like a hog?”

Like an experienced butcher, Isam then sliced the Yank further down and pointed out the liver, gall bladder and intestines. “Jes like a animal,” he said again, pausing to fetch his pipe with his bloody hands and stick it in his mouth. "“Here,” he motioned to Johnny, “light this up fer me.” Johnny scratched a match across a rock and lit the ghoul’s pipe for him. He was glad to see the smoke pour out of the bowl and the man’s lungs, knowing it would smother the hideous smell of death wafting up from the dead man’s guts.

“Our lesson ain’t over,” Isam said, “this here’s what he pissed with and this here’s what he shit with. Look, he has to fart right now!” He laughed hysterically as he squeezed the dead man’s large intestine, which was swollen up

with the gases of death. The dead man went “fffffffffffffffffffffff” and everyone but Johnny laughed. “What’s the matter you?” Isam asked him, “You too goddamned sissified for smelling a dead man’s fart? Your shit don’t stink?

You ain’t seen no fighting yet – these here sons a bitches’ll cut your guts out in a minute and sniff your stinking goddamn farts too!” Johnny then laughed the laugh of the doomed, a wild hysterical cackle that made the others stare at him in alarm. “You crazy bastard,” Isam hissed and let it go.

“Okay, now lets see what’s in his head.” Isam lifted his musket and with its heavy stock cracked the dead man’s skull. He had to hit it four times before it finally split open, exposing the brain. Sticking a hand inside, he lifted a runny mess of gelatinous gook that quivered a moment in the shape of a brain, then melted into a slimy jelly that ran over his fingers and dripped on the dirt. “See there?” Isam said, “If that ain’t hog’s brains, what is?” Then, in a barely controlled fury, Isam mutilated the rest of the body, cutting off its genitals before criss-crossing it with a hundred deep cuts and piercing it with a hundred deep stab wounds. No blood ran out. “The leeches done sucked him dry,” he noted before finally grabbing the corpse by the legs and flinging it far into the water, followed by its penis. “These here is my souvenirs,” he said as he rolled up the testicles in a bandana and stuck them in his pocket. He buried the uniform under a waterlogged tree trunk, muttering under his breath, “I whist the sonabitch’d been alive. I whist I’d got his gun.”

Back in camp, lying next to Napoleon in his tent, Johnny related what had happened. Napoleon sat bolt upright with eyes round and unblinking. “You gotta report that guy!” he said too quickly; “You gotta tell Colonel Herbert! That man gotta be hung!” Johnny didn’t know what to do. Turning in a fellow Rebel meant suicide. You’d get it in the back one day. Or you’d get jumped and have a tent peg screwed up your ass one night in your tent. Or worse. You’d best keep your mouth shut . . . . And it was this philosophy he eventually adhered to. Napoleon came to his senses after a while, taking a huge swig of whiskey he kept hidden in an extra canteen. Both lay down but could not sleep. Secretly, each to himself in the dead night, they wept huge tears. The darkness encased them like a coffin.

The morning came and they dressed, went to muster and filed up for their breakfast of fatback and coffee without saying a word.

Isam would get himself shot through the spine at Drewry’s Bluff in just a few months. The shot would come from behind. But neither Napoleon nor Johnny would mention their fellow Rebel’s loss to this wonderful, gorgeous world . . . with its colorful animals all over the place and its air full of fluttering lightning bugs.

While all this was happening to Johnny in Pickett’s Division, Longstreet’s other division had done little more than keep General Peck and his army penned up in Suffolk. Not much fighting had occurred – Johnny had seen much more than they had. This gave him little pleasure. Seeing the artillery crew killed and the Yankee kid mutilated had reminded him too painfully of his own precarious position as an infantryman in east Virginia at that time. There was a good chance he’d never see his Anna and Maggie again, never fish in the Clinch river again, never hunt on Beartown Mountain again. His homesickness returned as his horror intensified.

But the Suffolk Campaign was suddenly to end. General Lee had grown increasingly worried about the war north of Richmond as it forebode much more disastrous consequences than Peck’s garrison south of Richmond.

Characteristically, he Lee turned his thoughts to invading the north before it could invade the South and planned to send his Army of North Virginia toward the Pennsylvanian border. Without warning, he ordered Longstreet to immediately return to Richmond and prepare his troops for an offensive strategy aimed at bringing Lincoln to his knees while recognizing the sovereignty of the Confederate States of America.

Corses’ Brigade began the long march back to Petersburg on May 3rd and arrived on May 8th . Not stopping, they marched through and camped the next day at Falling Creek, only seven miles from Richmond. Napoleon managed the march this time because Johnny and he had laboriously manufactured a mushmelon-sized pad of

pigskin – the softest kind, taken from the bellies of just-born piglets. They’d bought three baby pigs from a farmer with announced intentions of roasting them for the company. They roasted them, yes – but they also made a bibulous cover for Napoleon’s shoe and a three-layer thick pad for his bunion. It looked like a leather balloon on his foot but no one said anything about it. They knew well about Napoleon’s problem and were in sympathy. Even Isam looked in the other direction. Nevertheless, his bum foot was bleeding by the time they stopped for camp. Napoleon, emerging man that he was, grit his teeth and stood it without complaint. They poured some turpentine on it when they were safely encamped. It burned but the burning itself eased the pain.

On May 10th, much to the disappointment of the men, they marched right through Richmond without stopping and continued on to Hanover Junction. There they were told they were going on an expedition to New Town in King and Queen County. There they were told to join up with Pickett’s Division at Culpepper. So they marched the two days to Culpepper. Before Pickett’s Division could arrive, however, they were ordered to march to Taylorsville, where Pickett definitely wasn’t. The whole brigade was confused, especially General Corse – who cursed and fumed and paced back and forth like a caged cat while waiting for further orders.

Napoleon’s piglet-skin balloon had held out and, except for the bleeding, did its job. Napoleon didn’t care about the blood because it lubricated the raw skin, easing the pain a bit. The important thing was not to lag behind – that could mean a charge of desertion. He could be hanged! And damned if Corse wouldn’t do it! Well, he could continue as far as they wanted to send him, so long as no one with brass on his collar complained about his unusual footgear.

The turpentine was toughening the skin and his bunion was developing a thick callus. The damned hammertoe would always be a problem, but if he could keep on wearing his pigskin shoe, it would have enough room to move without blistering. He signed with relief. He didn’t know it, but he was beginning to like the army life. No matter how scared he was, there were always plenty of guys scared than he was. No matter how he balked at doing something, there were always plenty of guys who absolutely refused. He’d do it eventually and that was good enough compared to the scaredy cats. He knew, too, that he was getting braver. His self-confidence was growing! Already he knew he could do anything that anyone else could do – and he knew that he would do it. He was becoming a brave soldier.

So he was a little disappointed when orders for the men of Corse’s Brigade finally came through on May 25 th.

Pickett’s Division was going north without them, for the time being. They’d been chosen by President Davis to stay in reserve during the expected battle to come, so they could protect Richmond if necessary from Union General Peck’s army now unguarded in Suffolk.

Johnny was disappointed, too, but for different reasons. He might have been furloughed back to see Anna if his brigade was billeted in Richmond. But it was going to Gordonsville and there was no leaving an army camp like that, with its small-minded, pea-brained officers and piddling regulations. He’d heard all about the camp at Gordonsville. He’d been told it was lots of fun but like a prison. No one left for any reason. You were in reserve and might be called up at any moment. You could meanwhile take it easy but you had to be at hand.

He was also disappointed because recently promoted Colonel Squealing Porcino returned to the 29 th Virginia to take charge, sending Colonel Herbert – who hadn’t been a bad commander at all – back to the fat streets of Petersburg. Herbert was ecstatic as he packed his bags and Porcino was just as ecstatic as he unpacked his. He’d been waiting for just this moment! Johnny knew trouble had come back home to the 29 th. Nevertheless, at that point, there was really nothing to do but wait – even Porcino had nothing better to do than annoy his troops with petty tasks and constant barrages of verbal abuse.

At any rate, while Johnny was waiting it out in Gordonsville, Pickett’s Division moved on north towards his

rendezvous with history at Gettysburg . . . without Corse’s Brigade. With him he took 4500 men -- Garnett’s Brigade, Kemper’s Brigade and Armistead’s Brigade – 3000 of whom wouldn’t return.

Johnny didn’t know he was being left out of the history books and he didn’t care that much anyway. He was bored out of his mind but well fed and safe as a bunny in its burrow. He hated the never changing routine but every now and then there were unexpected surprises to break the monotony. One was that the regiment at last was asked to turn in its old smoothbore muskets in exchange for the newer Model 1853 Enfield rifled muskets.

The men were astonished at the difference. First of all was the appearance. Unlike their pumpkin slingers, the new Enfield had brightly polished barrels and iron bands, contrasting beautifully with the gray-blue case hardened lock plate and oiled walnut stock. Each weighed nine and a half pounds and had a 33-inch long barrel (as opposed to the musket’s 40 inches).

But the most impressive difference was in performance. They’d been able to pop life-sized targets at 50 yards with their old weapons but now they could pop the same targets at 150 yards with their new rifles. And good lung shots and head shots! They’d sometimes been able to hit horse-sized targets at 80 yards with the smoothbores but now could hit the same-sized targets every time at 400 yards. The pumpkin slingers had a maximum range of about 100 yards at the very most – the rifles could still kill after a mile. An enemy officer on a horse would be very nervous with Enfield equipped infantrymen 500 yards away. The difference was not only the rifling in the bore – which made the projectile spin – but the new projectile itself, the Minie Ball, designed and patented by French inventor Captain Claude-Etienne Minie.

The problem with rifles before the Minie Ball was that the ball – even though made of soft lead -- had to be rammed down with considerable force to deform it enough to fill the barrel’s grooves. In fact, the Kentucky flintlock rifle had been around since the 18th Century – being used mostly for hunting game and sniping at officers during the American Revolution. It had rifled barrels and could easily down a Tory infantryman at 400 yards or explode a Redcoat officer’s head at 200 yards. Unfortunately, the Kentucky rifle was slow and laborious to load because it took so much force to load the damn thing.

The Minie Ball – for which patent the British army paid 20,000 pounds in 1851 – was slightly smaller in diameter than the new weapon’s .58 caliber bore and could be easily inserted and quickly rammed down to the powder charge. However, the Minie Ball (which wasn’t really a ball) had a hollow cylindrical base and a rounded conical nose.

The original version had an iron cup inserted in the hollow base of each bullet. Thus, the explosion of the powder drove the cup forward and expanded the bullet’s nose to snugly fit the rifling grooves.

It was exorbitantly costly to use iron cups in each slug but that problem was solved by American ingenuity. A master armorer at the U. S. arsenal at Harper’s Ferry named James H. Burton lengthened the bullet slightly and thinned the walls of its hollow base. The base of the improved bullet expanded just as well as Minie’s but was much easier and cheaper to mass-produce. It was also lubricated with a mixture one part bees’ wax to two parts of tallow to make it slide easily down the barrel. Burton’s final product was a bullet that weighed 500 grains and was propelled by 60 grains of musket powder. So – unlike the ordinary round musket ball which excavated a path through flesh its own diameter, the new Minie had a much higher velocity that turned a “flesh wound” into an internal explosion and shattered any bone out of the way.

The deadly effectiveness of the rifle musket loaded with a Minie Ball seemed wonderful to Johnny. Had he thought it more logically, however, he would have realized the new weapon was to be the cause of Civil War’s appalling casualty rates. It wasn’t going to help him so much as endanger him. Frontal assaults by infantry on a waiting enemy suddenly became suicidal – yet this was the most common tactic used during the war. Skirmishes at close range suddenly became sudden death because the first side to spot the other could simply shoot the enemy down from

unseen positions.

Johnny couldn’t have known these figures at the time, but after the war logistic specialists determined that during the nearly 10,500 skirmishes and battles of the war, more than 110,000 Union soldiers and 94,000 Confederates were killed by rifle bullets, primarily the Minie Ball. This isn’t to mention the 275,000 Union soldiers and 194,000 Confederate soldiers wounded by them.

Corse’s Brigade performed light army tasks for the next month and few days, until on July 6 th Regimental Sergeant Major Richard Fulgham of the First North Carolina Cavalry rode in alone with the harrowing story of the Battle of Gettysburg and Pickett’s disastrous charge. Johnny, who was grooming Colonel Porcino’s horse, happened to be right there as the rider dismounted at Officer’s Quarters and whispered something to Porcino. “Fall in!” cried the colonel and the captains echoed, “Fall in!” The 29th Regiment formed by companies in front of the strange horseman about to address them.

Fulgham was an unusual looking older man, fiftyish with the dignified bearing of a caged animal waiting for an opportunity to escape. His mind had tasted and rejected the common beliefs fed to him as a young man – he’d realized the absurdity of being human. It was obvious he didn’t belong in an army. He belonged in a cave somewhere deep in the forest, hundreds of miles away from the milling throngs of those fantastic apes called mankind.

You couldn’t tell if his reddish face was blushing or sunburned but you knew he’d been seared by something seen too closely – he’d been burned so badly you could see the fire still smoldering in his eyes. You understood at once that here was a man who wandered in some splendidly isolated landscape of his mind that only he could see. He had a haggard face, intense blue eyes and distinctive jowls – he spoke in halting but educated words. You could tell by the way he nervously filled and lit his pipe as the troops fell in before him that he was struggling to keep some terrible inner beast from gnawing his guts out. Though he didn’t tremble, he vibrated with that energy emitted from nervous systems about to explode. He watched the men line up with a wise but haunted look, as if he’d seen the hogs of hell released but had no way to slow their stampede.

Somewhat surprisingly – despite his blue eyes -- his facial characteristics were those of a Native American Indian, with hawk nose, prominent cheekbones, small chin and those distinguishing jowls present on the wisest of old chiefs. He had no beard on his leathery cheeks. From his lips, however, sprouted a long snow-white mustache that overhung a short goatee on his chin. And from under his cap fell a shock of thick, curly gray hair. He was half Choctaw, half German – and an expert horseman. His father had taught him about loving Nature; his mother had taught him about hating man. His father had taught him to read the forest; his mother had taught him to read German. Unfortunately or fortunately, this mixture had turned him into a self-reliant sage who more than anything wanted to live alone on an icy mountain crest, looking down on the absurdity of mankind.

He’d been sent as a courier to Corse’s Brigade because he was the oldest and most educated of the enlisted men in his cavalry regiment, having spent a year in college studying European literature. His early hopes of becoming a professor were dashed when his father contracted tuberculosis and could no longer gather the wild ginseng which had supplied the money for his son’s education. Fulgham afterward joined the regular United States Army as a private, rising in rank to sergeant first class during a thirty-year stint in the cavalry. He’d retired in 1860 at the age 50. But when North Carolina seceded, he’d insisted on joining the Confederate Army. He had to cash in some old favors owed by politicians, but he managed to get in despite his age and found himself a master sergeant in the 1 st North Carolina Cavalry.

He’d never been elected an officer but the officers trusted him as if he were one of them. That’s why he’d been chosen to convey a message to the only brigade of Lee’s Army of North Virginia lucky enough to have escaped the carnage at Gettysburg. General Pickett had personally requested that Sergeant Major Fulgham tell General Corse’s

men the fate of their companions. Only he showed in his person the horrific beating just taken by the South. He reminded Pickett of an old oak that had been through a raging forest fire and somehow survived. Had anyone known their history, they’d have realized he looked just like Napoleon on the eve of his abdication and banishment to Elbe.

He was a man who had been thoroughly beaten again and again, only to rise to his feet every time and renew the battle.

The 29th Virginia gathered around Fulgham as he worked himself into a state of excitement so he could tell them what had happened. He was a shy soul and had to spur himself to project the anger he otherwise kept submerged and silent. It worked and he was all but frothing at the mouth with fury by the time he began to speak.

Not all could hear him, so he mounted his horse again, stood high in the saddle and shouted to the hundreds of men – the closest of whom heard what was said and passed it on backward so the rest could hear. It was unbelievable . . . .

“General Pickett sent me!” he shouted with a powerful voice that surprised him. “It happened in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It was the biggest, bloodiest mess you ever seen! On the first day of July some of our soldiers were looking for shoes when they run into Yankee cavalry – that lead to one of our commanders sending more troops in to fight. Then a Yankee commander sent in more troops to fight the reinforced Rebels. Then another commander on our side send in even more troops to fight – right on this goddamn huge field as big as you ever seen, miles and miles of nothing but grass and rocks. One huge shooting field. Hell, soon there was thousands of men a’shooting at each other. Then, I swear to God, thousands and thousands of men poured out of the woods on both sides!

“It went on and on like that till one side of the field was covered with blue and the other with gray – some live, some dead -- right there next to that little town. There was so many kilt already the place looked like a forest’d been cut down, ‘cept the logs were human beings! The second day was worse than the first – men was fighting and dying and getting shot up -- so terrible they was hollering ‘n howling like hogs being slaughtered alive. Goddamn it, seemed like millions of ‘em! Soon we caught on what was happening – both armies were meeting and having it out right there and then – Lee’s Army of North Virginia and Meade’s Army of the Potomac.

“The third day was almost organized – brigades on both sides lined up for a showdown, a fight to the death – what a sight, goddamn it, you hadda been there! If you never seen it for real, you ain’t never gonna see it in your head, not what I’m telling ya. Tens of thousands of infantrymen, officers, cavalry, cannons, all fighting and shooting and stabbing and being bombed by the goddamned canister shells . . . . like ever’body was damn determined to kill us, I mean! Hell, I was there! I’m the man! I was there and I seen it with my own eyes! I tell ya, man, the Yanks slaughtered us like pigs. Just like hogs. Mowed us down and gutted us good. I don’t care if I gets in trouble! I’m telling ya right now it was General Lee who lost it for us – the goddamned glory hound. Let him hang me for saying it, the son of a bitch!”

At this point, Colonel Porcino turned angrily toward Fulgham and puffed himself up at attention. “Sergeant Major Fulgham , if you insult General Lee again, I’ll personally put my foot up your ass and rip your face off! I realize you’re angry but you will be hung by the neck until you are dead if you disparage our commander again. Do you understand? Now continue without your personal assessment.”

“Pickett himself told me Longstreet made him do it,” Fulgham continued as if he hadn’t heard the threat; “Shit! Lee’s the one what told Longstreet to tell Pickett to do it! The man was ordered to line up his whole division in three ranks and hit the Yanks in their trenches. Pickett knew they didn’t have a chance! But ‘Old Pete’ tells him to charge anyway, right into the flaming gates of hell! Lee says he thought his cannons had blown up the Yankee infantry with artillery -- but I seen the shells going right over their heads before exploding. Over a hunnert cannon and still the bastards missed their mark by a mile! The shells went right over their heads! I seen ‘em blowing up behind the lines.

But it was like nobody could see what was happening! Nobody’d listen to me, hell no! I told General Pickett myself.

He told me to go through channels! Channels! Lots a people told Pickett and Longstreet and Lee too -- about the cannons missing their mark. But did it do any good? Did anybody listen? Hell no! Of course not!

“Pickett musta known the Yankee lines weren’t hit! All his men could see it. The trenches were filled with living Yankee soldiers with their guns aimed right at our battle lines. The cannonade didn’t do nothing! Looked like we had a hundred thousand men out there about to charge! (Actually, about 10,500). Then Pickett waved his sword forward and all hell broke loose. He musta had fifty thousand men in his division alone! (Actually, it was 4,500.)

They was cut down like thistles. Not a chance in hell.

“The newspaper man wrote this down and General Pickett give it to me to read to ya out loud ‘cause it says it says what I can’t properly express, ‘Men fire into each others faces, not five feet apart. There’re bayonet thrusts, saber strokes, pistol shots . . . men going down on their hands and knees, spinning round in tops, throwing out their arms, gulping up blood, falling . . . legless, armless, headless. There are ghastly heaps of dead men . . . .’ That’s from a reporter, say’s it better’n I can! Goddamn! He got it said right but he didn’t suck no fire’n smoke down his own lungs. like I did! But I read it to you just like I was told to.

“There was ghastly heaps of men, all right! Everywhere! For miles and miles, ground covered with bodies heaped on top of each other, some live, most dead – the wounded ones thrashing and moaning and trying to crawl away – some making it to the woods, most of them dying there or laying wounded and howling till they died. Hell, that night the hogs come of the woods and eat the dead. I swear it! We saw ‘em! Lee retreated the next day with Meade chasing him. So all them dead and wounded lay there at night and waited for the hogs to eat ‘em. People from Gettysburg and gypsies came out with the hogs, the people burying em or taking ‘em to hospitals while the gypsies robbed ‘em!

“Pickett himself sent me running down here to tell you what happened. He said to tell you Lee said he was sorry and it was all his fault. And it was, I’m here to swear on a Bible. Your colonel can hang me if he wants to. I don’t give a damn no more. I love General Robert E. Lee as much as any man alive. But this time he was wrong and I’m gonna say it now – Lee got us massacred. Massacred! Now the yanks are chasing us like we’re wild hogs that got away, like they ain’t slaughtered enough of us. But believe me, it ain’t over! We’re gonna turn and fight and drive them back to where from they come! They’re gonna go back or they’re gonna die! We whupped them at Chancellorsville, didn’t we? Their bones are bleaching there! Gettysburg was a fluke – we could a won with smarter generaling. But those same generals are smarter now. They’re gonna zero in them cannons and blow them all to kingdom come next time we meet! Men! Listen to me! Now we got a debt to pay back! I say revenge for Gettysburg!”

Johnny and every other soldier in the 29th shouted back at the top of his lungs, “Revenge for Gettysburg!”

“Revenge for Gettysburg!” Fulgham screamed out.

“Revenge for Gettysburg!” they responded in a collective scream of their own; “Revenge for Gettysburg!” Even Colonel Porcino was pleased and shouted with his men. He didn’t want to court martial Fulgham because the men like him too well. It’d only demoralize them when they needed morale more than ever. Besides, secretly – very secretly – he was a bit jealous of Lee and Pickett and in a way enjoyed hearing them criticized. If they were discredited or killed, he might become a general himself. Death to Lee and Pickett would not be altogether a bad thing, thought Porcino.

After the tirade, Fulgham seemed to deflate like a balloon. The older and more astute soldiers realized he’d just put on the performance of his life. They knew because they themselves were bitter, burned-out men. What Fulgham felt inside was not what he’d shown to the men. He dismounted and walked toward the officer’s tent. He seemed to have cast off some of his obvious introversion, however, by bellowing like a bull at the 29 th. Now he just wearily smiled at the men as he passed by them. The men would shout, “Revenge for Gettysburg!” but Fulgham would

keep on walking as he repeated in a low voice “Revenge for Gettysburg.” He said it every time they said it, but with a hollow lifelessness that suspiciously sounded like mockery. The men were confused and looked at each other with question marks in their faces.

He wasn’t mocking them – he was simply and suddenly too tired to share their enthusiasm any longer. He’d had orders to stir them up and he’d done his duty. He’d played the part of the fire-eating survivor bent on revenge.

Now he needed rest. He’d followed orders. He’d even done his part in the battle – now it was up to them to do their part.

Sergeant Major Fulgham hadn’t exaggerated about Gettysburg. Out of 65,000 Rebels, 2592 were killed outright, 12,709 men were wounded and 20,451 came up missing. That’s a total of 23,049. As for the Yankees, out of their 85,000 men, they had 3155 killed dead as doornails, 14,529 wounded and 5150 missing. Their total losses were 20,541. No, he wasn’t mocking them at all. His voice was low because he’d drawn the fury out of his heart as with a hypodermic and injected into their own hearts. Now he felt no more fury – only a dull, unrelenting, exhausting frustration that wouldn’t go away. He’d seen the finest men of his generation die. Glorious, yes, but what good had it done? It would all be in vain if the Confederacy was doomed. And Fulgham unconsciously knew the Confederacy was doomed. He’d known it since the Yanks invented the moral issue of slavery as the cause of the war. There was no winning a war when the world saw you as protecting an immoral institution. The real reasons had been completely covered up. Northern propaganda had won the war for them. The hideous truth was dawning on everyone. Whose fault was it? The generals? They’d certainly fought gloriously and would never accept defeat without honor. Defeat with honor? Was such a thing possible? What was that honor crap anyway? Fulgham was a confused and desperate man, delicately balanced on a weakening thread of semantics.

Though General Lee had indeed said to his men, “It’s all my fault”, Pickett had nevertheless accepted much of the blame. In a letter written to his wife Sally on July 3rd -- while waiting for orders from Lee, whom he called Old Peter – he’d mentioned how ‘Old Peter’ had complained before the charge about “the insurmountable difficulties between our line and that of the Yankees – the steep hills, the tiers of artillery, the fences, the heavy skirmish line . . . look at the open ground we’ll have to charge over, nearly a mile of the open ground there under the rain of their canister and shot.”

Pickett had written to her later that same day, “Well, my sweetheart, at one o’clock the awful silence was broken by a cannon shot and then another, and then more than a hundred guns shook the hills from crest to base, answered by more than another hundred – the whole world a blazing volcano, the whole of heaven a thunderbolt – the darkness and absolute silence – then the grim and gruesome, low spoken commands – then the forming of the attacking columns. My brave Virginians are to attack in front! Oh, may in mercy help me as He never helped before!”

The next day, he’d written his wife, “the battle is lost . . . and but for you, my darling, Your Soldier would rather, a million times rather, be back there with the dead, to sleep for all time in an unknown grave.”

Was that honor or was that grandiose self-importance? He didn’t know. All he knew was that the “honorable” generals were covered with blood from tens of thousands of battles – but that blood was their men’s bloods, spattered on them as they gave commands from protected bunkers far behind the lines. There were exceptions, like the generals who had commanded their own troops and fought by their side till the end. But was that honor or was that a general trying to grab glory? It was courage, without a doubt. But honor?

Sergeant Major Fulgham saw his own part in the drama as minor compared to the courageous officers and infantrymen of Lee’s giant Army of North Virginia. He’d only been a horse soldier, darting in and out of battle as the foot soldiers fought tooth and nail like wild beasts. Fulgham -- standing with Colonel Porcino and the regimental captains in the officer’s tent -- reluctantly, red-faced and embarrassed, told how he’d saved the life of his brigade

commander, Brigadier General Hampton, by carrying him from the field of battle after he’d been seriously wounded in hand-to-hand combat during the second day of Gettysburg.

Some would say Fulgham was heroic in other ways, though he neither felt it nor realized it. On the first and second days at Gettysburg, Fulgham’s First North Carolina Cavalry had kept up constant skirmishing with the Yankee cavalry to keep them away from the infantrymen so gallantly fighting on the field. He and his regiment had kept the blue-bellied horsemen busy saving their lives at Sykesville, Littletown, Hanover, Hunterstown and Carlisle.

On the third day, however, the 1st North Carolina and seven other cavalry regiments grouped in squadrons on the already bloody field east of Gettysburg. Advancing at half-trot with sabers drawn and glistening in the sun, the 1500 Confederate cavalrymen drew a murmur of admiration as they rode their horses toward the Union line as if on parade. At fifty yards, they let loose a wild rebel yell and charged headlong into artillery from elevated Union batteries and carbine fire from 400 cavalrymen of the 1st Michigan, who – as soon as the shooting was over -- met them sword to sword in a spectacular melee of individual, desperate duels. Horse after horse fell to artillery shells --- carbines, pistols and sabers brought down the splendid knights. Yet there was no winner and no loser -- the gray cavalrymen inflicted heavy damage indeed but in the end the Yankees still held their original positions. Afterward all cavalrymen but Fulgham were ordered to cover the retreat of the remnants of Lee’s army – protecting the wagon trains and river crossings.

So Fulgham was not without heroism, though he seemed reluctant to accept the validation of his own soldiery.

He was troubled by something even more horrible than the great battle he’d just witnessed. It showed in his eyes – they were too intense for a mere human being – more the eyes of a creature taken from the wild and kept against its will in a cage. There was a desperation there – the desperation to escape, to get away from the cage that was his life among humans. He left the officer’s tent that night with relief. He’d had enough of officers for a while. He’d had enough of human beings. He wanted to just go into the woods and never come out. One day he intended to just that.

The men of the 29th didn’t settle down as usual that night. Instead, they built a giant bonfire and sat around roasting pieces of wild pork and smoking pipes. Few of them spoke – all stared unbelievingly and moodily into the fire. They were not really as outraged as Fulgham – fact is, they were ashamed. They didn’t understand why God had spared them. Colonel Porcino watched from a distance, with his arms clasped behind the back of his long, doublebreasted officer’s coat – emblazoned with gold braid on its shoulders.

Even Isaac, who usually would have just accepted whatever happened, felt a cold uncertainty and ugly stab of self-hate in his chest. He wasn’t alone. Almost all of them hated themselves for not being there when Pickett needed them most. They’d been dishonorable by keeping their skins in one piece, as they saw it. The others had been brave – they’d charged and most had died, but with glory smothered all over them. But Corse’s Brigade was now seen as a brigade of cowards by themselves, even though they couldn’t have seen the future, nor could they have changed the orders from President Davis for them to stay in reserve.

Word got around about how the 29th would most likely have all died if they’d carried their pumpkin slingers, but that didn’t change their mood. Most of them felt they’d never lift the veil of shame around them unless they proved themselves in battle. They’d needn’t have fretted – their time was coming. General Corse was as ashamed as his men for having missed Gettysburg, but he’d seen enough battle, killed enough men and felt enough lead cutting through his flesh to realize his men had been fortunate indeed. With those smoothbore muskets, he knew almost every one of the 29th would have fallen two or three hundred yards before reaching the Yankee entrenchments.

Corse was courageous but he was no fool. Colonel Porcino, on the other hand was courageous but also a fool.

He gave his men a rousing pep talk about God saving them to fight another day, but all they got out of it was more reason to swear “Revenge for Gettysburg!” Porcino encouraged them to shout and scream for vengeance. Their anger

and desire to prove themselves would come in handy when the Yanks set their aim on Richmond in a few months. It was inevitable now that Meade was on the offensive. The blue hordes were streaming north.

Walking back to the tent erected for him, Fulgham was stopped by a young Rebel whose eyes eerily matched his own. They were like embers glowing in a fire already doused. It was Johnny Hess, there to ask the old cavalryman if he’d sit a while with the men of the 29th around the bonfire. The good ol’ boys applauded when he joined them, taking his seat on a dead log pulled near the fire – where he pulled out a carved black ebony pipe with a monkey’s face carved on it, filled it with barley tobacco and lit it with a match ignited against the leather of his collar. Smoke billowed up around him and wafted into the night sky. He sat down next to Johnny and Napoleon, who smoked pipes of their own, but made of corncobs and straws.

Fulgham was wearing a gray uniform like theirs but with one difference – his was bespattered with blood now turned brown. It was the blood of a brigadier general – the general he had saved and who, once safe, had ordered Fulgham back to the battle to find the general’s saber. He’d found it broken but returned both pieces. The general had been so furious that he’d shouted, “You goddamned idiot! That sword was given to me by General Beauregard!”

Later the general had apologized but Fulgham hadn’t minded the outburst anyway. Words had stopped affecting him long before.

Johnny watched Fulgham puff his pipe awhile before daring to ask, “Can I ask ya something, sir?” Fulgham stared at him a moment, as if expecting to be made fun of, then said simply “sure”.

“Well, why you got a monkey on your pipe?”

“My Pawpaw was an Injun. He said the monkey was my spirit animal.” And with this Fulgham laughed so loud that everyone in company G noticed and stopped talking. He laughed so loud that tears poured from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He held his stomach and roared. He was laughing at something that definitely was not funny.

“What’s so funny about that? How’d your paw even know what a monkey was?”

“He seen one in Florida once, balancing on a circus ball – and he says to me, he says ‘Boy, you a monkey.

Your spirit a monkey. You a monkey on a ball, Boy.’ And he laughed like hell. There’s something funny about how my Pawpaw knew so much. That’s ‘perusal what you is’, as he put it – a monkey on a ball. Confused. Scratching his head.

Absurd. Always about to fall off. Always running and getting nowhere.”

Napoleon and Johnny looked at him, not understanding. They couldn’t have known his grandfather was a full-blooded Choctaw who had always called his grandson “Boy”. They couldn’t have known that a great philosopher had hidden in that wizened old man’s head. But they knew about spirit animals and how the Indians back in Clinch Valley had said every human being’s spirit was really an animal – that their bodies were jokes of Al’a’Galun’ta-lati, the Great Mystery, Who clothed animals in human skin and called them humans to amuse Himself. Whenever a person died, their spirit was freed to prowl the earth as the animal it had embodied.

They’d told Napoleon that his spirit animal was a wolf and Napoleon had liked that a lot. A wolf, yeah! They’d told Johnny that his was a bear, and he’d liked that. A bear, yeah! Noble, great animals. Fierce and respected. But they didn’t understand why this man – this hero – would believe he was a monkey inside, a monkey balanced on a ball. Napoleon decided this was a strange man indeed, maybe a little touched in the head. He didn’t say anything else to him. Meanwhile, Fulgham seemed to enjoy being with the men and drank some whiskey with them.

Fulgham sat on the bench and smoked his pipe about an hour as the men around him whooped and hollered and sang and got drunker and drunker. It was good they drank while they could because in two days they’d be leaving.

That night however, Fulgham rose from the log about midnight and began strolling toward his tent. By his side was Johnny Hess, panting like a dog, his eyes slightly shiny from the booze.

“What cha need, boy?” Fulgham asked.

“Could I have a private word with you, sir?” Johnny asked with a strange respect in his voice that even he hadn’t heard before. There was something about this Fulgham guy that he like – he didn’t know quite what yet. But his eyes were gripping, like a painting he’d once seen at a museum in Richmond – a painting of an English spy about to be shot in the Revolution, his hands strapped behind him, bound to a post, his eyes staring hopelessly but still defiantly at the firing squad about to execute him. He’d been mesmerized by those eyes – they held a secret he had to know. Now Fulgham had come alone – over fifty but still a soldier! That said something about the man’s character, his resolve, his experience.

“What can I do for ya,” Fulgham asked.

“Just let me sit in your tent a minute. I gotta talk to you about something personal. I ain’t queer or nothing, I just gotta ask you this one question and I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

Nodding, Fulgham paused at his tent and opened the flap. Inside, unlike the regular enlisted men’s tents, the sergeant major had a real cot set up, with real covers, and a kerosene lamp hanging from the top. Fulgham lit the lamp and cranked the wick down to just a fraction of an inch, casting a reddish dim glow in which they could just barely see each other. Fulgham lay down on the cot while Johnny was left standing until the sergeant major motioned for him to sit down on the grass, from which position he had to look up to see the older man’s face.

Johnny had never been particularly shy and wasn’t this time. “I have to ask you to forgive me for taking up your time, sir,” he began pointlessly, as the look on Fulgham’s face was obviously annoyed. He got on with it – “It’s like this, sir. You’re the only man I’ve met who can answer a question I got. I seen hog cut open at home, lots of em. I held their innards in my hand. I opened up their skulls for the brains and eat em with eggs.”

Fulgham showed a hint of interest, relighting his pipe and nodding for Johnny to continue.

“Well, sir, in Suffolk this crazy guy opened up a dead Yankee and damned it he didn’t look just like a split hog inside. I mean, the heart and lungs were the same! The brain was the same! Everything about the two was the same.

I’m confused as hell. It won’t let me sleep. I didn’t seen no difference, see what I’m getting at?”

Fulgham knew all right.

“Well,” Johnny continued, “if God made us people different from the animals, then why’s we just alike inside?

I talked to Chaplain Phillippi and he said we got souls but animals ain't got no souls. That don’t make sense to me. I ain’t a atheist or nothing -- I just don’t understand. So I’m here to ask you ‘cause I got a feeling inside that you know something none of the rest of us know. You seen something. You know something.”

“What am I supposed to know?” Fulgham asked with a strange little smile, his eyes for the first time showing a speck of compassion.

“Well, what’s the difference between a hog and a man?” Johnny asked.

“Hogs got honor,” Fulgham answered without blinking an eye.

Johnny was aghast. Surely this man was kidding. He grinned at Fulgham as if the older man had told a joke but Fulgham wasn’t even smiling.

“Hogs ain’t got honor,” Johnny finally responded in a low voice, thinking he was being put on.

“Hogs got honor. People ain’t got no honor,” Fulgham said.

Johnny began talking fast, “You ain’t got no right to pull my leg, even if you is a sergeant major. Every Southerner knows this whole war is ‘cause we got honor and the Yankees ain’t got honor. They the ones attacking us.

We’re doing the honorable thing by taking up arms and fighting for what’s right. We got honor ‘cause we’re ready to die for our country.”

Fulgham sneered, “You ain’t dying for your country, boy. You’re being murdered to make rich folks richer.

Ain’t you figured that out yet? There’s honor in dying for your buddies, to save them . . . Jesus said that. So some

folks got honor, those who are willing to die for other people. But there ain’t no honor in taking orders and there ain’t no honor in giving ‘em. There’s lots a glory but no honor in this war. There’s lots a courage and lots a hero and lots a fancy talking. But that ain’t honor neither.”

Johnny was vexed and getting angry. “Then what’s honor if it ain’t fighting for your home and kinfolk and land? What’s honor if it ain’t doing what’s right?”

“Honor is . . . . Wait a minute. Let me ask you something. Now the Yankees say they’re fighting to free the Africans. Ain’t that honorable? Don’t it make us dishonorable if we fight against ‘em?”

“It’s a goddamned lie! They don’t care about no Africans. Slave owners ain’t fighting this war and neither are their sons. It ain’t got nothing to do with Africans. It’s all about money. They Yanks gotta get their damn taxes from us, that’s all. That’s why their coming down here, to get their goddamned money! That’s dishonorable! What you got to say to that?”

Fulgham took a draw from his pipe, blew out a slow stream of smoke, and said, “Then you and the rest of the South are fighting to keep your own money. What’s honorable about that?”

“There’s Jesus, too. The Yankees gonna take Jesus away from us. He won’t be in our governments no more, our schools, our lives. We’re doing the honorable thing. We’re dying so this will be a Christian nation.”

Fulgham gave that strange little smile again. “Killing folks ain’t Christian, no matter what the reason. So they take Jesus out of the government, so what? Jesus is in your heart, didn’t you know that? There ain’t no honor in this war, no matter how you look at it. Look, I ain’t talking about it no more. You asked me and I told you what I think.

The only honor I’ve seen in this war, in all my life in fact, is when I’ve seen a person die so another can live. The rest is bullshit, gory and greed. That’s the way I feel about it, son, and I’m truly sorry if you can’t accept it. When you get my age, if you get there, you might understand."

Johnny didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to leave. He was more confused than when he came in. He got up to leave but asked one more question. “Okay, say you’re right, sergeant major. Then answer me this. Why is hogs got honor?”

“Because they bow their heads in prayer before eating our soldiers.”

Johnny eyes popped open wide! But Fulgham was joking this time and laughed with a horrible gasping that left him wheezing and choking. But no sooner had he regained his breath than he began laughing again, too loud, in great guffaws that frightened Johnny and made him wonder about Fulgham’s sanity. “I was putting ya on, boy, just putting ya on!” the older man finally managed to whisper between laughs, “Just pulling ya leg . . . .”

Johnny left the tent with a sick uneasy feeling in his stomach. He didn’t like what he’d just heard. He thought about the thousands who had been mercilessly mown down by the stinking Yanks. Wasn’t going to be an honorable thing to kill those sons a bitches for what they done to us? Wasn’t it honorable to take orders without asking questions? Of course it was. And about Jesus, it was honorable to die for your beliefs in Jesus, and that was that.

Fulgham was Goddamned crazy. A bitter old fart. Hogs got honor but people don’t, that makes a lot of sense! He shook he head in disgust, spitting on the ground to emphasize his disagreement with this old soldier who’d seemed so much the wiseman. Ha! That was a joke. Making a country where Jesus was King was honorable, by God, even if it meant killing the people trying to kill Jesus – like in the United States. Tell me what honor is! It is charging at the enemy when Pickett waved his sword, knowing you was gonna get killed. Honor is never saying anything bad about General Lee, no matter how many soldiers he gets killed. Honor is hating Abraham Lincoln. Honor is knowing slavery is immoral but not letting the Yankees use that as an excuse to tax our asses off. That Fulgham’s a crazy bastard.

Johnny slept well that night after spitting his venom out in spurts of hatred aimed against Sergeant Major

Richard Fulgham, who said hogs have honor. He’d might as well said hogs had more honor than Rebels! It was true hogs had more honor than the Yankees because they didn’t have any at all. Besides, animals didn’t even have souls.

He was sure of it now. Hadn’t Jesus thrown sparrows into the air and asked the disciples, ‘Do you not mean more to our Lord than these?’ He wasn’t going to think about the dead Yank that Isam had opened up anymore.

He woke up the next morning refreshed but still angry. Actually that Fulgham guy had forced him to think straight. Now he realized the real difference between hogs and men – men could feel things like piety and regret and revenge and love of one’s nation and love of Jesus Christ. Hogs couldn’t do that stuff. He looked at himself in the mirror as he was shaving and grinned and winked. Yeah, that Fulgham guy had had fun with him, that’s all. He’d have to thank him for the, uh, insights into reality when he saw him, if he ever saw him again, which he doubted.

Well, Johnny was wrong again. There was big trouble in North Virginia – Corse’s Brigade was ordered to march immediately for Chester Gap in the Blue Ridge to keep the Yankee from occupying it. The enemy’s cavalry troops were dashing to all the important cities between Gettysburg and the Rapidan River in Virginia so they could control Confederate supply lines, communications and railroad movements. Corse had to get his men to Chester Gap before the blue-bellies. It was a hell of lot easier to defend a town than take it away from an enemy. Yep, Corse’s Brigade was going to do the honorable thing and protect Virginia’s Chester Gap from the same murderers who killed the gallant Rebels at Gettysburg. Johnny cleaned his weapon and honed his bayonet. He hoped he’d get to the honorable thing and kill some of the murdering Yanks who had murdered the heroes at Gettysburg.

Some shocking news for Johnny was that Sergeant Major Fulgham would be going with them. He not only knew the shortest route but could join back up with his own outfit in the Blue Ridge as Lee’s army regrouped for a second stand at Wilderness. Johnny preferred Fulgham just go away – he’d really done a number on his brain. He was clear now and didn’t want that old gray-bearded asshole to screw up his thinking again. He decided to avoid the old geezer all together. He never wanted to talk to him again.

He didn’t have to worry, the old geezer didn’t want to talk to him either. In fact, he didn’t want to talk to anyone and kept to himself, reading and rereading a beat up old German edition of Schopenhauer’s Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (in English, The World as Will and Idea). He always turned to the same page first and read the underlined paragraph claiming “(translated to English) . . . as consciousness ascends, pain also increases, and therefore reaches its highest degree in man . . . the more intelligent he is, the more pain he has.”

Fulgham smiled to himself every time he read that section. “How would you like to explain that to the kid?” he’d ask himself. He knew pain as an intimate companion. He was a piece of shattered glass. He not only felt the usual pains of an aging body still romping around on horseback – that is to say ruined knees, arthritic back, calcified ribs, unbearable lower back aches, torn muscles – but pains of the heart and mind which others seemed immune to.

He had something much worse than heartache or a headache, however, he had a suspicion . . . a suspicion that he’d seen thousands die and killed dozens of men himself, all for nothing, releasing souls to a black incomprehensible nothingness. The kid said it was for honor. Hah! That gave him a laugh. Yeah, and it was for glory and country and God, too. Yet he couldn’t stop; he couldn’t remove himself from the only arena of life he knew.

He was having these thoughts as he rode silently with General Corse marching his brigade towards Chester Gap. Unlike Fulgham, the men were hyper and alert and happy to be rushing to Lee’s aid in his time of need. They were jubilant they were going to have the chance to redeem the South’s honor by killing some Goddamned Yanks. The sang with their sergeants as they marched, “We’re the men of Corse’s ‘gade – to get revenge, we were made! . . .we’ll shoot them through and kick their butts – we’ll bay-o-net them in the nuts! . . .we’re Corse’s ‘gade and when we’re done – the bloody Yanks will break and run! . . .we’re Corse’s ‘gade and we’ll be heard – killing Yanks from Gettysburg! Gimme yo right, yo left, yo right . . . gimme yo left, yo right, yo left . . . . ”

Napoleon was wearing his piglet-skin shoe and noticed how Colonel Porcino kept eyeing it with disapproval.

He hoped to God Porcino would leave him alone. He was okay so long as he could march. Courage weren’t his problem. Endurance was. So what if he had a pig on his foot? He marched and sang even more loudly than the rest, showing everyone – especially Porcino – that he was an extraordinarily brave and vicious soldier. His handmade shoe, despite its absurd size – like a pumpkin – enabled him to walk and walk and walk without a hitch, without a blister, without a twinge. He could walk forever.

Well, as it turned out, it seemed to be forever and all the men were exhausted after the fourth day on the road to Chester Gap. They had to double-time because they had to beat the United States Cavalry in order to protect it from occupation. Fulgham was more concerned with the cavalry could do because he’d spent his life cutting folks to bits with swords and shooting them from the hip with carbines. A confrontation would be ugly without Southern cavalry to meet them blade to blade – in fact, he knew the Yankee cavalry was no match for the hearty horsemen of the Confederate cavalry. The Rebs’d slice the Yankee boys to bits. But Corse’s Brigade was all infantry. Cautious cavalry could charge down and decimate them while reloading.

The long column wound its way north till July 14th, where the brigade stopped for rest in the town of Winchester. It was raining heavily and every soldier was sogging wet as they slogged through the muddy streets.

Despite the rain, hundreds of citizens lined the road to cheer them on. They’d heard about Gettysburg and were relieved to see troops in gray heading for the enemy then descending upon them. The exhausted column could barely set up their tents and when erected immediately crawled inside to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. For days they rested and, somewhat amazingly, Colonel Porcino left them alone. He had a serious look on his fat face, as if he was beginning at last to see his men as human beings. Of course, looks can be deceiving. In truth, Porcino was anxious to get into the fight, wherever it was – to prove once and for all that he was a gallant and brave officer, certainly worth a Medal of Valor. Like Napoleon Bonaparte, he strutted around with one hand tucked in his blouse, gazing at his sleeping troops with an expression half admiration, half contempt.

The long march had only begun. They left Winchester on the 20 th and quick-marched to Cedarville, 20 miles away. After an hour’s rest, they were called back into formation and the marched continued – much to the groans involuntarily sighed from their lungs. They’d never known such exhaustion, not even during the marches too and from Suffolk. Napoleon shared their exhaustion but was deliriously happy that his big shoe enabled him to keep up with the others. Everyone except Porcino know that inside that pig-shoe was a foot filled with poorly knit broken bones, disjointed toes, a bone jutting from its sole and a hammertoe that would otherwise have scrapped against the top of his boot. “God bless Johnny Hess,” he kept repeating to himself like a mantra, “God bless Johnny Hess.”

Five hundred miles away in Russell County there was young girl with a red birthmark on her cheek who also chanted over and over, “God bless Johnny Hess. God bless Johnny Hess.” She held little Maggie close to her as she prayed over and over again, tears streaming from her eyes. The farm was not going well because she was simply not strong enough to keep it going. The wild pigs had completely destroyed the year’s corn crop and she’d been too soft hearted to slaughter the domestic pigs in the sty. She sold the cattle one by one till there were none left. A slick-talking salesman had convinced her they were all dying of hoof & mouth disease so paid her 50 cents apiece for them. The goats and lambs were so spread out through the forest she could even find them.

So she and Maggie were living off potatoes stored in the cellar and salted hams left behind by Johnny.

Nevertheless, she was growing fat . . . by some mysterious process she couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was the potatoes.

Perhaps it was the months on end she spent without going outside the house except to check the mail. At any rate, not a day went by that she didn’t chant, “God bless Johnny Hess. God bless Johnny Hess.” Sometimes during her sleep she would wake up to voices heard muttering outside the house. They told her to do strange things, like drop her child

in the well and head out at once for Sacramento in California. She couldn’t have known the Unionist in Russell County were playing this particularly horrid trick on all the wives left living alone. She, like the others, simply assumed she was going mad.

She’d have fretted less if she’d know Johnny’d be seeing her before the year had ended.

Meanwhile, the march continued. After an hour in Cedarville, the brigade was lined back up and marched forward. They didn’t stop for another twenty miles till they hit Cedarville. There they were told they were near their destination at last and had only one more hurdle in front of them – the Shenandoah River, 12 miles away. But Porcino took the opportunity to give them what he thought was a pep talk, explaining how the Yankee cavalry was heading toward Chester Gap on their horses and would make it before Corse’s Brigade if they couldn’t cross the river quick enough.

They reached the swollen river the next day. The constant and drenching rains had raised its level by ten feet, causing swirls and eddies to appear everywhere. Worse news was that there were no bridges and they’d have to ford across on foot. A wave of fear rippled through the brigade, some of the better-educated men remembering how Napoleon lost 20,000 soldiers in 1812 while fording Russia’s Beresina River in 1812. These few spread hysteria among the men, failing to explain that Napoleon had over a half-million to get across the river and were under heavy fire while doing so. They’re situation was hardly as critical – yet Napoleon had gotten the vast majority of his troops across despite the odds. Like most men who know a little about a big subject, the fear mongers seemed to prefer spreading panic among their fellow soldiers than calming them down with the facts. Besides, as it turned out, they didn’t have to ford the whole river – only a portion.

Johnny, no fool, knew what was going on. They were heading into the jaws of Meade’s Army of the Potomac even then rushing to fill the gaps in the Shenandoah Valley. Meade had already crossed the Potomac and knew what Lee was up to. By filling the gaps with his cavalry, he could rest the remaining divisions of his army in the Great Valley. This would threaten Washington D.C., drawing Meade away from his intended course toward Richmond.

Lee probably felt he could better meet Meade near the Yankee capital – where he could be on the offensive, which he much preferred – than try to stop Meade from defensive positions between Washington D.C. and Richmond.

Thus, it was imperative to Lee to get his forces in the gaps in the Shenandoah Valley before Meade. The race was on!

Ironically, after Gettysburg, the Rebels were heading south to fill these gaps, same as Meade.

The brigade was furious with itself when it discovered Yankee cavalrymen were blocking Chester Gap by the time they got to the river. Fortunately, the rest of General James Longstreet’s First Corps, including General Pickett’s Division, had decided to occupy Chester’s Gap at the same time – and Corse’s Brigade was at last reunited with both its corps commander and divisional commander at the river’s edge.

Longstreet’s actual orders had instructed him and his men to secure Ashby’s Gap at Millwood, but the enemy’s cavalry had been on the opposite bank and the waters were too high to cross. So the mighty First Crops of Lee’s Army of North Virginia had marched on to Manassas and then to the river in front of Chester’s Gap. The water was still too deep to cross at that point, but they discovered the remains of two pontoon bridges several miles up at Front Royal.

Corse’s men apologized profusely for missing Pickett’s glorious charge but were told their presence would have made no difference. Still, Corse’s Brigade – and in particular Colonel Porcino of the 29 th –swore vengeance on the Yankees then at Chester Gap. As far as Porcino was concerned, the tragedy at Gettysburg lay on their backs. He talked to General Corse, who got permission to talk to General Pickett, who then talked to General Longstreet. As a result, Corse’s Brigade – in particular the 29th Regiment – would have the satisfaction of crossing the river first and then engaging the enemy first.

The men balked when they saw the river. The pontoon bridges were both in ruins and ended before touching

the opposite shore. That meant they’d have to jump into the water and somehow make it by swimming to the other side. Their powder, ammo and equipment would be ferried in the few boats in Longstreet’s command. The operation was surprisingly successful and the entire regiment, followed by the rest of Corse’s Brigade, got across. Johnny was soaked to the bone but alive, and that was all he’d asked for. At that point, he was focused only on getting revenge for those killed at Gettysburg and regaining his personal honor as a soldier. Fulgham and his horse had jumped off the end of the damaged pontoon as if it were merely a diving board. His horse complained bitterly but its rider was silent as they clambered up the opposite shore and immediately raced for the enemy at Chester Gap. Reforming at the other side, the 29th Regiment gathered their weapons, checked their ammo packs, loaded up and marched toward the gap. They’d covered only a few miles when Porcino motioned for them to halt and silently spread out. To his surprise, Johnny found Fulgham already there and waiting for them. Without being asked, Fulgham joined Johnny behind a fallen log. Peering through a stand of forest, they saw Yankee cavalrymen cooking over dozens of small fires burning in dozens of small tents.

Watch this, Johnny said, resting his new Enfield on the tree trunk and taking aim on a man who seemed to be eating a roasted chicken in great gulps, wiping his mouth with after every bite. He swigged something from a bottle – maybe wine, maybe whisky – but laughing after each swallow as if it burned his throat. He was jolly looking for a cavalryman, being a bit overweight and wearing his cap tilted on the back of his head. He seemed to be telling jokes to his comrades, who laughed every time he said something to them. Johnny held his aim steady, putting the sights in the center of his back.

Using hand signals, Colonel Porcino motioned for them to cock their weapons. Then, removing his sword and lifting it high – where it glinted weirdly in the moonlight – slashed it downward through the air. They were only about three hundred yards away and the regiment’s new rifles struck their marks. Dozens of Yankee cavalrymen dropped as the remaining hundred or so grabbed their weapons, mounted and dashed off in the opposite direction.

Johnny’s quarry never moved. He sat before the fire with the chicken stuck in his mouth, about to take a bite, both eyes open. Johnny and Fulgham watched together for a full twenty seconds before the man finally toppled over into the fire, causing a cloud of burning embers to swirl into the air. His hair burst into flames and his blouse caught fire.

His cap erupted into a blossom of blaze. Johnny smiled with satisfaction. “I got the son of a bitch,” he bragged.

Fulgham said, “You did the honorable thing, shooting a man in the back.”

A rage boiled up in Johnny’s mind and for a crazy second he thought he might have to bayonet Fulgham for what he’d said. This was war! The honorable thing was to kill the enemy, Goddamn it. Then he noticed for the first time that Fulgham hadn’t even fired in the enemy’s direction. He was carrying a Sharp’s carbine and could have plugged one of the enemy, too. “I want you to stay the hell away from me,” Johnny told the old horseman; “You come near again and I’ll pull your heart of your chest and eat it. I mean it.” He tried to look fierce but Fulgham just said, “Sure thing, boy”, mounted his horse and rode toward Chester Gap, which was now guarded only by abandoned tents and campfires and dropped weapons and a few dozen cadavers wearing blue. Johnny thought that was it. They’d run away. He seriously discounted the enemy.

Corse without hesitation had his men run toward the abandoned site and occupy it, giving Porcino orders to take his 29th to the west end of Manassas Gap. Meanwhile, the rest of Pickett’s Division was crossing the river. The Yankee cavalry, thoroughly angry, saw that Manassas Gap was defended by just one regiment and charged right through on their horses, slashing right and left with their sabers. Fortunately for the 29 th, the cavalrymen hadn’t had time to launch a planned attack and killed only two men and wounded only one before the rest of the regiment scampered to safety. Dead were two of Johnny’s friends – Thomas East and George W. McGill. There was also a man missing, presumably captured while out in the woods relieving himself. Nevertheless, Corse’s men were laughing

when they came out of their hiding places.

The Yankee cavalry had rushed through like a tornado but hadn’t done as much damage as they might have.

The laughter stopped suddenly when two dead men were spotted lying in pools of their own blood by their campfire.

They hadn’t been immediately spotted because their bodies lay in shadows cast by the surrounding forest. One the men had an arm hacked off above the elbow. The other’s neck was sliced half in two. There was no more laughing that night.

By the next morning, Pickett’s whole division was across the river, followed by General McLaws’ Division.

They’d reinforced Corse’s Brigade by the time the Yankee Cavalry could return in force with a real plan. Seeing both Chester’s Gap and west Manassas Gap occupied by thousands of Rebels, the cavalrymen launched a mock attack that scared the hell out of the Southerners but did no damage at all. It was just a demonstration and never meant to escalate into a battle.

Corse’s Brigade, along with Pickett’s Division, left Chester Gap on July 22 nd and made it to the Culpepper Court House Station on the 24th. When August came in, they marched to Rapidan Station, where they camped a day before moving within eight miles of Orange County Court House. On the seventh day of September they marched to within three miles of Richmond, then on the 13th passed through the city and entrained for Petersburg for a well earned rest. But while in route, they received what must have been electrifying news: they were going back to Southwest Virginia! Not for permanent duty, of course, but at least they’d be near home for a while. Perhaps they’d get furloughs.

In Petersburg they switched trains. The passenger cars on the second train of course were already packed full with soldiers. So Corse’s Brigade -- sighing a collective sigh of resignation and annoyance -- clambered on board where ever they could find room -- in cattle cars, flat cars, freight cars, on top of cars and even on the locomotive itself.

On the same train rode the 1st North Carolina Cavalry – which like Corse’s Brigade was a part of Longstreet’s First Corps. Among these fire-hardened survivors was Master Sergeant Richard Fulgham. His regiment had been among the first to entrain and had commandeered a real passenger car with real seats. Their comfortable slouches were deceptive because inside they were still mean and bitter sons of bitches.

A conductor, thinking to make some easy money, began walking up and down the isle, demanding either tickets or money for the train trip. A man sitting next to Fulgham, an unsmiling veteran of a thousand fights, leveled his carbine at the conductor and said, “I paid my fare at Gettysburg”. The other men agreed, showing their agreement by pointing their muskets at the conductor’s crotch, cocked their weapons and waited for him to say just one more word. They would have shot him, make no bones about it. The conductor slumped in a faint like a gutted dog before regaining his sense and slinking out. The horsemen laughed and hooted and whinnied like horses. They’d enjoyed the show but were a little disappointed the conductor hadn’t given them reason to fire. They’d have enjoyed that even more. But it had come to nothing, so they sat and stared moodily out of the smoky windows.

Oh well, they thought, things will have to be better than up in Pennsylvania. Unlike Johnny’s regiment, Fulgham’s cavalrymen knew they were going to another theater of war and why. As in all armed conflicts, the cavalry always had the latest information. They knew General Longstreet’s First Corps was on its way to reinforce Confederate General Braxton Bragg’s Army of Tennessee as it battled Union General William S. Rosencran’s Army of the Cumberland near the Tennessee - Georgia border. Only Corse’s Brigade and a few other lucky detachments would be going to Southwest Virginia.

Moving his corps to east Tennessee was General Longstreet’s big idea. Beginning in May of 1863, he had written letter after letter to General Lee urging him to assign his First Corps to east Tennessee instead of using it to

attempt further incursions into Northern held territory. It was obvious to Longstreet, especially after the bloodbaths at Gettysburg, that the Pennsylvania town had been the extent of any Confederate attempt to invade north of the Dixon. If attacked, Longstreet had written, the Yankees would only drop back to their impenetrable positions around Washington, D.C. There they could further decimate the Rebel armies. Longstreet told Lee it was much wiser at this point to reinforce the Rebel stronghold in Tennessee because that was the center of the Confederacy and operations could be launched which might still win the war.

General Edward Porter Alexander, Longstreet’s famous chief of artillery, agreed and noted in his post war memoirs, “. . . looked at purely as a technical military question of which of two plays in May 1863 was most judicious for the Confederacy – to transfer as fast as possible heavy reinforcements to the West, or invade Maryland & Pennsylvania – I must confess that the former seems to me so much the very best.” Longstreet’s suggestions were not adopted that spring but did set the stage for similar action later in the year.

Longstreet’s confidence had been seriously undermined by the memories of Gettysburg and he wrote Secretary of War James Seddon requesting a transfer west, urging that the Army of North Virginia reinforce the Army of Tennessee. “Old Pete” was concerned that unless something was done to stop the tide of the Federals through Tennessee, they would soon be marching through Georgia.

In the words of late Longstreet biographer Jeffry Wert, “The bitter memories of the second and third days of Gettysburg gnawed at Longstreet. He saw the changing character of the war, and although he continued his friendship with Lee, he wanted no part of the eastern war if it would continue to be fought as had been fought in Pennsylvania.”

In fact, “Old Pete” confided in a letter to Senator Louis Wigfall, “If I remain here, I fear that we shall go, little at a time, till all will be lost. I hope that I may get west in time to save what little is left of us. . . .”

Meanwhile, the situation in the west seemed to be worsening in every way. Vicksburg had fallen. General Braxton Bragg, commander of the Army of Tennessee, was losing the confidence of both headquarters and his men – he simply couldn’t seem to deal with his Federal counterpart, General William S. Rosecrans.

The situation in east Tennessee was tenuous, at best. Rosecrans’ army had successfully driven the Rebels from most of northeastern Tennessee and by September 1st was already crossing the Tennessee River in preparation for an attack on Chattanooga, which was then occupied by Bragg’s army. But there was no battle. By September 9 th, Rosecrans’ troops had entered and occupied the city unopposed because Bragg had already evacuated it. The Confederate general had feared the Federal army was cutting in behind him. The Federals – despite their occupation of Chattanooga -- were still in a vulnerable position, with most being spread out over 40 miles of mountainous terrain while others were trying to push Bragg further south. The situation might be saved and a major victory for the South won if only Longstreet could get his army there in time.

Unfortunately for the South, it was neither quick nor easy to send reinforcements to Bragg. All troops had to be sent by train along a downward looping, circuitous route hundreds of miles out of the way because Federal troops under General A. E. Burnside had entered Knoxville earlier, on September 2nd, and cut the only direct railroad link from Tennessee to Virginia. As a result, Longstreet’s First Corps had to spend two weeks riding trains down the Atlantic coast along the Carolinas, then to Atlanta, and lastly upward to east Tennessee. Usually the trip took only four or five days, at most.

A hideous battle was to ensue when Longstreet’s reinforcements arrived. But Johnny wasn’t to be there – again his brigade had been diverted from the main task to handle less important but just as deadly jobs. We’ll get to Johnny in a minute, but for now we’ll just mention that Longstreet’s reinforcements did the trick and the Federal Army of the Cumberland was bottled up in Chattanooga by September 21st. Despite a splendid Union defensive, the battle was – in the words of Civil War historian E. B. Long, “a great Confederate tactical victory.”

Out of the 58,000 Union soldiers participating in the campaign, 1657 were killed, 9756 wounded and 4757 missing, for a total casualty list of 16,170. Out of the 66,000 Confederates, 2312 were killed, 14,674 wounded and 1468 missing for a total of 18,454. Both sides lost about 28% of their effective forces.

While the battle of Chattanooga was taking place, Johnny and Corses’ Brigade were traveling north to chase the remaining Yankees out of east Tennessee – right through the door through which they’d come in. The brigade met little resistance until they hit a little town called Zollicoffer, about ten miles beneath the Virginia-Tennessee border and near today’s Blountville. For those who don’t recognize it, it was called Union before the war began and Bluff City afterward. It’s near today’s famous publishing house of Overmountain Press in Johnson City. But then it was little more than a train’s “whistle stop” with less than a hundred citizens.

Zollicoffer had been held by Union troops since December 30, 1862, when Union General Samuel P. Carter -with 2,500 men -- had easily overcome and sent running the three mere companies trying to hold the town for the Confederates. They burned the East Tennessee & Virginia Railroad bridge there and left a contingent of cavalry to keep the town in Yankee hands.

The orders to Corse’s Brigade were to clear Zollicoffer of the enemy, drive him back north and repair the bridge. It wasn’t an easy task because it’d been immediately preceded by the battle of Blountsville on September 22 nd , which was a definite Union victory. Union Colonel John W. Foster – part of Union Major General Ambrose Burnside’s Army of the Ohio sent to clean the road and gaps to Virginia – had sent his cavalry and artillery to push Confederate colonel James E. Carter and his troops out of Blountville. Foster had attacked at noon and shelled the town for four hours while attacking from both flanks. The Rebels had no choice but to evacuate or be destroyed. Foster had at his disposal the Union’s 2nd Brigade, 4th Division, XXIII Army Crops, Department of the Ohio (approximately 2500 men).

Carter had only the 1st Tennessee Cavalry Regiment and artillery (approximately 1200 men).

So, when Johnny’s brigade was to attack Zollicoffer, over 2300 army Yankees still held Blountville less than ten miles away. It wasn’t a walk in the park. For Johnny, it was to be one of the worst ordeals he had to face to date.

For the first time, as he was cleaning his musket and preparing to attack the town, he felt a shiver run down his back so violently that it shook him all over. He ignored it and kept cleaning, only to be stunned again by a hot flash which turned his face beet red, forced out a gallon of greasy sweat and made his head swim. The attacks began to hit him every ten or fifteen minutes, leaving him weaker and weaker. He suspected he had something seriously wrong with him, yellow fever or even malaria. These chills and hot flashes . . . .

Nevertheless, as Porcino was now Colonel and would have no nonsense like illness, he jumped to orders when the captains rang out, “Battle formation!” Each company fell in ranks, loaded their weapons and cocked the hammers.

Filed up in a single line, they approached on Zollicoffer. They formed a battle line about four hundred yards away.

Scouts had informed them only two or three Federal companies occupied the town. This was good news and bad news. The good news was that the enemy was outnumbered ten to one if it came to an all out battle. The bad news was that only ninety men of the 29th would engage the enemy at first. Skirmishers. Corse wasn’t going to commit his entire brigade until it was absolutely necessary. Making things scary for the skirmishers, the enemy – however few they may be -- had horses, carbines, revolvers and sabers – and could really cut the skirmishers up bad if they fought back.

Before engaging in full battle, Companies A, C, G and F of the 29th Virginia were ordered to move forward under cover and engage the enemy in a skirmish at one hundred yards. This meant creeping forward and upon signal shooting whomever you could see from whatever you could hide behind. Johnny, in Company G, was reeling back and forth, sweating profusely one minute, shivering with cold the next. But he had to do his duty . . . .

The skirmishers, including Johnny, moved up individually with rifles at ready until they were the prescribed

one hundred yards from their target. Then ninety guns were pointing toward Zollicoffer’s main street, waiting for the signal pistol shot from Captain Smith – who with Colonel Porcino watched the advance from the height of horses. The shot rang out and ninety rifles fired on the town. Windows shattered and wooden slats were thudded with slugs. Dogs went crazy and raced around in circles. People in the streets vanished from sight. Then someone in the town began to ring the church bell – clang clang clang clang clang clang . . . and within seconds about four hundred Union cavalrymen poured out of the buildings and leapt onto their horses, first firing at the skirmishers with hastily pointed carbines. They didn’t waste time. They’d obviously been waiting for the first opportunity to abandon Zollicoffer.

They’d had their orders in advance to skedaddle at the first sign of Rebels.

The boys in gray were lucky. If the Yanks had orders to defend the town, sentries would have given the defenders plenty of warning and a waiting committee of cannon and rifles would be awaiting the invaders. Observers would be the roofs to see who, what and how many were attacking them. Sharpshooters would pinpoint the invaders from attics. Six-pounder and twelve-pounder cannon would have rolled out from unexpected hiding places. But this time the U. S. Cavalry abandoned expected defensive tactics and galloped at full speed toward the four companies with wild eyes, screaming mouths and sabers raised high. They were hoping to scare the skirmishers so badly that they’d break and run.

Indeed, most of the skirmishers scrambled for cover or hit the dirt and covered their heads. Two of the 29 th were killed with sabers – Elkannah Ayers and Calvin C. Johnson -- and four others wounded. Unfortunately for the Yanks, however, some of the steadier riflemen had time to reload before the horsemen reached them. These men – about thirty of them -- began to methodically shoot the Yanks’ horses, one by one, each dying with a whiney of surprise. The Union cavalrymen riding them flipped in graceful, practiced, evasive rolls when their steeds fell, then raced back to the cover provided by their dead mounts. Soon nineteen horses lay dead in the street, behind which hid nineteen blue-uniformed cavalryman desperately reloading their carbines or aiming their revolvers. The rest of the horseman crashed right through the skirmish line, veered left and disappeared into the woods along a well-trampled dirt road.

General Corse ordered his artillery to open fire on the town’s Main Street, upon which lay the dead horses and trapped cavalrymen. Exploding shells and canister shot quickly ripped horses and men alike to shreds of mangled flesh. Johnny watched the massacre but didn’t feel anything but the spinning in his head and didn’t hear anything but the roaring his ears. As the rest of the regiment pulled up and took positions, Johnny tried to stand for the march forward but found his legs wouldn’t work. As Porcino was looking right at him, Johnny fell forward and kissed the dirt. He couldn’t move for several minutes.

When he’d regained enough strength, he pulled himself sideways along the previous line of battle. Everyone else had moved forward almost fifty yards. He didn’t know what to do and didn’t care, so continued to drag himself along till he hit the edge of the woods and pulled himself inside. The din going on back in Zollicoffer let him know Corse was murdering the Yanks – and he tried to smile, with only a slice opening in his head, out of which poured a frothy white spittle that smelled of bile and rotten artichoke hearts. He propped himself against a tree and waited.

Before the firing stopped, Johnny heard something crashing through the wood toward him. At first he thought it was Colonel Porcino, who certainly was going to kill him for dropping out of the battle line. How can a sick man explain things to a well man? It couldn’t be done and Johnny knew it. When the creature arrived, it proved to be an old sow instead of the expected Colonel. A huge fat hog with bloated teats and a bleeding hole in her rump. She’d somehow managed to get herself shot in the rout of Zollicoffer. She looked at him with eyes that said, “How is it that you and I have come to this same spot, surrounded by gunfire?” Johnny smiled and mumbled, “Hogs got honor”. But inside he feared the worst, that she would eat him as if were already dead, despite her blossom of a wound. She came

closer and snuffled him all over, obviously growing weaker as she did so. He was also weak -- too weak to resist, so lay meekly as she snuffled him up and down with that weird rubber siphon they call a snout. It tickled him and he chuckled. But the fear was growing and growing. He’d heard stories about wounded soldiers and hogs! Christ! What would a wounded hog do to a wounded man?

But he needn’t have worried. She began to stagger left and right, barely managing to stay on her feet. Instead of panicking, as would have most wild animals, she touched his cheek gently with her own, holding it there several minutes. He felt warm hog’s drool dribbling down his neck. It was strangely soothing to Johnny. All the while, the sow was making little sounds, soft grunting, a humming, as if to lull him to sleep. She stopped to stare into his eyes for a long minute, seeming to look for something. He stared back into her eyes. She had hazel eyes surrounded by black halos, just like his Anna back home. There was nurture, sympathy, need. Something like love passed between them – it’s impossible to describe and perhaps harder to believe, but it happened. Two wounded, warm-blooded beasts had come to some strange understanding in the woods, hidden away from the mad bloodletting of war.

Then, with a loud “ummppfff1” the sow fell over on her side and twisted her head to look at him. He thought she was dying and felt a wave of pity overwhelmed him. He wept for a hog . . . . He was sweating again – another hot flash, but this one so fierce that reason fled his body. He didn’t know what he was doing as he let himself fall face forward onto the sow’s soft, still gently breathing body. Instinctively, he knew what had to be done if he were to live.

With a profound inner revulsion and unrelenting hammer of guilty pounding his heart, he found one of the swollen teats with his mouth and began sucking milk. She ohhhhed her pleasure. Delirious or not, he knew this was pretty sick on his part – but couldn’t quit. The milk was richer than cream, warm and tasted better than melted butter. It went down easily and calmed his stomach. A natural sedative went directly to his nerves and for the first time he felt a wonderful relaxation coming over him. The hot flashes and chills stopped torturing him.

But he was also aware of being a lone pathetically sick human being, cuddled up with a lactating sow, sucking milk from her breasts. If he’d been able to admit it to himself, he’d have realized that breast was as soft and sweet and yes, beautiful to him as Anna’s had been right before she bore Maggie. He’d sucked her breast too and tasted the rich milk of animal kindness. The hog milk was much different but it too was a rich milk of animal kindness.

He lay there six hours and eventually the shooting stopped. His mind cleared and his symptoms abated. He didn’t want to leave her, she who had saved his life and made him feel so warm and loved. She was a spotted Herefordshire with cuddly jowls and blue eyes that twinkled. Her wound, as big around and deep as an orange, showing pink raw pork inside, had glazed over with a transparent membrane. It certainly looked like a mortal wound when Johnny had first seen it spouting blood like a fountain. But now it was miraculously sealed. She only been nicked by shrapnel.

And then an amazing thing happened – she didn’t die. Instead, she laboriously pulled herself to her feet and waddled away with great dignity, looking back at Johnny over her shoulder. He smiled but only because no one could see him. He’d never know if she’d saved him out of some universal maternal instinct or simply because she was too weak to eat him alive. Perhaps she would have attacked him had she not been wounded. Johnny was very confused . . . .

Walking back to camp, he found trouble by his tent. Colonel Porcino and Captain Smith were waiting.

Porcino had a huge evil smile on his face; Smith looked stern but saddened. “You’re a deserter,” Porcino said before he could enter his tent; “you’re gonna hang for this, Hess. I been waiting for you to take off again.” Smith nodded, but in his favor we’ll mention that he was also highly embarrassed. “We seen you drop out of the line and crawl in the woods, you stinking coward,” Porcino continued; “Then we saw you walk out, perfectly healthy. Ain’t nothing wrong with you, boy. ‘Cept fear. I knowed from the start you’s a coward. Now you gonna pay. I’m gonna personally string

you up tomorra morning.” Porcino scrubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Johnny felt better but was growing uncomfortable under the threats. Not knowing what else to say – it was no use telling these officers the truth – he said, “I formally request an audience with General Corse.” Porcino sneered.

“You ain’t talking to nobody.”

“It’s his right,” Smith interjected; “He can talk to his brigade commander about any charges against him. It’s in the books.”

Porcino spat on the ground, asking Smith, “Who’s the superior officer here, Smith? I say he ain’t talking to Corse or anybody else. Why’re you protecting a coward? Maybe you’re a coward too. Are you like this stinking yellowbelly?”

“You’re right. He ain’t got no need to see Corse. I seen him crawling off to hide with my own eyes. I’ll swear it to Corse at the Court Martial. I seen him walking back out on his own two feet. He weren’t wounded or nothing. We’ll hang his ass, don’t worry.”

“It ain’t his ass I want,” sprang back Porcino; “I want his neck. I wanna stretch his Goddamned neck for him!

I want to see him to shit in his pants! I’ll feed his body to the hogs! Yasser -- haw haw haw! Yasser, Captain Smith, I’m gonna watch his eyeballs pop out and fall on his cheeks. I’m gonna see his sassy tongue turn black and poke out of his mouth! Gasser -- haw haw haw!” His laugh was huge and obscene and filled the camp like a ghastly giant’s fart.

Those men who heard it knew it was Porcino – they recoiled in disgust and revulsion. It was the laugh of a zombie, a dead man walking. No one who could laugh like that deserved power. It was like giving a gun to a madman.

Everyone who heard that hideous laugh knew someone in the regiment was in deep, deep trouble.

And indeed Johnny was in deep trouble. Up to his neck. Everyone in Company G had seen him fall out of the battle line and crawl for the woods. They’d seen him disappear and not return till the shooting was over. Worst of all, they’d seen him drag his body into cover as if sick, then walk out on his own two feet. It was 1863 and the worst thing of all in this war was to be accused of cowardice before the enemy. Johnny had no hope. His neck was already in the noose, he thought.

But he’d have to wait a while to see if the brass would stretch it for him.

On the 29th of September, Corse’s Brigade broke camp and marched ten miles down to Carter County on the Wautauga River. There they set up camp again and waited for the trains to arrive to take them back to Petersburg.

They didn’t realize how quickly they’d be coming back. General Bragg seemed to have things under control in lower east Tennessee but would fail to take advantage of the Confederate victory soon or aggressively enough.

While waiting for the trains, a scrounging party from Johnny’s Company G went hunting and managed to bring back an adult sheep and a young wild pig. They’d stolen the sheep from a farmer’s field but had legitimately shot the hog in the wild. The animals were skinned, greased with lard and roasted whole over a pit of coals. Johnny ate the mutton but politely refused the pork. Hogs and men were too much alike, Johnny figured, excepting the fact that hogs don’t kill each other.

Eating the sheep was a different story. Sheep didn’t have the brains or heart to live free. They can’t survive without masters. At slaughtering time, Johnny thought to himself, you can shoot a sheep right in the middle of its herd and the other sheep will just stand around as if nothing has happened. The shot sheep will continue grazing even as it lies dying on the ground. But try shooting a hog in a herd! Its buddies make a run for it or try to kill you. You have to trick the one you want to slaughter. You chase it into a chute that closes up on it. Then you kill it with one blow of a sledgehammer – hoping it won’t scream. If it screams, panic breaks out in the rest of them. Hogs and men have that in common: they scream if you don’t kill them quickly enough.

Corse’s Brigade left Carter County on October 1st and arrived in Petersburg on the 5th. The trip was short this

time because the Rebels had temporarily managed to restore the railway lines. In Petersburg, the soldiers set up camp and were issued new clothes, shoes, tents and blankets. Though many Rebel outfits were literally in rags by this time, Johnny’s unit was lucky enough to be nearby when a huge shipment of English made uniforms arrived in Richmond.

Every man in Corse’s Brigade looked like a fresh soldier just out of bootcamp. They looked neat and spiffy again. Only a very few guessed that they were being re-equipped because they were about to enter the most fierce phase of the war yet.

They were in Petersburg only thirteen days when Corse’ Brigade was ordered back to east Tennessee, this time Blountville. Again they boarded the trains. The trip was quicker, thanks to General Longstreet, and they arrived on October 16th. On the 17th, Johnny was informed that he was to be hung.

He was ordered to appear at Officer’s Quarters for a Court Martial at 7 a.m., October 19 th, 1863. There would be no lawyer, no defense of any kind – it was pretty much a kangaroo court. Everyone thought he was doomed. Three senior officers, generals or colonels, passed judgment and one out of six times it meant death by hanging or, if lucky, a firing squad. The other five times were almost always a reduction in rank, sixty days hard labor and a humiliating public condemnation before the defendant’s assembled brigade. Johnny of course expected to be hung. Captain Smith was a witness, as were Isaac Garret and two other members of Johnny’s company.

The military court was held in a huge square tent, inside which was a long wooden table facing a single chair.

At the table, wearing their dress uniforms, were Colonel Porcino, General Corse and – a surprise to everyone – General George E. Pickett. The witnesses stood silently outside the tent, waiting to be called.

Johnny stood at attention as the charges against him were read to the court: “Cowardice in the face of the enemy.” Porcino smiled; Corse frowned; and Pickett looked amused.

“Private First Class John Henry Hess, you have been charged with cowardice. How do you plead?” asked Porcino.

“Not guilty, sirs.”

“We have three witnesses who saw you run from battle, Private Hess.”

“I didn’t run, sir. I crawled because . . . .” answered Hess.

“No excuses, private!” shouted Porcino; “We have three eye-witness and I make a fourth. You calling me a liar, private? You calling your company commander and three comrades liars? Could we all have been mistaken when you broke and ran?”

“I crawled, sir. My head was full of cotton. Wet cotton. I couldn’t stand up. I was sick.”

“You were sick! You crawled off the field of battle then came back perfectly healthy. You’re healthy now, aren’t you, Hess? You get sick at the sight of the enemy, is that it? Does gunfire make you queasy?” Porcino was enjoying himself. But Pickett listened intently, as if he actually cared about the fate of this little soldier. That’d be a new one, Hess thought.

“Sir, I can’t justify my actions because I had no control over them. I’d been having chills and fever all day. I got sicker and sicker. But I’d die before I’d abandon my regiment! So I followed orders to skirmish with the enemy to feel out his guns. I was on the front lines when a spell hit me – I suddenly had a fire burning up my spine and my head was twirling and my balance failed – I fell down and couldn’t move till the spell passed, then I was too weak to do anything but crawl away. That’s the truth, sirs, I swear to God in Heaven.”

Porcino sneered at him. “You’re gonna be seeing your God in Heaven tomorrow morning at dawn, Hess.

Marshall ain’t here to protect you this time. Herbert’s gone too. It’s only me judging you this time and I won’t put up with your insubordination. I’m going to make an example of you, make no bones about it. You’re a dead man, Hess.”

“I know it, sir,” responded Hess with a hopeless sigh. But he had friends in high places, of whom he was

unaware. General Corse was first to talk, saying, “Colonel Porcino, there are three of us here, not just you. We will decide this man’s fate together in closed session.”

General Pickett cast his sad Christ-like eyes on Johnny, pursed his lips for moment, then said, “I want to talk to this boy alone. You other two get out.”

Porcino was furious and angrily marched out of the tent. Corse didn’t care that much, though he liked Hess and was sorry to be the one condemning him to the gallows.

Pickett, however, had just seen 3000 of his men slaughtered and had a heavy conscience. He hated cowards, yes . . . but he also hated injustice, even to a mere private. When they were alone, Pickett asked him, “You ain’t afraid of this court, boy?”

“No sir, I ain’t.”

“You ain’t afraid of death tomorrow and the disgrace of being hung by your own regiment?”

“I fear the humiliation but I don’t fear death. God is with me because I never deserted. I ain’t a coward, no matter what it seems like. I know I never deserted and God knows it.”

Pickett’s huge head leaned forward against his palm as he thought. After a few seconds he called for his aide, who was waiting outside with the witnesses. The general whispered something in his ear and sent him off. In a few minutes he returned with the division’s doctor, who was not at all happy at having been pulled from his surgery. Only doctors could get away with talking back to officers and this one was no exception. “Goddamn it, George, I ain’t got time for this! There’s a man waiting for his foot to be sawed off, if you don’t mind. I’d like to get back to him before he tries to escape again. Hell, you’re the one who got it shot up for him, anyway. You try to kill ‘em and I try to fix ‘em, remember? What the hell you want with me, anyway?”

Pickett ignored him. Pointing at Hess, he said, “Tell this man what you told the court.”

Johnny explained yet again about the debilitating hot and cold spells, how his mind sometimes spun so crazily he couldn’t think or even walk. His balance just gave way sometimes. He explained how he’d crawled into the woods not to escape, but to get out of the way – and how he’d been able to walk out when the spell subsided. He wisely omitted the part about the sow.

The doctor gave Pickett an exasperated look. “He’s got malaria, George . . . just like a hundred other men in your division. They got it down in the swamps. This man will live. He can fight. Give him some quinine and he’ll be able to kill some more people for you. Is that it? Can I get back to my real duties now? That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”

He said it with a sarcasm that Hess found incredible. Anyone else would be shot on the spot. “Wow,” he thought to himself, “that doctor got power!”

The Court Martial reconvened immediately afterward. Again Colonel Porcino, General Corse and General Pickett faced Hess.

“I propose this court go into session now and get this over,” Porcino said with Corse nodding agreement.

Pickett rose to his feet and announced that the Court Martial was over. There would be no more prosecution and no closed session. They’d certainly be no hanging of this innocent man. He gave Porcino a withering look, “You, sir, are a disgrace to your uniform. Even an idiot could tell this man is sick. He’s got malaria, you Goddamned fool.

We ain’t got men to spare in this army, so don’t be so quick to hang one. I don’t like you, Porcino, and if you ever get my way again I’ll have you busted back to buck private and you can spend the rest of this war wiping the shit out of my latrine. Now, is there anything you want to say to me before we call this to a close?”

“But General Pickett, sir,” Porcino stammered, “I was the one who got the regiment assigned to you, so we could fight for the Confederacy. I’m trying to be a good officer, that’s all.” He seemed to be on the verge of crying.

Pickett exploded. Porcino had hit a nerve. “A good officer doesn’t kill his own men!” Bur that remark was

aimed at himself as well as Porcino. It hurt him. His own words cut like razors into his heart – which had already been sliced to ribbons at Gettysburg. He couldn’t help it but tears came to Pickett’s eyes. After all, he was a good man trapped in a killer’s job. Furious, he drew his sword, slashed it against the table with all his might, and shouted to Porcino, “You love killing, don’t you! You’d like nothing better than to kill your own men! You get me sick. Get the Goddamned hell out of my sight!”

Porcino did as he was ordered, but not before giving Johnny a murderous look that said clearly, “I’ll get your ass later”. Hess shivered with fear and dread but was clamed somewhat when Pickett told him, “You don’t have to worry about that swine anymore. I can get you transferred to another outfit if you want.”

“No sir! Thank you anyway, sir. But I grew up with the buddies I have in the 29 th Virginia and I owe it to stay with them. Thank you for sticking up for me, sir. I won’t forget you. You ain’t half the bastard they say you are.”

Johnny realized what he’d just said and turned red. But Pickett smiled, put his sword back in its sheath, and said simply, “Okay, son, go on back to your regiment. And get that quinine.”

Johnny was in shock as he left the Court Martial. His friends back at Corse’s Brigade camp were astonished to hear what had happened. They couldn’t believe a giant like General George Pickett had stooped to help a trifling private. Their respect for Pickett grew into a monument of admiration and affection. You can be sure he was Hess’s hero from then on.

Corse’s Brigade camped in Blountville for a month, then marched to Kingsport about 20 miles away.

Napoleon did fine – his pigskin shoe held out better than the fancy English high top boondockers worn by the others.

He looked as if he had a football on his foot, though footballs weren’t around then.

It was November 15th when Johnny got the wonderful news. He was getting a furlough home! Lebanon was only a hundred or so miles away. Colonel Porcino, wanting to appease his regiment for his persecution of Johnny Hess, offered furloughs to whoever wanted to go home for two weeks in Southwest Virginia. Johnny of course was the first man to go, as Porcino badly needed to rebuild the respect he had lost during the trial. Using a horse taken from the brigade pool, Johnny wound his way up through Virginia – through Bristol, then Abingdon, then Russell County and at last to Lebanon – where waited his beautiful Anna and his precious Maggie.

Well, Maggie was still precious but Anna – poor thing – had lost some of her beauty. Hard work had taken its toll. She was still a striking woman but had widened at the hips and waist. And her face had coarsened, become broader with heavier bones. It made no difference to Johnny, who politely bowed to her upon entering . . . then so impolitely stripped her, flung her on the bed, and made violent love to her – which she much enjoyed with squeals and gasps and powerful grips around him with her muscular thighs. There they created another daughter. Johnny was so happy to be home that he didn’t notice or care about Anna’s fading beauty. But he did notice that when he fondled, kissed and then began to suck upon her breasts – he experienced a strange feeling for her he’d never known before.

Somehow, by knowing the wounded sow so intimately, he’d tuned into the universal instinct of all mothers, the instinct to nurture and love and give pleasure.

He wasn’t so crass as to think her a hog but he was delicate enough to see the connection between warm, living, breathing mothers. After they’d made love three times in a row and lay in bed reveling in their released energy, he realized with a start that he owed his life to the mama hog he’d met the woods. She had suckled him and given him warmth when he was stricken down with malaria. She had been there when he had no one. Yes, Johnny’s stomach hurt when he admitted it, but the old sow and Anna were somehow alike. Perhaps Anna’s spirit had miraculously entered the sow when he’d been so sick and near death. He wondered about that for a moment, then dismissed it.

He’d been delirious, that’s all. He’d been saved by Mother Nature – yes, that sounded much better than being saved by a hog.

The second day of his furlough, Anna explained to him why she’d been unable to take their hogs to Russell County’s hog killing day as she was supposed to. There were just too many of them and no one could help her march them to the killing ground. So she decided to let them grow another year before slaughtering them – by then, she prayed, Johnny would be out of the war and could march them to their deaths by himself.

Johnny listened, hmmmmm’d and haw’d, then put on his jacket and walked down to his pigsty. Inside, comfortably asleep in the mud, lay eleven hogs already past slaughtering time. They noticed when he jumped over the fence, waking up and crowding around him, nuzzling his legs with affection. He could see the trust in their eyes. He could see the eyes of his regimental friends in those eyes. He could see Anna’s and Maggie’s eyes in theirs. He felt a kinship with them he had never felt before. He had the strangest thoughts about setting them free – but after the war.

PART FOUR : 1864 The year 1864 rolled in with a deceptive calm. January passed quickly as Johnny and his comrades marched around east Tennessee looking for Yanks. His brigade marched to Whitesburg, Bulls Gap, Morristown and even Dandridge – where they just missed the big battle between the Union Brigadier General Sam Sturgis’ cavalry of the Army of the Ohio and General Longstreet’s infantry forces of the Department of Tennessee. It was bit ironic when they heard about the Confederate victory because Corse’s men were outfitted with brand new shoes – while Longstreet’s engaged infantrymen had been unable to pursue the enemy for the lack of shoes.

Not being able to find the enemy, Corse’s Brigade wound up spending most of its time camped at Bulls Gap. They were almost ready to hope they’d be sitting out the rest of the war when, on January 22 nd, 1864, they were told to board the trains again. This time they were headed for Kinston, North Carolina, 450 miles away. From there, they’d be going to New Bern. The ride took eight days.

The sulfur smell of Hell began to permeate the ranks again as they neared their destination. The veterans in particular sensed a coming battle, recognizing the tight-lipped demeanor of the officers and do-or-die attitudes of the sergeants. Clearly, something was going to happen – an explosive shell lay in their midst with the fuse ignited.

An indeed it was a bomb waiting for them. President Davis hadn’t dare commit any troops of Lee’s Army of North Virginia while a full third of them were detached south of the Rapidan River. The Confederate War department was wise enough to call in Longstreet – though not completely aware of the coming battle of the Wilderness, where he and his men would be tragically decimated. In fact, Longstreet himself would be grievously wounded and take months to heal.

But there other worries to unnerve the Confederacy and one of these was the Yankee occupation of important waterways and cities along the North Carolina coast – not only controlling vital shipping lanes but dangerously close to Richmond. And it was a huge force indeed. On December 24, 1862, Lincoln had ordered that the Department of North Carolina be organized into a corps and designated the 18th. The Yankee troopers were stationed at New Bern, Plymouth, Beaufort and surrounding vicinities. In addition were Peck’s Division and a few regiments who had previously fought under Burnside at Roanoke Island and New Bern.

In February, the rooster showed six divisions, commanded by Generals Peck, Prince, Wessells, Ferry, Naglee and Palmer. At the end of the month, Getty’s division was a welcome addition when it withdrew from Suffolk after Longstreet abandoned his siege. After that, the massive Yankee corps was left in quiet possession of the territory, though there were some reports of minor skirmishing and exploratory excursions. No one in the Confederate War Department underestimated the potential danger of these troops stationed right in their backyard – in fact, inside the very country they were fighting for. Lee knew they had to go. Perhaps more relevant, President Davis needed good new to report to his Congress and people. Chasing the enemy out of North Carolina would encourage the Congress and pick up the people’s falling confidence. Davis badly needed a victory.

So it was with much enthusiasm that Lee received the plans of intelligent and energetic – but only 27 year old – Brigadier General Robert Frederick Hoke to storm and take the North Carolina position. Impressed with Hoke’s plan, Lee – according to Barrett’s The Civil War in South Carolina (p. 202) -- composed and sent the following message to President Davis on the second day of January, 1863.

The time is at hand when, if an attempt can be made to capture the Enemy’s forces at New Bern, it should be done. I can now spare the troops for the purpose, which will not be the case as spring approaches.

New Bern is defended on the land side by a line of entrenchments from

the Neuse River to the Trent. A redoubt near the Trent protects the flank, while three or four gunboats are relied upon to defend the flank on the Neuse.

The garrison has been so long unmolested, and experiences such a feeling of security, that is represented as careless. The gunboats are small and indifferent and do not keep up a head of steam. A bold party could descend the Nuese in boats at night, capture the gunboats, and drive the enemy by their aid from the works on that side of the river, while a force should attack them from the front. A large amount of provisions and other supplies are said to be a New Bern, which are much wanted for this army, besides much that is reported in the country that will thus be made accessible to us.

President Davis offered the job to Lee himself but was declined because Lee was obviously needed more in North Virginia. Instead, Lee proposed that a native North Carolinian should have the responsibility, like General Hoke – who had proposed the plan in the first place. President Davis, however, using the peculiarly illogical logic of the military, decided that Hoke did not hold enough seniority and therefore gave the job to General George E. Pickett.

In doing so, Davis rejected a brilliant, aggressive, imaginative tactician officer and selected in his stead a mediocre general who had just lost 3000 men.

Pickett’s division – including Johnny Hess – assembled at Kinston and by January 30 th had 13,000 men and a supporting naval force of 14 small wooden vessels led by a soon to be famous Commander John Taylor Wood. The land forces were divided into three columns.

The most powerful of these three consisted of Barton’s, Kemper’s and part of Matt Ransom’s Brigades, supported by 14 cannon and 600 cavalrymen, all commanded by General Seth Barton. This column was supposed to attack New Bern defenses at Bryce’s Creek, take Forts Gaston, Spinola and Amory, and afterward assault the city itself across the Trent River railroad bridge.

The second column was commanded by Colonel James Dearing and consisted of three infantry regiments, 300 cavalrymen and a battery of artillery with the mission to take Fort Anderson. The third column was to be comprised of General Hoke and his division, but definitely hampered by the presence of General Pickett. Hoke and Pickett were to launch a surprise attack on northern New Bern’s inner ring of fortifications along Bathchelder’s Creek.

While the attack was proceeding, the one-armed General James G. Martin of the Wilmington Garrison would launch a diversionary thrust at the New Port barracks to pin down the Union troops at Moorehead City.

Though worse things were to happen, what Hoke feared most were the gunboats anchored near New Bern.

They were nothing more or less than platforms for cannons, but could effectively blow the bold confederate attack to pieces before it got started.

This brings us to the first part of the attack, dealing with the gunboats. Commander Wood, in charge of the 14 little ships assigned to Hoke’s attack, was the son of President Zachary Taylor’s daughter and the brother of Taylor’s first wife. Like other officers in gray, he had resigned his commission in the United States Navy to command a party of sharpshooters that killed dozens of Yankee ship crewmen at Drewry’s Bluff and later served with great gallantry as a gunnery officer on the ironclad CSS Virginia. His crews would be made up of veteran tarheel sailors from the James River Squadron, commanded by Lieutenant Benjamin P. Loyall.

By late afternoon of January 31st, 285 officers and men, including 25 Rebel Marines, embarked with their ships on the Neuse River. The little flotilla consisted of 10 small wooden cutters, two heavier launches and a pair of rowboats. The ships set out first because it would take time to navigate the sixty tortuous and circuitous miles of

shallow river water between Kinston and New Bern. The going at first was tolerable, but as soon as they neared New Bern, a thick winter fog rolled in from the swamps and settled over the waters. Just as the night was disappearing, Wood found the mouth of Batcheldor’s Creek and hid his 14 ships in the water’s marshy edge.

As this was happening, Johnny was moving toward Batcheldor’s Creek with Corse’s Brigade and the rest of Hoke’s and Pickett’s divisions. Napoleon and Isaac were there, both as nervous and excited as Johnny – with their guns half cocked and ready to fire. Chewing their ‘baccer and reading their testaments and spitting in their hands for good luck. Isaac especially was entranced, watching the little gunboats with a bizarre look of love in his eyes. He smiled and smiled at the little flotilla . . . . You know he wanted to be on the water, not the land – which was a sea, but a sea of mud.

Meanwhile out on the Neuse River, barely outlined in silhouette through the rising mist, one lone Federal gunboat could be seen anchored off New Bern,. It sounded like good news but it was bad news. The Yankee USS Underwriter was a huge side-wheeler mounted with four cannon, one of them a deadly accurate and devastating 8 inch Dahlgreen gun. That one gun could sink any or all of Woods 14 vessels. The Underwriter was the largest of the vessels then on duty at New Bern and the most dangerous to approach. To make things worse, she was anchored less than 500 yards from a super-fortified battery known as Fort Dutton and directly across the river from Fort Anderson.

Both were bristling with cannon. If they discovered the Confederate boats, every one of them would be blown out of the water.

Nevertheless, Wood devised a daring plan. As a thrilled Isaac watched from shore, Wood divided his force into two sections – one lead by Lieutenant Loyall and Wood himself leading the other. Each crewman wore a white patch on his left arm so friend could tell foe in the dark. They felt like pirates as they were heavily armed with cutlasses, revolvers and carbines. Even a small howitzer crammed with canister shot was mounted in one of the boats.

The two little squadrons set out on the river but could see nothing, even as they slipped by unnoticed by Fort Dutton. Only a lonely bell rang to mark the fort’s presence. They were within a few hundred yards before they made out the USS Underwriter’s ghostly shape looming over their water. Though it was smaller than most ocean-going war vessels, it was still larger than any of the Rebel’s riverine ships and had enough artillery to destroy all 14 boats and crews if it spotted their attacker soon enough.

It was a close call, much too close for the men in gray. Just as their own men spotted the Underwriter, a sharp eyed lookout on the enemy ship shouted, “ship ahoy!” and set off a rattling to-battle-stations alarm. Soon the Underwriter was swarming with men, all intent on destroying this pesky mosquito fleet.

By then there was no use for further secrecy, so Wood shouted, “Give way, boys! Give way!” The seven ships closed in on the large Yankee warboat. Fortunately, though she dropped anchor and tried to get further away, the Underwriter was too close to use its big guns. The Confederate sailors saw flashes of rifle and revolver shots on the enemy deck as they neared, and the water around them pinged with near misses. Coming along side, the raiders’ boats crunched into the Underwriter’s side and 200 Rebel Yells split the night as grappling hooks were thrown over the parapets and Wood’s savage crewmen stormed the deck of the larger ship. Hand to hand fighting broke out immediately, mostly cutlasses against cutlasses. In the words of naval historian William R. Trotter, “It was the kind of melee that had not been seen in North Carolina waters since the days of Blackbeard the pirate.”

The Rebel mortar, brought along for the purpose, was fired point black at the Underwriter’s bridge, splattering the pilothouse with canister balls, shattering windows and throwing out a hailstorm of splinters. Surely unintended, cannon from Fort Dutton, woke up and began to lob shells at the Underwriter. A hundred pounder landed squarely in the middle of the fighting men but with no effect other than blowing five of them to cosmic smithereens.

When the on-deck fighting was over, the captain of the Union gunboat and half of its crew lay dead or wounded. Only six of Wood’s men had died and only 22 were wounded. It was a magnificent victory and Wood wanted to sail the defeated ship back to Kinston as a gift to the confederacy.

The Yanks were not so willing, however. Fort Anderson and well as Fort Dutton had the range by then and were lobbing shells all around. Much worse, the ship didn’t have enough steam in its boilers to make a run for it.

Reluctantly, Wood was forced to set fire to the ship – and then lead his band of exuberant cutthroat swashbucklers back up the Neuse, mission complete.

Seeing this action did something to Isaac Garrett. More than anything he wanted to get out of the mud and onto the water. For the first time in his life, he gave a damn. The navy life was for him! How his heart had pounded as the miniature sloops sneaked up to the doomed USS Underwriter and so boldly fought its crew tooth and nail! He’d never before felt such passion. This was warring as it should be – man to man, cutlass to cutlass, heart to heart, eyeball to eyeball. He could hardly believe he’d found something to care about. His indifference melted like butter. . . . . As soon as the first raid on New Bern was over, he’d ask for a temporary detachment to the CSA navy, hopefully to serve on an ironclad – which he’d heard such exiting things about. Isaac didn’t realize it, but he was to get his wish and live to regret it. All in all, during the Civil War, sailors had it even worse than infantrymen – as Isaac would learn all too quickly.

Johnny and Napoleon, both of whom had been entranced by the river battle, knew they’d be charging the enemy as soon as dawn became early morning. Now it was over and it was time for them to do their part in the attack on New Bern. They marched as ordered by Pickett to positions along the south side of Batchelder’s Creek to complete their part of the three-pronged mission. Of course, as with all coordinated battles, the plan didn’t work as projected.

All three of the columns failed to achieve their objectives, despite the brilliant and decisive victory of Colonel Wood’s flotilla. Pickett and Hoke arrived at the south side of Batchelder’s Creek at approximately 1 a.m. on February 1st and immediately ordered his men to storm the bridge and take out the defenders on the other side. Unfortunately for Pickett, not only had the bridge been previously destroyed but shots from his own men alerted the defenders who began returning fire.

Hoke was aware that he was second in command and followed Pickett’s orders with an amazing tolerance, considering the circumstances.

All Pickett thought to do was hunker down till daylight

because an attack at night was beyond his tactical abilities. Hoke, however, correctly presumed a train would be coming before daylight to reinforce the Yankee defenses and suggested it be ambushed before it arrived. He proposed fording the creek, driving off the defenders, marching closer to New Bern and ambushing the train. Then they could simply board the train and ride back to New Bern. Then they could penetrate the city, with Barton and Seth covering their flanks.

The plan was attempted with Pickett’s blessings. At daybreak, Hoke’s men attacked the defenders at Batchelder’s Creek, who put up a surprisingly determined fight and took seven full hours to drive off. Hoke then marched his men with all possible to within a mile of New Bern, where they stopped to prepare an ambush for the expected train. Unfortunately, the train’s crew was alerted by telegraph and avoided the ambush by only five minutes.

But then Hoke made the big mistake of using too much caution. Only a mile from New Bern, Hoke hesitated and finally decided not to press on into the city because of its reputedly formidable inner defenses. He decided to wait for Barton’s column before attacking. Pickett was furious but in no mood to suggest any military movement that would cost too heavily in human lives. Though the man was deeply disturbed by what had happened in Gettysburg, he was more tortured by the last screams of his dying men than by his conscience. He was a haunted soul but he was also an angry soul. He wanted forgiveness from God while at the same time wanting revenge on the Yankees.

Barton’s column, according to historian Trotter, failed to accomplish its mission because its commander – General Seth Barton – had a failure of nerve. Though his men had successfully taken several Federal outposts without a shot being fired, Barton had balked upon seeing the main Yankee defensive line. Though Hoke would had attacked, Barton decided to bring up his artillery and duel with the New Bern defenders cannonball to cannonball while his scouting parties searched for weak places in the line. They couldn’t find any, not one. The Union garrison had spent two years fortifying the terrain around New Bern, knowing an attack would eventually come. They were right . . . and they were extraordinarily prepared. The attack was foiled.

Barton wasted the entire day of the first worrying and sending out cavalry patrols to cut the railroad, which none of them were able to do. The result was that more and more men poured into the Yankee defensive perimeter around New Bern, making an attack by Barton seem absolutely futile – though in after sight it wasn’t. Eventually Barton gave up. Even when he received a desperate message from Pickett asking when the Hell he was going to attack, Barton answered he “had made no such advance and did not intend to.” At that time Pickett himself was waiting across the Trent River, ready to attack when Barton did. So neither man moved, stalemated by either other’s caution or cowardice.

Pickett almost made the right decision when he considered sending an order to Barton to cross the Trent River and join Hoke for a massed attack on the city. The Federal lines were thin and only a mile had to be traversed.

It might – it probably – would have worked. But before the order was sent, Pickett for some odd reason of his own, directed Barton to withdraw all the way back to Kinston. General Hoke was furious and could barely keep from challenging Pickett’s seniority right then and there. The Confederacy would have been better off if Hoke had done so but nothing happened except a total, disgraceful, humiliating failure.

The third Confederate column did no better. In fact, it did much worse. General Dearing, whose men were supposed to take Fort Anderson, didn’t even pretend to attack. By February 4th, he and his force were also in retreat to Kinston as fast as their little chicken legs would take them. As if God were punishing all three columns, the skies opened up as they fled home and rain flooded down . . . making the trek home depressingly muddy and wet.

However, the operation did have an unexpected result. Pickett’s men, with Johnny’s 29 th Virginia, had killed about a hundred Yankees and taken 250 prisoners – mostly of Union Colonel Fellow’s 17 th Massachusetts Regiment— while skirmishing with the defenders of New Bern on February 1st.

On the morning of February 2nd, however, as they still lay in their battle lines in front of New Bern, Pickett found and took a carefully hidden blockhouse filled with enemy troops. This is how it happened . . . . For reasons that will soon become apparent, the Union army had assigned Company F of the 2nd North Carolina Union Volunteers to a masked blockhouse fort concealed in the forest at Beech Grove. The blockhouse was on the extreme right of the Union line defending New Bern and only a short distance east of Batchelder’s Creek. Besides Company F, the blockhouse was occupied by fourteen regular soldiers of 132nd Regiment, New York Infantry, and contained two steel rifled artillery pieces for protection. Overall command was given to First Lieutenant Samuel Leith of the New York unit.

At that time, Company F was not that much different from the television comedy series about a U. S. Cavalry unit entitled “F Troop”. We’ll see why in a moment. And they were hidden from the enemy for damn good reason.

The men of the New York unit were embarrassed and mortified to be sharing the blockhouse with such a group.

The fight at Batchelder’s Creek and the advance of Hoke’s men toward New Bern doomed the little blockhouse on the morning of February 1st, 1864. It might have been okay if it had remained hidden by the darkness of night and later the dense morning fog – even though it lay in the path of the oncoming Confederates. They might have bypassed it without even seeing it. Unfortunately for the men in the blockhouse, the darkness and fog also prevented communications. And First Lieutenant Leith refused to leave without express orders, though they could hear gunfire

on the road to New Bern. The Yankee headquarters at New Bern tried to get word to Leith that the blockhouse should be abandoned at once. An officer was dispatched with the message the morning of the battle but got lost in the swamp and returned with the message undelivered. Then the Yankees sent out another courier, Second Lieutenant Arnold Zenette, who was killed en route with a single bullet to the brain.

Meanwhile, First Lieutenant Leith was worried so sent out his own courier to obtain orders from his superiors. Despite the pleas of “F Troop”, Leith refused to allow the men to escape along routes they knew well -which lead through the swamp and to the town. No, Leith had to have orders first! The message sent out never made it to Union headquarters because Pickett’s men captured the courier. Pickett’s and Hoke’s men thereby learned of the hidden blockhouse and where it was hidden. The message, however, failed to note what kind of men were inside the blockhouse nor that two cannon were inside. At any rate, the blockhouse was put on the list of Yankee targets to be attacked and destroyed.

Pickett sent two regiments to take the blockhouse, the 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment and the 30th Virginia Infantry Regiment, supported by two sections of artillery. Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac were privileged to participate.

After finding and surrounding the blockhouse, Johnny lay in the grass with his weapon pointed at the low rectangular concrete building covered with bushes, ivy and tree branches. It had two narrow windows, out of which pointed two wicked looking cannon.

“What ya think that is? Ammunition dump?” Johnny asked.

Isaac looked long and hard, finally answering, “It ain’t no ammo dump. Not this far out. They got something hid there, maybe gold or something.”

Johnny’s ears perked up at the sound of gold. Gold! He tapped the shoulders of two men in their company, whispering what Isaac suspected. The possibility set the whole company on fire within minutes. Gold! The secret word to all soldiers. Damn Pickett’s orders, they thought as one man, we might get rich off this! Watching Captain Smith carefully, the men of CSA 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment, Company G, decided on their own to rush the blockhouse and take whoever and whatever was inside.

It was early dawn as Company G’s men crept toward the concealed blockhouse. They watched the narrow windows carefully but no cannon fired and no musket muzzles appeared. The cannon didn’t budge. They seemed to be unmanned. The boldest of Company G that day – Johnny Hess -- got near enough to run up and peer through one of the windows. The first thing he noticed was that only about a dozen or so men were carrying rifles; the rest had their weapons haphazardly stacked up in a corner like floor mops.

There were about 60 men in Yankee uniforms, about half of whom sat idly on the floor, staring at the walls, silent and apparently lost in worlds of thought far away from planet earth. The other half sat on long wooden benches, talking to each other and looking as worried as they should be. Only fourteen of them had their rifles and bayonets.

None of the others had weapons on them, not even hunting knives.

Sitting on a bench was a mere child – maybe 13 years old at most. He had an old snare drum with a hardened layer of cracker crumbs, vomit, blood and bird shit on it. Two others on the bench were ancient men, sixty, seventy years old – toothless and bald with leather faces, clouded eyes and potato noses. They sat apart from all the others, slowly and deliberately chewing tobacco -- then spitting sprays of spit on the wall. They’d created a brown fresco that with a little imagination looked like a mass grave of rotting men. Matisse would have been proud of them – they were the precursors of modern art.

The fourteen New Yorkers also sat on benches, restless and constantly polishing their rifles or sharpening their bayonets. Also, about two dozen normal looking men sat at the benches, whispering to each other, playing cards, mumbly-peg, or reading yellowed newspapers. These appeared to be Union conscripts – or in modern day language,

“draftees” – who had just been mustered into service. Their uniforms were brand new and had no regimental insignia yet. The only unusual thing about them was that those without guns carried white handkerchiefs already tied to sticks -- as if prepared to surrender.

But the rest, my God! The rest were pathetic remnants of human beings. About a dozen had horrendous handicaps – missing arms, legs, eyes, ears, hands, feet or, in one case half an ass. A cheek had been amputated.

Another man had a black hole where his nose was supposed to be. He had a cigar stick in it and every now and then sucked in smoke and blew it out his mouth. As Johnny watched, the man – as if performing – removed the cigar from the hole, put it in his mouth and blew the smoke out of the hole instead – making perfect circles that slowly widened as they wafted toward the ceiling, where they disintegrated in little swirling smoky snakes. The man rose and took a bow. . . . There were also two hunchbacks, a peg leg and a grossly obese man of 400 pounds or more. All the seams of the fat soldier’s uniform were split and globular gobs of flesh bulged from under his armpits, around both thighs and down the middle of his back. Somewhat troubling, only a profoundly deep and awesomely black chasm could be seen through the split in the seat of his pants. Johnny shuddered as he thought of the cave that must be at he bottom of that chasm . . . .

Another Yankee soldier had a normal right leg but a left that looked like a broom handle – not a bit of meat on it. His knee looked like an orange. His ass looked like an onion. Several other soldiers were obviously retarded, with wide-set slanted eyes and round heads precariously balanced on too-thick bodies with no necks -- looking around at their buddies with uncorrupted good natures. Their teeth were disintegrating snags and their breath was putrid. But these things didn’t depress them one bit. They were happy men. Back then Johnny called such folks Mongolian Idiots.

Today he’d have to call them special people.

A cone-head grinned and grinned and grinned at nothing. The blue forage cap stuck on top of his head looked ridiculous. Cone-head would twirl it now and then . . . . Another man – this one a really spectacular show -had a missing lower jaw which had been replaced with a carved block of pine that had a lower lip, teeth and whiskers painted on it. Rubber bands bound it to his head so he could pull the wooden jaw down with a string before letting it snap back up. When he did so, it went “tock!” Yet another – a man whose head fell sideways on his neck and seemed to be frozen there – sang at the top of his voice, “Green grow the violets, all covered with dew!” He was weeping as he sang it, the tears running down his shoulder and dripping off his fingers.

The scene was right out of a freak show. But the most curious thing of all about these particular men of Company F was that each was wearing the standard blue uniform of the United States Army, however baggy or tight.

One of the freakish fellows held a flag on a stick – marked “66th North Carolina Union Volunteers”.

At first, Johnny thought it must be a Yankee asylum for freaks and madmen. He didn’t see much danger there.

The cannons were harmless. The geeks were harmless. But the uniforms made them combatants, whether they were dangerous or not. Besides, there were the normal looking guys. Only the fourteen New Yorkers looked as if they might fight back – having their rifles in their hands, obviously well kept, oiled and ready for action, already fitted with bayonets. The other guns, stacked in the corner, were old, rusted-out flintlocks. Probably wouldn’t even fire. None had bayonets. You wouldn’t give just any of these people sharp objects!

Napoleon and Isaac leaned against Johnny and peered inside. Some of the ones inside peered right back. The two special boys smiled and the cone-head twirled his hat. The fat man quivered in fear. Isaac said, “These men just ain’t right. They’re hidden here so we won’t kill ‘em. So let’s kill ‘em all.” He smiled at Johnny.

Napoleon looked at his brother to see if he was serious. He wasn’t. Johnny wasn’t about to murder them either. Except for the fourteen New York infantrymen and two dozen “normal looking” Union conscripts, they were little more than animals, swept up by the Union army in its unending search for manpower, any kind of manpower, to

keep North Carolina filled with “Union Troops”. It’s occupying force liked to boast to mighty Lincoln about their numbers.

The men of the 132nd New York simply had the misfortune of being billeted at the blockhouse. The men of Company F, however, were all local males who’d joined the Yankee army when it discovered the Confederate War Department was lowering the standards for conscripted males and drafting the so-called “home guard”.

Virtually all Southern males were to be drafted, no matter what shape or outfit they were in. The two dozen healthy ones in the blockhouse had been members of Confederate partisan rangers or railroad guard units. These men had taken the war easy --- sort of like a long outdoor adventure -- they had no formal camp, their “officers” didn’t enforce discipline, they fought only when they felt like it, they roamed the countryside attacking any vulnerable parties they encountered, they looted those they murdered without warning, and they were fighting for themselves, not the Southern Cause. In a word, they were Bushwhackers. Half of them had run away at the prospect of being drafted into the real Confederate army. The other half had quickly joined the Yankees.

They didn’t have much choice. The Confederate army had decided to consolidate its forces in North Carolina in October of 1863, so ordered the creation of the 66th Regiment, North Carolina Troops. This would be made up partly of all the state’s partisan rangers and railroad guards, placing them in regular combat units. The biggest problem with this was that the partisans and railroad guards had been promised on enlistment that they would remain at home for the duration of the way and not be sent to the battlefields in Virginia. When the consolidation order came along, the “home guard” realized they would be sent to combat like any other grayback. The men, used to their freedom, didn’t cotton to the idea of really being part of the Rebel army – the army that was bleeding all over the green fields of Virginia.

Not exactly being heroes, those who didn’t run away from conscription turned their thoughts to joining the enemy. The Yankees – as had the Confederates in 1861 -- promised them that they could sit out the war as Federal guardsmen who would not be moved out their home counties. They were also promised safety, light duty and no combat. Ironically, trying to keep this promise is what got the blockhouse soldiers – especially the deserters – in so much trouble.

Most of the disabled or mentally deficient men in the blockhouse, however, had been tricked or bullied into signing up with the enemy. All had been confronted with the new Confederate guidelines for conscripts, which virtually made all males eligible for the draft and subsequent combat. But few had been confronted with the news that the Yankee recruiters were under pressure to fill the blue line running across the top of North Carolina. Few questions were asked and few disabilities were too severe to pass muster into the United States Army contingent smack dab in the middle of Confederate territory.

In the words Major General John J. Peck, commander of the Union’s District of North Carolina, “Some of these recruiters enlist all the men they can possibly persuade, without the slightest regard to their capacity, either mental or physical . . . using virtual impressments and fraudulent enlistment. Mere boys, children, some of them weak, puny, scrofulous, have been enlisted, passed by the surgeon, and mustered in by the mustering officer. And again, old men, eaten by disease or utterly incapacitated by old age and general infirmity, have been enlisted, fed, and accepted into the service as able bodied soldiers.”

The disabled and retarded were told by Yankee recruiters that they’d be treated better by the Federals than by the Rebels. They, too, were promised safety, light duty and no travel outside their home counties. They were even promised enlistment bonuses of from one hundred to two hundred dollars, which very few ever received.

These formerly exempted North Carolinians flocked to join the Union before the Rebels drafted them because the new Rebel requirements required only that a trigger finger could be pulled backward. Union soldierhood sounded

much safer. Hence the Yankees had lines of cripples, mental defectives and children trying to get into their North Carolinian First and Second Union Volunteer Infantry regiments. The doctors were as lenient as the Rebels – allowing almost everyone who wanted in to get in, even the brainless and disabled.

Returning to the blockhouse that morning of February 2nd, 1864, Captain Smith from his horse had noticed what was going on with Johnny and rode up next to him at the blockhouse window. “What the hell are these supposed to be? The enemy?” Smith asked when peeping inside.

“No, sir. I think the Yanks hid ‘em here to keep ‘em safe. Only a couple a dozen are real soldiers. But look at the rest of ‘em, they’re all cripples, cretins and crazy folks! Should we arrest the real soldiers and leave the rest here?

Then we can get back to the fighting.”

As Johnny was saying this, a man on a horse with a fancy felt hat and gold swirls on his long frockcoat rode up beside them. It was General Pickett demanding to know what the Hell was going on. Captain smith explained slowly that 67 uniformed Yankee soldiers were inside, half of them sitting on the floor without their weapons and playing with themselves. Pickett peered through the blockhouse window and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. Well, what’re you waiting for, Captain? Arrest them and bring them back as prisoners.”

The captain looked confused. “Sir,” he said, “half these folks ain’t real soldiers. They’re kids and geezers and freaks. They been hid here for a reason.”

Pickett again ordered that they all be arrested and taken to camp. His order wasn’t necessary because a soldier inside the blockhouse was already waving a white flag. Though the blockhouse’s commanding officer was heard advising all North Carolinians to run for it or get hung, no one attempted to escape. The blockhouse capitulated without a fight. Another glance inside assured the two regiments that the fourteen real soldiers had also stacked their weapons. Later it was discovered the New Yorkers had attempted to arouse the rest for a fight to the end, including using the rifled cannons to blow Pickett and his men back to atoms. But they’d been swamped with such panicked refusals – such crying like babies – that they’d been forced to surrender with the rest or kill everyone inside except themselves. This last resort was seriously considered and, in the end, would have been preferable to what really happened.

And so Johnny, Napoleon and Isaac of Company G, 29th Virginian Infantry Regiment, entered the blockhouse with weapons cocked and ordered the poor souls inside to file out. Smith and Pickett waited outside. The cone head just grinned and grinned until a boot in the ass got him moving. He smiled and went, “huh huh huh huh . . . . “ The cripples hobbled out on canes or leaning on each other. The old men grumbled and said over and over, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it . . . .” However, one of the real soldiers walked out with tremendous dignity, telling Johnny that he was the commanding officer in charge of this special company. His rank was First Lieutenant and his bars were made of gold. That proved to be the only gold in the place.

The entire lot – 66 men and one boy -- were marched to Pickett’s camp and ordered to sit within a circle drawn in the dirt. Johnny and ten other men from Company G stood guard. Most of the other Rebels lay in the battle line still facing New Bern and waiting for the command to attack which would never come. Pickett was taking everyone home and writing the mission off as hopeless, even though he’d have had a chance if he’d listened to Hoke.

Union Lieutenant Leith stood up and snapped to attention when Captain Smith stopped by out of curiosity to look at the freakshow.

“Sir,” said Leith, “This assembly represents fourteen men of the 132nd New York Infantry and the entire roster of Company F of the 2nd North Carolina Union Volunteer Infantry. I see that you are a man of honor. I trust you will treat all of these men as the prisoners of war they are.” There was something sad, worried and noble about him as he stood there demanding equal rights for his freaks, kid and old timers.

“Union Volunteer Infantry?” repeated Captain Smith.

“Yes, sir! Union Volunteers, every one of them!”

“Are they natives of North Carolina, a state in the Confederate States of America?” asked Smith.

“I really don’t know, Captain Smith. Besides, sir, that shouldn’t be relevant as to how these prisoners are to be treated. They joined the Union army to be Union soldiers and must be treated as prisoners of war,” Leith said firmly.

“And who are you?” Smith asked.

“Sir! Leith, First Lieutenant Samuel Leith of the 132nd New York Infantry Regiment. I’ve been with other regiments, too. I was at First and Second Bull Run,” he spoke proudly, “I was at Antietam and Richmond. I’m an officer. I led real troops. Now, these Union volunteers are my men as well as my New Yorkers. I’m bound by honor to speak for them. I demand the North Carolinians be treated as regular prisoners of war.”

Smith looked at Leith’s “men”. Only fourteen of the 67 were real blue-bellied Yankee soldiers, born and bred up in New York. But Union soldiers in a North Carolina unit? Some of them might be traitors who had joined the enemy, as far as he knew. Many of them had serious physical and mental deficiencies, without a doubt. Why were they in Yankee uniforms? Maybe over zealous Union recruiters had rounded these poor saps up and signed them into the Yankee’s army to fill their quotas. Maybe this guy Leith was the only officer the Yanks could find to command a company of geeks.

Captain Smith motioned for Leith to leave the circle and sit with him by a campfire. Leith complied and accepted a corncob pipe filled with tobacco when offered by Smith. Together they smoked and stared into the fire.

They shared a half-pint flask of brandy. Finally, Smith said, “You’re an officer who’s been true to your New York Yankees. I’ll personally see to it that you’re not hung with any traitors from the North Carolina Company, Lieutenant Leith.”

“I cannot allow any of my men to be hung, sir,” said Leith; “They are all prisoners of war and, as such, cannot be tried and certainly not executed.”

“Don’t you see the difference between Northern boys in Yankee uniforms and Southern boys in Yankee uniforms? I know General Pickett. He’ll hang every one of them who wasn’t born north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

We’ll let him handle things, is that all right with you, Leith?”

“No sir!” cried Leith in alarm, “I must speak to General Pickett about this at once! Personally! There are extenuating circumstances I must explain.”

Smith puffed his pipe, thought a moment, then said quietly, “Look, we’re officers and gentlemen, you and I. Common soldiers are meant to die – that’s what they’re born for. I understand and appreciate your concern for your North Carolina Company. I’ll personally see that they’re treated with due respect as prisoners of war until they’ve been tried by Court Martial. I give you my word. And I can keep you out of this completely, Lieutenant Leith. I can get you exchanged back to the Yankees in a week and no one will ever know where you were when your men got caught.”

Leith stood up and tried to look imposing. “I’m not concerned about myself, sir. I’m not asking you for special privileges. To begin our negotiations, all I’m asking you to do right now is to separate my New Yorkers from the North Carolinians. That’s all, sir. It’s a matter of honor, yours and mine. Later we’ll divide the sheep from the wolves in the North Carolina group.”

Smith gave Leith a long, probing look. After a few minutes, he called to the sergeant at arms. “You there!” he said, a bit too loud, “I want you to draw another circle and place inside all the prisoners of war wearing the uniforms of the 132nd New York Regiment. There are exactly fourteen of them. Give ‘em five guards. Hop to it!”

When the prisoners were separated, Leith seemed slightly relieved but not satisfied. He insisted on hammering more “honor” into Captain Smith’s head, who felt he’d already done the honorable thing by separating the

two regiments. What else could he do, he wondered? He was nearing his limit of bullshit.

“Captain Smith,” Leith continued after the separation, “I insist on having further discussion with you, sir. I personally don’t know if any of those men in the North Carolina circle deserted from Southern forces. No one does, so far. So it is up to you to protect them until crimes against them have been proven. And I mean protecting them especially from a man as galled and bitter as General George E. Pickett, who I must remind you, sir, just lost three whole regiments to Northern fire. You and I know that Pickett and Lee and even the governor of this state is looking for an excuse to make an example of men caught in the act of desertion. I submit to you, sir, that there is no way of tell who among these North Carolinian Federal soldiers were even in the Confederate army.”

Leith knew what he was talking about. On January 28, 1863, North Carolina’s Governor Zebulon Vance – despite his reputation of opposition on many Confederate stances – issued a proclamation that threatened trail and death for any Rebel deserter who did not return to active duty by February 10 th of that year. A whole year had passed and any former Rebel soldier found in a Yankee uniform was subject to execution. Desertions had already crippled the South and had to be stemmed at any cost. From the earliest battles, according to historian Donald E. Collins in “War Crime or Justice”, Confederate officials had complained the South was so weakened by desertions that “we are unable to reap the fruits of our victories and . . . invade the territory of the enemy.”

Lee himself was to write later in the war, “nothing but the death penalty, uniformly, inexorably administered will stop (desertion).”

Then it happened. Lieutenant Leith went too far by saying to Smith’s face, “You’re going down in history as a mass murderer if you don’t treat those North Carolina soldiers like regular prisoners of war! That’s all they are, Smith, prisoners of war! Ask yourself, Smith – are you being honorable or dishonorable? Are these pigs or men? Is Pickett a man or a hog? Or is he a god to you? Where is your God, anyway, sir?”

Smith blew his top. With a rare show of temper, he threw his hat on the ground, stomped on it and hollered in his natural Southern drawl, “Stick ya honor up ya butt, sir! No, I ain’t doing nothing else till Pickett tells me to. Get it?

Hell, no, ‘tenant Leech! Hell, no! I done what you asked for the first time and that’s it! Now you can take it up with Pickett. I don’t give a damn about your stinking Yanks! I should’ve blown up the blockhouse – none of this’d be happening and your ass’d be dead. You demanding this and that when you ain’t even their real commander!”

The 52 North Carolinians, most of whom realized what was happening, began hooting, stamping their feet, whistling, screaming, complaining loudly and insisting on seeing “Mr. Pickett hisself”.

The North Carolinians should have been more discreet. Frankly, they should have kept their damn mouths shut. You could hear them hollering all the way to Officers’ Quarters, where Pickett was having tea with General Corse and Colonel Porcino. They looked toward Captain Smith’s camp position in irritation. “If I have to go over there . .. “ warned Porcino. Pickett, who felt a real hatred of Porcino, spat on the ground and said, “I’ll go myself if it keeps up, Colonel Porky.” Porcino turned a bright red. Porky!

But the North Carolinians in their spanking new Union suits were a lot worse off than Porcino. They didn’t realize they were playing catch with a hand grenade. More and more of them began shouting for General “Pickett hisself” to come see who was a damn deserter and who wasn’t.

Unfortunately, a number of men from Pickett’s division became curious about these men in their little dirty circle. Some of them might have even wondered if some of the North Carolinians, or even all of them, were innocent.

After all, the Yankees could have drafted the Southerners, just like the Confederacy had drafted a lot of them. How could they say no when the New Bern area was occupied with Yanks? It bore some looking into – and that, alas, is the last thing Company F of the 66th North Carolina Union Regiment needed. Not one of them had been forced to join the Yankee army. Every one of them had been born in the South and over a dozen of them had actually served in the

Confederate army before switching sides.

The end began when curious soldiers began to surround the detainees to see what the commotion was about.

They were already wondering why a North Carolina unit had the words “Union” in its designation. Things were pretty damn fishy and the men looked deep into the captured soldiers’ eyes. At the first, the deserters were indistinguishable from other Union prisoners because they were all wearing the new uniforms of Federal army recruits. No one would have known they were from a North Carolina Union Regiment if they hadn’t had the flag with them; if Leith had kept his mouth shut; and the New Yorkers had refrained from telling every Rebel officer they saw how the North Carolinians were all born and bred in the Deep South before betraying their country.

This created questions that had to be answered. The first real evidence came from a Rebel Officer and his sergeant who remembered two certain detainees who had served in their regiment before deserting. The two men thus identified were immediately arrested and placed in care of the provost marshal. The remaining North Carolinians suddenly became shy and began hiding their faces with their caps as hundreds of Rebels began to scrutinize them. Word spread like wildfire that two deserters had been detected among the captured Union prisoners.

Everyone wanted a look-see.

Confederate Lieutenant H. M. Whitehead and Sergeant Blunt King of Company B, Tenth Regiment, North Carolina Artillery had opened the can of worms. They both had recognized a 21-year-old native of Craven County named David Jones and a 26-year-old farmer from Carteret County named Joseph L. Haskett. They’d both deserted their Rebel regiment to join the Yanks.

The provost marshal personally marched Jones and Haskett to Officer’s Country and led them right up to the campfire of General George E. Pickett. The General deliberately remained in his tent for two hours to make the men as nervous as possible, then emerged and asked them where they’d been since deserting.

“I been stealing gold from dead Rebels and screwing their widows,” said Haskett, whom the provost marshal clubbed with his rifle. Nevertheless, he grinned a big toothless smile and added, “I joined the Yanks so I could piss on dead Rebels.” That remark won him another clout, this one across the bridge of his nose. Blood gushed out like a geyser.

Seeing this happen to his friend, the other replied, “I been running away from the likes of you.”

“Right into the enemy’s ranks!” roared Pickett.

“You ain’t gonna win this war,” said Jones, “I been with the winning side.”

According to Dr. Collins, Pickett responded, “God damn you, I reckon you’ll hardly ever go back there again, you damned rascal; I’ll have you shot, and all other damned rascals who desert!”

Jones reportedly said, “I don’t give a damn if you shoot me then. I don’t give a damn what you do to me.”

It was a good thing Jones didn’t care because Pickett sure hung him and his friend just a few days later, after an absurdly quick Court Martial headed by Lieutenant Colonel James R. Branch of Virginia and made up entirely of officers from Pickett’s own state. These same military judges would convene three times in three different locations before the neck stretching was over. Before Pickett had finished his investigation, 22 men of Company F, North Carolina Union Regiment, would be condemned to the gallows as deserters -- all within 90 days of being apprehended at New Bern.

And an unspecified number were condemned to death by

firing squads.

Pickett lost no time in identifying the other deserters. He was aided by a Union sergeant whose name has been kept secret from historians because he was the direct ancestor of a family rich and famous enough to keep the name secret. Evidence indicates he gave the general a copy of a company roster that identified by name those deserters from the Confederate army who had been in his unit. His toadyism did no good. The snitch was condemned to death by the

same Court Martial that condemned the friends he’d betrayed. Pickett smiled when the last verdict was read but the sergeant gasped and broke down, trembling and crying, loudly accusing Pickett of betraying him. The irony must have been sweet.

Not everyone indicted for desertion was condemned to death. Prisoner William Clinton Cox was found not guilty but remained a prisoner of war. The “physical disability and mental imbecility” of Private Alexander McCoy so touched the court that he got off with a life sentence at hard labor. More interesting, two men – George Hawkins and Ruel Wetherington – escaped hanging but were sentenced to be branded with the letter “D” on their left hips, have a five-foot-long, 12 pound ball attached to their left ankles, and work at hard labor on government projects for the duration of the war.

The last man who was actually hanged did mount an effective if futile defense. According to the records of the late attorney W. S. Huggins of Kinston, Elijah Kellum was never a Confederate soldier and in fact had been turned down by their recruiters several times because he was “so deformed and had no constitution”. He was marked down in the court records as simply an “enrolled conscript in the Confederate service” --- meaning he was on a list but was never called up. “He was” according to Huggins, “to be sent to a conscript camp by some persons who wished to scare him; he, hearing of it, deserted to the Union lines.” Nevertheless, the knot was tightened around his neck and the bottom dropped out from under him.

It’s a fact but basically irrelevant that the Federal government did try to save their North Carolinian soldiers captured at New Bern. Major General Peck, whom we have already identified as the Union’s commander of District of North Carolina, learned of the desertion charges placed against his former men only by accident. Peck, hearing from his subordinates that a black Union soldier had been executed at New Bern, wrote a personal letter to General Pickett saying he was convinced the incident had occurred. Enclosed in the letter was a copy of Lincoln’s mandate that a Rebel prisoner would be executed for every Union prisoner killed in violation of he laws of war. Peck threatened to carry out Lincoln’s order unless Pickett promised to prosecute those who had murdered the black soldier.

Two days later, long before his letter arrived at Pickett’s command, Peck learned for the first time that soldiers nd

of the 2 North Carolina Union Volunteers had been taken prisoner at New Bern. He quickly sent a second letter, in which he “informed” Pickett that “in your hasty retreat” he had accidentally taken prisoner 53 “loyal and true” North Carolinians serving the Union army. Peck, not exactly a genius, included a list of the 53 men’s names to make sure they were treated equally with the other prisoners. Pickett was thereby able to verify his own list, which happened to be correct.

Perhaps reacting a bit strongly to Peck’s reference to his “hasty retreat”, Pickett sent two letters of his own.

The first work of art thanked Peck for providing the list to make sure none of the traitors had been overlooked. The second addressed the issue of retaliation. Would Peck really hang 22 Rebel prisoners to revenge the Union executions? Not likely, in Pickett’s opinion. In his own words, “I have merely to say that I have in my hands some 450 officers and men of the United States Army, and for every man you hang, I will hang ten of the United States Army.”

Pickett also sent a list of his own, naming the 22 men who had already been hung for desertion by the time Peck received the letters. Peck executed no Rebel prisoners in revenge.

Thirty-one men (minus a few who were shot) of the 2nd North Carolina Union Volunteers escaped the rope and were designated prisoners of war. Almost all the physically and mentally handicapped were sent to prisoner of war camps. But this “good” news was deceptive. All but four would be dead within two months due to the epidemics of yellow fever, debilitas, rubella, malaria, diarrhea and smallpox then ravaging the POW camps in Richmond and Andersonville. Almost all of them would have been better off being hung than dying alone in excruciating pain, brains roasting from fevers, bodies filmed with sweat, skins covered with boils, lying in their own stinking waste and begging

for water that never came. Disease was the cruelest killer of all – even worse than Pickett. Those who got hung were the lucky ones.

It was Johnny’s lot to witness much of this homicidal activity – which Isaac called “quite natural in our tribe of fantastic monkeys” and Napoleon called justice. Johnny’s reaction, however, was one of profound confusion. He just couldn’t get it through his skull how killing some of one’s own soldiers could lift the morale and fighting spirit of those who survived. The war had become a snarl to Johnny, like those impossible snarls he used to get while fishing with a reel at Clinch River. Usually the line was so badly entangled and knotted up that the only solution was to take a straight razor and cut the line to pieces, letting them fall in the dirt. In a way, he knew this was what Pickett was doing – cutting away the snarls so he could begin anew. He didn’t blame him but he knew he could never issue such orders himself. The last snarl Pickett had fixed left 3000 bodies bleeding in the dirt. But then . . . Pickett had also saved Johnny’s butt at Porcino’s kangaroo court.

So it was confusing, this killing and saving and killing and saving . . . and there were the hogs to think about.

Johnny knew they had a lot to do with understanding this war. But it just wasn’t clear yet. He’d figured out that the wild hogs were rebels, too, like the Confederates in a way. They’d rather reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. They’d rather eat than be eaten. They demanded their space and freedom, just as the graybacks did. They even chose their own leaders.

But that Fulgham guy -- what he’d said -- Jesus H. Christ! Hogs have honor! That too had something to do with understanding why 22 of his own countrymen were going to the gallows. If he could grasp the meaning of it, maybe he could live with himself when all this was finally over. If it ever came to an end. This much he knew: there was no sense asking God for favors. He might say no or He might say yes. He’d probably say nothing at all. So why even ask? He prayed plenty, even now, but Johnny knew he’d never know if it made any difference or not. He still had a deep, sincere belief in God – it was just that he no longer had faith that God was a Confederate.

All the military executions were to be held in Kinston. But only the Kinstonians had enough warning to see the first hanging on February 5th -- just a few days after the blockhouse had been taken. It proved to be a somber, unhappy affair with an angry crowd of locals cursing the Confederates for killing men born in their state. Hoke’s entire Brigade had to called out to encircle the gallows and protect the hangman from stones thrown from the crowd. To them, the hanged men were Union soldiers, simple as that, and should be treated like prisoners of war.

The second, third and fourth hangings were advertised well beforehand. They would also be held in Kinston and open to the public. Thirteen would be hung on the 15th and the other five “shortly thereafter’, meaning as soon as the first bodies were claimed or buried. The public was especially encouraged to attend the second event. “Make it a holiday!” suggested the local newspaper. “We can make some money off this!” argued the local politicians. Sure enough, the good folk of Kinston quickly realized they could capitalize from the next hangings – they stood to make a lot of cash from a festival of death. After all, the condemned men were traitors, weren’t they? In fact, the mayor and his councilmen had a half page ad placed in the Raleigh and Richmond newspapers, “Notice, All Loyal Sons and Daughters of the South! Thirteen Cowardly Deserters To Be Hung in Kinston February 15 th! Join us on Yellow Bellies Death Day! All you can eat plus Festivities Afterward. Don’t Miss Our Yellow Bellies Square Dance!” Their morality flew out the window with their indignation. There was money to be made. You had to be realistic, didn’t you?

The next 13 men to don the noose were scheduled to die on February 15th. This gave everybody in the Confederacy time to make it a special, splendid, super-dooper day in the sun for their families, friends and kinfolk!

Yeeeee-haw! By the time the 15th rolled around, people were streaming in from all over the South to see the show.

They came in buggies, carriages, wagons. They came on horses and on foot.

Souvenir shops sprung open, specializing in little scaffolds with thirteen wire nooses looped around thirteen

wooden soldier’s necks. “I saw them hung in Kinston!” was printed on the gallows. Hundreds of paper Rebel flags were printed. Dozens of hog hawkers had time to set up their stalls -- filled with tasty ham sandwiches, ham hocks, fried lard cakes, boiled neck bones, butt portions, fried hog jowls, hog maws, barbecued pork ribs, chitterlings, pickled pigs feet, pickled tongues, pork snouts, pig lips, smoked pig ears, pork rinds, brains & eggs and bacon slices. The pig meat went good with the hawker’s homemade root beer, real beer, sassafras tea and lemon aid.

The town went whole hog over the public execution. The gallows were huge and made of raw pine planks with thirteen steps to the top and thirteen noosed ropes hanging from a beam mounted across the top. A long trapdoor was built into the platform and attached to a single release rope so all thirteen could swing at once. The scaffold was over eight feet high – so the audience could see the dead men dance. They’d do the Dixie Dangle!

Though Hoke’s Brigade was assigned to stand around the gallows again, at least Johnny got the privilege of watching from a distance. Corse’s Brigade had been sent to Goldsboro, about five miles away, for rest and relaxation after the battle. Because Johnny had played such a large role in the surrender, however, his whole company -Company G of the 29th Virginia – was ordered to march the five miles back to Kinston to watch the mass hanging on the 15th. It was considered an honor because they’d get to see the execution before having to bury the dead.

The doomed men were scheduled to die at noon when the great day arrived. So Johnny and his company were told to stand at attention on a slope overlooking the scaffold at 10:30 a.m. Though February, the sun came out and for an hour cooked them in their wool uniforms. They were relieved when the show began at 11:30 – certainly more relieved than the thirteen prisoners who were marched out of the prison between two rows of huge guards holding “horsewhips” made of twisted hog penises. None were actually armed but all were wearing pressed Yankee uniforms, including the little caps. Each prisoner had his hands tied behind him and wore a chain between his ankles.

All of them stared at the sun as if worshipping it, asking for quick death and eternal orbits as suns themselves after they’d escaped these hideous human bags of flesh and bone, skin and guts, blood and pus we are. Johnny was telepathic the way he heard their resigned but furious thoughts as they walked through the gauntlet of guards, each of whom felt it necessary to lash each prisoner with a pig’s penis as he passed.

Johnny realized something looked familiar but didn’t catch on till the condemned men were lined up in front of the steps leading to the gallows. The guards snapped to parade-rest and relaxed. The condemned weren’t going anywhere. As they watched, an army chaplain mounted the scaffold and shouted, “If in God’s glory we must bask, we must bask as men unafraid to do our duty for our country and prove our loyalty for our country! These men failed to love North Carolina! They failed to love the South! These men failed to love God! They are traitors and deserters! This they have proven by taking up arms against our country and our people! Sons of Carolina, let your battle cry be ‘Onward! Onward!’ until victory shall crown the beautiful banner that floats over us today with such peace as only freemen can love, and only brave men can accept!”

The crowd cheered. Boys sitting on their fathers’ shoulders raised wooden muskets and hollered, “Yaaaaaaahoo! Yaaaaaaa---hoo!” – that peculiar, frightening Rebel Yell derived from the Southern hog farmer’s yell of “Sooooooo—eee! Soooooooo—eee!’– meant at first to call in the hogs but later meant to call in the Yankees. Near the end, at Cold Harbor, it would be used again to call in the hogs.

Johnny felt a peculiar ache in his stomach, as if he’d swallowed a persimmon. Those men waiting in line for slaughter – he’d seen this before somewhere. He forced himself to watch as the crowd cheered and sang “When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah! Hurrah!” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas, she’s the only gal for me . . . !”

Waiting on top of the gallows were the hangman dressed in a black cowl and cassock, Colonel Corse (because his regiment had arrested the men about to die), a young unnamed lieutenant and an army chaplain.

Precisely at noon a guard pushed the first victim toward the steps leading up to the gallows. “We got thirteen

of you Goddamned traitors to hang,” hissed the guard, “Hurry it up or I’ll whap this upside ya Goddamned head!” The first to hang looked at his persecutor and his persecutor slashed his hog penis whip across his forehead, just as he had promised. His forehead bled as Christ’s had bled and the crowd cheered on. The prisoner mumbled something.

Johnny hoped it was, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” But the prisoner was only saying, “I’ll see you in Hell.”

After seeing the first man whipped, the remaining twelve men obligingly marched out and mounted the steps, one by one. The procession took about five minutes. At the top they saw the platform with its long trapdoor and noosed ropes strung from its overhead beam. One of the ropes was much thicker than the others. This was especially for one of the prisoners, the grossly obese North Carolinian Johnny had seen in the blockhouse. His name was Samson but was known as Sammy. We’ll conceal his last name for the sake of his descendents. After all, he was a convicted deserter who’d been condemned to die and be buried in an unmarked grave. That was his bitter end . . . his destiny.

Samson – I mean Sammy -- was so fat he was known as the hogman. Folds of loose skin fell over his forehead and eyes. His cheeks looked like they concealed oranges. His belly resembled a gigantic bag of lard that quivered as he walked. The gallows shook with each step he took. He had thick, close-cropped hairs on top of his head, tiny black eyes that peered out like sparkling jewels, heavy black eyebrows, a prominent but pug nose and two enormous ears that pointed forward and came to points at the top. His shoulders were truly massive and though his big belly jiggled, his hips were hard and round. But he was not without dignity, for he walked – however heavily – with a surprisingly proud and noble step, chin up, as if marching to a funeral dirge only he could hear. As he walked, everyone could tell he was whispering the Lord’s Prayer.

He took his place with the other twelve on top of the trap door and allowed the hooded hangman to place the noose around his neck and tighten it. All the executioner’s knots except one were placed perfectly, so twelve necks would be instantly and painlessly broken when the trapdoor snapped opened. Only Samson’s – I mean Sammy’s -noose was fixed in a position to strangle him slowly instead of instantly killing him. Porcino had suggested this – convincing the hangman that it’d amuse the crowd to see the fat man dance. The Colonel even gave the hangman a real Yankee silver dollar to carry out his wishes.

The generals thought it’d be hard to find an executioner but this one had volunteered to kill the lot just for their belongings, clothes and boots. Corse had suggested paying him anyway but Pickett had said hell no, why should they?

Any bodies claimed by relatives or friends could be handed over – but only after the hangman got his due.

Porcino explained the arrangement to Company G as he gave them the good news they’d see the executions, then gave them the bad news that they’d have to bury the bodies. At least Johnny would see the Dixie Dangle of the hogman, laughed Porcino. This was unfortunate because Johnny’s stomach had become a bit weak. As soon as Porcino had left, Johnny ran to the latrine and threw up a rotten gruel mixed with bile.

The thickest rope on the gallows, almost two inches thick, was of course for Samson – I mean Sammy -- the fat man with big triangular ears pointing in the air and folds of skin drooping over his face like a bloodhound’s. He was 23 years old and well known in Kinston. In civilian life, he’d been a jeweler -- his fingers were huge but could handle tools tiny enough to repair the finest jewelry and the most intricate watches. He was also the laugh of the town because it was funny to see a giant do work requiring such delicacy and grace. Children watched him through the windows, taunting him as he hunched over his worktable. Nevertheless, their parents brought all their fragile and intricate heirlooms to Sammy because he was strong enough not to hurt them. He never broke anything – just repaired and polished them with meticulous care.

He was totally absorbed in his work. But he had joined the enemy for protection when he heard how the new Rebel conscription laws would certainly get him sent to Confederate conscription camp and then the bloody battlefields of Virginia. He wasn’t really a coward; he just realized a man of his size would certainly be killed. The Yankees had promised him that he’d safely stay in Kinston if he just sign on the dotted line and put on a blue uniform for show.

The Union recruiter, surgeon and swearing-in officer had all thought it a big joke – a fat man would keep the troops in a jolly mood. It didn’t happen that way. In fact, the man was morose and spent his time alone reading stories and poems by Edgar Allen Poe, who was just then becoming famous for writing The Raven and dying of delirium tremens in Baltimore. Sammy was also something of an art buff – but an unusual one with specific taste. He could look for hours at paintings by Breughel the elder. In fact, if he stared at them long enough, his heart would begin to pound and his body tremble. In those tales by Poe and those paintings by Breughel, he had seen into the horror of his own future.

However horrifying were the images in his imagination, however, they were nothing compared to what he saw from the gallows. An immense crowd, thousands of people, seemed to be staring at him, all of them laughing, all of them stuffing pork in their mouths, all of them drooling, all of them eager and squealing to see his final grotesque dance. He knew the hangman had failed to put the knot where it would break his neck. He knew. Alas, poor Sammy, he knew . . . . He felt like the hunchback of Notre dame, up there to be gawked at like a freak, the king of fools. The line went through his head, “If only I were made of stone like thee.” But Samson, like you and I, was made of flesh.

When all thirteen deserters were standing on the trapdoor with ropes around their necks, the chaplain went from each to each, asking if they had any last words. According to historians, a man named Amos Amyett said, “I went to New Bern because the Union recruiters told me if I did not go into their service I should be taken through their lines and shot. In this way, I was frightened into it.” Two other prisoners, John and Joseph Brock, said they were at peace with God and ready to die because a civilian Baptist minister called Reverend George W. Camp had been allowed to take them from prison to the Neuse River before execution, there to be dipped in the waters and baptized and cleansed of their sins. All of the rest, except for Samson, said they “had done wrong to go to New Bern” but didn’t deserve hanging because they had been persuaded by others to desert. Well, it was too damn late now . . . .

The town’s clownish giant jeweler had something to say. He didn’t even blink when someone in the audience shouted, “Hang the hog!” Others giggled and waited impatiently for the last words. They weren’t disappointed. When the chaplain stood before him, Sammy said something that mystified the crowd into silence. “Quoth the raven,” Sammy said, “nevermore.”

The folks choked on their pig ears. They bit their pig lips. They coughed up their pork rinds. “What’d he mean by that!” they asked each other. Samson coolly looked out at them and said again, “Nevermore”. A peculiar silence overcame the crowd. They watched in silence as the hangman then placed coarse cornsacks over the heads of the doomed, walked back to the end of the platform and then pulled the lever releasing the trapdoor. They were silent when all the condemned died with a few jerks of their legs in an instant – except for Samson, who tried to scream. He was throttled into silence. He indeed danced a lively tarantula – for about three minutes. Beneath the cornsack his face swelled twice its size, making the cornsack bulge. Underneath that hood, his tongue turned black and protruded obscenely from his mouth and his tiny eyes bugged out of their sockets, looking left and right for help that was not about to come.

Slowly he strangled in front of the audience, soiling his pants . . . and indeed dancing just as Porcino had said he would dance, the Dixie Dangle, a desperate rigadoon, a final tango into eternity . . . . It took three minutes for Samson to die. Men and women in the crowd fainted. The chaplain, still on the gallows, looked aghast. Even Colonel

Porcino, standing beneath the gallows, gasped and – incredibly to those who knew him – burst into tears. General Hoke was conveniently not there, “called away” to other duties. General Pickett was a long way off, mounted on his horse, watching with cold eyes but with a heart that was hammering – he had to clasp his hands shut to keep them from trembling.

When all thirteen were still, silent and hanging limply, Hoke’s surgeon mounted the gallows and inspected each man before pronouncing him dead. The assembled troops were given orders to depart and once they were gone, the shocked crowd also dispersed – having seen the show and finding it wanting in humanity. The people who had come to witness the hanging of thirteen deserters discovered in themselves a decency they did not know existed until they watched Samson dancing on the end of a rope.

They knew, every one of them, what he meant by “nevermore”. This war had glory “nevermore”. The man they had taunted and loved at the same time would suffer “nevermore”. They would flock to public hangings “nevermore”. Everything to do with this awful bloody war was “nevermore” for them. Goddamn it all, they thought to themselves – even the children – I’ll nevermore be the same. Nevermore.

When all but Johnny’s company were gone, the Hangman drew a butcher knife and cut the rope holding each man. Each body hit the ground below with a sickening thunk. Samson’s body hit the bottom with a thud that sounded odd and had the hangman staring through trapdoor as if it were a well. Samson’s body had hit the dirt so heavily that its intestines had squirted out of his rectum.

A stench rose from the dead giant that so repulsed and frightened Colonel Porcino that he jumped on his mount and rode away as fast as he could – into a darkening day that for him would never be the same. What had he done? He wondered this question over and over. What had he done? Had he smelled the Devil’s blood? What he had done was the honorable thing, he argued to himself. He had nothing to do with these hangings except helping arrest and escort them to Kinston. But deep down a voice he’d never heard whispered “nevermore”.

Meanwhile, the hangman – smiling when he pulled off his cowl – sped down the steps behind Pickett to get at the bodies. As they lay where they’d fallen, in plain view, he gleefully cut all the brass buttons and insignia off the uniforms and put them in a sack. Then he rifled the men’s pockets – finding only folded and faded pictures of some women and children, which he crumpled up and threw away without a thought. Then he took each man’s shoes and piled them neatly in a row. Then the jackets were stripped off of them and also the pants, all to be folded neatly in a row. The dead men were left in their under drawers and undershirts, but most of the under shorts were soiled. Only Samson looked different, lying there lined up with the other dead men. Samson – I mean Sammy -- had his intestines piled between his legs in a tangle of bloody guts.

It was near dark by the time the hangman finished his grisly tasks. Finally looking up at Johnny’s company, he hollered, “Hey, you Johnnies, come down here and help me! Porcino’s orders! Double quick! Get your smelly asses down here!”

Company G of the 29th marched down to the gallows and witnessed one by one this scene of man’s ultimate inhumanity to man. “Come on,” grumbled the hangman, “you got lots a work to do. Porcino said you had to do what I say. You understand me, boys? You ain’t gonna like this but it’s for the South’s glory. You understand?”

They understood. They helped the hangman stack the booty in his covered wagon. “This here stuff’ll bring me three hunnert dollars!” boasted the hangman. It would. The Yankee uniforms were made of the finest wool and could easily be sold back to Yankee soldiers or threadbare Confederates, who would dye them gray and steam out any piss or shit soiling the pants. The shoes alone were worth a fortune! He’d get ten dollars a pair for them from barefoot Graybacks. Shoes were like gold. It was only ironic that Johnny was wearing good new English boondockers.

The bodies were left where they’d fallen, all in their underwear. They looked like the hog cadavers Johnny had

seen a lifetime ago in Russell County on Hog Killing Day. With a surprise, Johnny noticed for the first time that both men and hogs are pink when dead. Fear brings blood to the surface of the skin and the condemned man or animal blushes in death . . . .

The hangman asked if everyone thought the dead men looked “purty”? Johnny was frozen with a revulsion he’d never felt before. He had to say something, so he said, “Yes, sir.” That’s what all soldiers say, no matter how revolted they are. "Yes, sir.” The hangman hugged Johnny and pinched his cheek. “You’s a good’un, I can tell,” he said; “You’re a true son of the South. I wish I could kill the Yankees like you boys kill ‘em – you know, with rifles and cannons and bombs. But I figure I'm doing my part right here."

Yes, he was doing his part. Johnny stood there looking at the bodies and a dim memory, a deju vu, overcame his consciousness. He’d seen this all before. In another life? Then with some fear he remembered very clearly where he’d seen this happen before. Suddenly he was going to be sick again and ran away from the hangman’s grasp. But the hangman wouldn’t let go that easily, asking, “Hey, what’s wrong, boy?” Johnny clapped his hand over his mouth, but not soon enough to stop him from spewing a river of vomit five feet into the air. He couldn’t imagine where all that juice came from because he’d vomited so much already. He didn’t know that juice was composed of memories.

He didn’t know how desperately his mind wanted to rid itself of the ten thousand memories poisoning it.

Only two people were brave enough to claim the remains for Christian burials before the rest were simply flung them into shallow holes and covered up. One was the widow of victim William Jones. She was at first turned away because the hangman absolutely refused to put her dead husband in his wagon for removal. It was too much work for him. Nor would the Rebel army provide a wagon. So, she had to return home empty handed.

Sick at heart, she subsequently sent her seventeen-year-old cousin and fifteen-year-old son with a wagon. But the body had disappeared when they arrived. They finally found it a week later, hidden and guarded in a loft. It had been placed there at the insistence of an unnamed local doctor, who of course gave permission for the boys to take the body home for burial. The Jones widow complained in a written report to the army authorities, “plenty would have been willing to help me, but did not dare for fear of being called a Unionist”, adding at the end a very bitter remark about finding his body naked except for a pair of socks – a complaint that was filed away in the infinite matrix of army records and ignored for over 175 years.

Also, the body of Jesse Summerlin was removed from display by the local sheriff (a man named Fields) and personally transported over 20 miles home for a decent burial. A few other cadavers were removed but no records have been found to identify which ones. We do know that most of the other bodies were on display most of the night while Johnny and his comrades dug the graves in the sandy soil just outside the gallows. The bodies were visited now and then by people who missed the big show. They had to see it with their own eyes. Once having seen it, however, most of them ran back to their houses, there to desperately and endlessly scrub their hands with yellow lye soap, trying like Pontius Pilate to wash their hands of the massacre in which they’d participated and for which they had cheered.

For most of the observers, the most painful sight of all was the enormous body of Samson with his guts in a pile between his legs. His intestines still jutted out of his rear end, coiling like a slimy rope on the ground. The giant man who had worked on the most delicate jewelry and watches had come to this ignoble end. Samson’s cadaver looked like nothing more than a slaughtered hog, with his bloated belly, big ham hocks, triangular ears, jowls and beady eyes.

In addition to his ejected intestines, his belly had burst open around the belly button when he’d hit the dirt. So inside the belly, if you looked close enough, you could see the man’s slimy black liver, whitish stomach and wet yellow lungs, all steamy and gleaming in the winter sun.

The scene made an impact on everyone who saw it. Some thought it was only justice and the deserters got

what they deserved. Others thought it was murder of the weakest, who’d only joined the Yanks for protection.

A tune called “The Executioner’s Song” appeared from nowhere and began to be sung in pubs all over the country -- “Kinston Town, Kinston Town, ever’body’s got their heads bowed down; thirteen men the Rebels found, nooses on their necks the Rebs put ‘round; hanged ‘em high and cut ‘em down; both feet chained, hands all bound – fat man burst when he hit the ground; wild hogs danced round and round . . . Kinston Town, Kinston Town . . .. ever’bodys got their heads held down . . . ” At ten the next morning, February 16th, all remaining bodies were buried. It took the rest of the day, even with Company G’s sixty or seventy men. When the work was finished, the hangman told the boys to go back to their unit.

Johnny was only too glad to leave. He returned to his camp in Goldsboro and spent the next seven days with his company doing nothing but sitting around a campfire and puffing pipes. They were silent because they were in shock.

No one volunteered to watch the next five deserters hung when their time came a few days later.

Samson’s unholy death had especially troubled Johnny because it touched a part of himself he didn’t want touched. It was painful and raw. He had seen human beings herded together, forced up a ramp and slaughtered one by one. It was too familiar . . . . He developed a horrible headache and fetched a bottle of ‘shine he kept hidden inside an extra canteen. No one realized he was drinking alcohol around the fire until, two hours later, he suddenly jumped up and ran into the woods without a word.

The others looked at each other sheepishly. They understood. They understood perfectly. Johnny was crying like a baby but wasn’t sure why. The hanged men were deserters, weren’t they? The honorable thing was to hang them in the public square – honorable because it showed respect for those who died for the Confederacy while these cowards hid amongst the enemy. Why the hell should he feel bad! He pounded his head against a tree, shouting over and over, “Why should I feel bad! Why should I feel bad!” But you know what? He did.

Johnny and Corse’s Brigade stayed three weeks at Goldsboro before they received orders to return to Kinston.

Johnny didn’t want to go but had no choice. Neither did Napoleon, though Isaac didn’t seem to care one way or the other. As so often happens in an army, the whole month was a comedy of errors. Pickett failed to take New Bern so was called back to Richmond. Consequently, Hoke had been given tactical command of all Confederate forces in eastern North Carolina, including for the time being Corse’s Brigade, the 29 th Virginia Regiment, Company G, and subsequently our boy Johnny Hess.

Hoke, now in command at last, decided to take Plymouth before taking New Bern, this time with the help of a massive ironclad Confederate ram called the CSS Albemarle. But it was still under construction alongside a turn in the Roanoke River called Edward’s Ferry – actually a big cornfield in the middle of nowhere to avoid detection. It was in every sense a secret weapon, and in fact – had a dozen been constructed instead of only one – might have changed the course of the war.

So much rested on the CSS Albemarle because it held the potential of destroying the Yankee fleet in North Carolina, and even the Yankee fleet in general, with its novel design. It was only slightly based on the CSS Merrimack, being instead a shallow draft (i.e. riparian) armored ram. Though cumbersome and slow, the ship would sacrifice armament for protection – having iron plated sides which could withstand any number of direct hits while using its two heavy-caliber rifled cannon to disable an enemy ship with powerful shells before finishing the job with its armored ram.

But the Albemarle just wasn’t ready in March, so Hoke could only wait. Again typical of armies, the officers under Hoke never seemed to know exactly what was going on and kept moving their men into and outside positions for attacks which were actually months away or never launched at all.

So in March of 1864, Johnny on the 2nd began a pointless march back to Kinston. He’d gone about ten miles

when his entire brigade received orders to go to Richmond, Virginia. Okay . . . that’s where Pickett was anyway. Well, they marched back to Goldsboro, got onto trains heading North towards Richmond, got as far as Weldon, then had their orders to Richmond countermanded. They were back in Goldsboro on the 4 th. On the 7th, they again marched to Goldsboro, then back to Kinston. Here, five miles from where they began, Johnny'’ outfit took up camp on the South Side of the Neuse River. They killed time with games, preaching and drill till April 15 th, at which time they marched nine miles towards New Bern.

On April 17th, Corse’s Brigade, including Johnny, from 12 miles away pretended to prepare for a second attack on New Bern. They didn’t know it till the last minute, but there was to be no attack. It was just a diversion while General Hoke actually attacked Plymouth. The CSS Albemarle had been completed and was even then steaming up the river to add its considerable firepower to Hoke’s infantrymen and artillery.

When finished, she was 45 feet

wide, 152 feet long and sheathed in yellow pine four inches thick. But what counted most was that she had two layers of two-inch-thick armor covering her turtle-backed superstructure. The ram at the prow – the part that would penetrate enemy vessels – was 18 feet long, layered with iron over oak. She had six gun ports – two on each side and one at each end. The two eight-inch Brooke rifle cannons could be moved easily from port to port. She was formally commission on April 17th, the same day Hoke was to attack Plymouth.

Johnny certainly saw enough in the war, but it’s rather sad he missed the magnificent battle for Plymouth.

The Union forces – commanded by General Henry Walton Wessells, 18th Army Corps -- numbered only about 2, 834, not including 410 sailors. Most of the sailors were stationed on board four Union warships – the USS Miami, the USS Southfield, the USS Whitehead and the USS Ceres. Together they could boast eleven nine-inch rifle cannons; two 100 pounder Parrott cannons, a dozen or so 20 pounder Parrott and a sizable number of 24 and 12 pounder howitzers.

Also at Plymouth were the armored transport USS Bombshell and the Union steamboats Massasoit, Dolly, Thomas Collyer and Dewitt Clinton.

The attacking Rebels – commanded by General Robert F. Hoke -- numbered between 12 and 13 thousand, not including about 200 in the Confederate Navy. Hoke’s forces consisted of 15 infantry regiments, an unspecified number of cavalry regiments and seven battalions of artillery. In addition was the “secret weapon” ironclad ram CSS Albemarle and an armored steamer called the CSS Cotton Plant.

There was still some doubt whether Hoke’s Division could chase out the small garrison of Yanks stationed at the town, despite the Rebels’ numerical superiority.

Plymouth is located in Washington County on the south side of the Roanoke River about eight miles from Albemarle Sound. Though garrisoned by less than 3000 men, the town was protected by a formidable system of earthworks. The most imposing was Fort Grey on the west side of town. This was a redoubt on the south bank of the Roanoke, augmented by rows of obstacles placed upstream and downstream from its cannons. On the east side of Plymouth was an earthwork called Fort Wessells, whose cannons controlled that part of the Roanoke. Other forts protecting the city included Conaby Redoubt, Fort Williams and Fort Comfort. These last three protected with cannon all land routes an enemy might use to attack. To make things even worse for an attacker, most of the terrain was boggy and swampy. A small garrison could conceivably hold off a division forever.

The land battle raged and was fierce . . . but of most import here is the awesome success of the ironclad ram and how it’s performance was to later affect the life of our man, John Henry Hess. Without going into too much detail, the Yankees had heard about the new ram and prepared to destroy her by linking two of its strongest warships – the Miami and Southfield – together with a wide web of chains. The idea was for each of the Yankee vessels pass on opposite sides of the Albemarle and consequently snare it in the chains, where it could be dealt with slowly and methodically with the Union ships’ big cannon. Certainly, they thought, the big Parrott rifles would shatter the

Albemarle’s armor sheathing.

The Albemarle, thanks to the scouting of Gilbert Elliott, arrived earlier than expected because the river was higher than usual and most of the obstacles could be avoided as she made her way to Plymouth. She went into battle just as the sun was rising. Though Fort Grey pounded her with 100-pound projectiles, the shells bounced of the confederate ship like golf balls. As she neared her encounter with the Union’s Miami and Southfield, the commander of the Albemarle noticed the odd symmetry of the two ships and astonishingly figured out that a trap lay between them.

Veering sharply to the south, the Albemarle reversed course and managed to approach the flank of the two ships expecting to trap her. Instead, she aimed her reinforced ram at the Southfield and struck her with a blow that rocked it stem to stern and tore a huge gaping hole in her hull. The mighty Southfield sunk like a stone, unfortunately taking the Albemarle with her because the Rebel ship’s ram had penetrated so deep that it wouldn’t come out. Huge columns of water poured into the Albemarle and at first it seemed she too would be lost. But the nature of the river saved her – the Southfield struck bottom very quickly and turned turtle, thus releasing the Rebel ram to pop back up like a cork.

Meanwhile, the Union’s Miami had closed in an attempt to board the Rebel ship and gun down its crew.

When they were within grappling distance of each other, about two dozen crewmen of the Albemarle suddenly appeared on deck and literally blew away the would-be boarders with one volley of rifle and revolver fire. The Albemarle’s design allowed the marksmen on her deck to simply reach down through ports to get freshly loaded weapons. The boarding crew of the Miami never made it past their own railing.

As if this were not enough to discourage the Miami, her commander in apparent desperation ordered her to fire its most powerful cannon – a ten-inch 100 pounder Parrott rifle loaded with a high-explosive shell– at the Albemarle’s superstructure at point-blank range. The Miami fired! But the ten second-delay fuse on the Parrott shell was far too long. The shell merely bounced of the Albemarle’s iron cladding and incredibly bounced back on top of the Miami, only a few feet away from its commander. The Miami lost its commander, who was blown into atoms. She suffered eleven wounded men. According to the Miami’s surgeon’s assistant, the commander had “19 musket balls and pieces of shell in different parts of his body, one arm was blown off. . . . . The blood was over the soles of my boots, all over the berth deck, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded were heartrending. The ram kept butting us, and when (the commander) fell, the men seemed to lose all heart.”

The Miami took several more punishing hits from the Albemarle’s cannon

before she could escape for

open waters at full speed. All the smaller Federal gunboats followed her, also at full steam, knowing their 32 and 24 pounder rifle cannons would simply bounce of the mighty ironclad ram. After chasing the entire Federal naval force out of the Roanoke River, the victorious Albemarle steamed back to Plymouth and spent the remainder of the afternoon hurling eight-inch shells at the town’s defenses.

At 10 a.m. on April 20, 1864, Union General Wessells surrendered the town of Plymouth and all the river it was supposed to protect for Federal naval use and Union supply ships. Hoke inflicted 300 casualties on the Yankees, took 2500 prisoners and even more important took as booty 500 horses, 28 cannon, 5000 small arms and an enormous amount of gunpowder, clothing, provisions and medical supplies. It was one of the great victories of the Confederacy.

All this had great repercussions for our Johnny Hess. After the victory of Plymouth, General Hoke was superconfident that his command could now take New Bern, especially now that the CSS Albemarle seemed operational and was apparently available to him. He believed the fall of Plymouth followed by the fall of New Bern – both important coastal towns – would be the beginning of the end for Yanks stationed in North Carolina. All three of these

presumptions proved to be wrong.

This was bad news for Johnny and his outfit, though they didn’t know it at the time. On May 3 rd, Johnny and the 29th moved out with Hoke’s Division. They marched toward New Bern with four days rations. Napoleon was still wearing his pigskin boot and it was a good thing indeed, for the regiment had to march 25 miles through some of the swampiest and most rugged terrain they’d ever crossed. Napoleon smiled at Johnny every chance he got because he knew that only his triple-thick, piss-softened piglet skin boot lay between him and disability. He also knew that disability didn’t mean what it means today – a free ride from then on. It usually meant capture by the enemy or arrest for desertion. You either kept up or you fell by the wayside. You did not want to fall by the wayside . . . . They marched all day and near midnight set up camp near New Bern on the Trent River.

The next day, the regiment took up the line of march before sunrise, moving slow because the enemy could be anywhere. There was a half moon but that was enough for Johnny to see the Yankee blockhouse about 100 yards ahead. But this time he didn’t feel excited about it. It was only four in the morning and only the moon illuminated the scene. Johnny informed Captain Smith, who did get excited and passed the information up the chain of command until it got to Hoke himself.

Immediately the order was passed to form a battle line and slowly, very slowly, approach the blockhouse.

There were no reasons, Hoke told his junior officers, to risk the lives of his men for a blockhouse. At most, there would be a hundred men inside and maybe two cannon.

As Johnny and Napoleon began to tiptoe forward, trying to stay behind trees, Napoleon suddenly stopped and motioned for Johnny to stop too. The rest of the battle line kept moving – they knew Johnny and his friend well enough to know they weren’t about to run away, not on account of a blockhouse. Napoleon whispered to Johnny, “Hey, something ain’t right out here.”

“What do you mean?” asked Johnny.

“Where’s the hogs? There’s always wild hogs in the woods.”

Johnny looked startled then shouted, “Down! Everybody down!”

Napoleon had been perceptive, to say the least. The woods were full of wild hogs everyplace they’d been except here. Only one thing would keep them silent – the presence of people with rifles. Again Johnny had to find Smith, but this time by crawling. Smith listened and immediately sent a courier by horse to find Hoke and tell him the situation as Napoleon saw it. Hoke read the message thoughtfully, then dismounted and crouched down behind a tree.

He scribbled down a message and had another courier rush it to an artillery unit – which read the slip of paper, prepared their cannon and fired one shot toward the blockhouse. The 32 pound shell thunked against the concrete, leaving a crater about two feet across and one deep. The cannoneer, whose sights were still on, sent another 32 pounder, which hit the same spot and managed to blow a hole in the wall. Inside this hole could be seen patches of dark blue moving around. Then, like ants from an anthill, Yankee infantrymen poured out of the blockhouse, immediately running toward the woods and taking cover. Despite a rain of lead, none of the hundred or so bluebellies were wounded.

Corse’s Brigade laid fire into the woods where the infantrymen had fled. But there was no return fire at all.

“Something’s Goddamned fishy here,” Corse said, making a signal with his saber to cease fire. Then there was silence, complete silence. All of Corse’s Brigade lay on the ground with their shoulder arms loaded and ready. But there were no targets, not even lighted cigarette tips or puffs of smoke.

Slowly, at Hoke’s signal, the entire division rose from the ground and again crept forward. Soon they had passed the empty blockhouse and the place where the Yanks had disappeared into the woods. They kept

marching . . . . There was still no sounds, not from wild hogs, not from birds, not even from insects. It was as if they had all gone deaf the same instant.

At one p.m. they discovered why. A huge artillery shell exploded right in their midst! Then another and another! And with no surprise to anyone, they were suddenly charged by thousands of Yankee soldiers, guns blazing and bayonets fixed. Johnny had been in a few battles by this time and held his ground. A few panicked and ran to the rear. And some of these were shot in the back by Johnny’s comrades for deserting under fire. Johnny always noticed things like that, even in the hottest of battles. He wanted to know who would shoot and who wouldn’t – just in case it came to a retreat one day.

Oddly enough, during the firefight that followed, Johnny and Napoleon both noticed a large herd of wild hogs on the mountainside to their left, at least half a mile away. They could barely be seen – Johnny noticed them only because some them were moving. They were pointing their snouts right at Corse’s men. It felt odd to be watched by these wild hogs. They seemed to be interested in the outcome. But the fight was on and bitter infantry fighting took their minds off the hogs completely, so they could concentrate on saving themselves and killing as many Yanks as they could.

At one point, Corse moved for his entire brigade to move forward. They’d gone about a hundred yards or so when they realized they could see the Neuse River now – which to their surprise contained a Yankee monitor and several gunboats. “It’s a monitor!” whispered Johnny, as if everyone hadn’t already identified it. It’s water-line profile, shingle like appearance and characteristic revolving “cheesebox” on top made the identification easy. Not so easy was the question, “which monitor?”

It was probably the just-commissioned USS Saugus monitor of the Canonicus Class. This meant it weighed about 2,100 tons, had a crew of 110 men, was 225 feet long, 43’8” wide and had a draft of only about 13 feet. Its single turret contained two 15-inch Dahlgreen smoothbore cannon, protected by 10 inches of steel around the turret and five inches of steel on its sides. It would have been a match even for the Albemarle and may have been hunting for her. Or it may have been sent to protect New Bern while simultaneously preparing for its task of transporting General Grant’s Army of the Potomac down the following month.

It really didn’t matter that much which monitor it was because the Albemarle wasn’t where it was expected, so it could engage the Yankee ships. The monitor had Corse’s position and was lobbing 15-inch, high-explosive shells right into their midst. Men began screaming as explosion after explosion sprayed Corse’s Brigade with shards of sharp steel and shrapnel. “I swear they’re shooting scrap iron at us!” someone cried out. Everyone sought cover – these monitors could do plenty of damage once they had your position.

Not surprisingly, the Yankee infantry stopped charging or even firing while the shelling was going on. They melted back into the woods. Corse motioned for his brigade to creep under cover about one mile to the east, hopefully confusing the monitor enough to lose its coordinates. Certainly it was just practicing. Its unexpected appearance on the Neuse River was likely its trial period – and what better way to test one’s cannons than to kill John Henry Hess with one? This was Johnny’s thought but it really should have been Isaac’s.

The entire brigade moved a mile west from the shelling zone and spread out about twenty feet apart, each man an island in the swamp. They were left in peace for half an hour, even though the monitor kept lobbing shells toward their direction every now and then. They’d begun to feel safe when the shrill whine of an incoming shell warned them to kiss the muck.

The 15-inch monster shell, black as night, hit a tree, snapped it in half, then fell to the ground in the midst of Corse’s Brigade. It went off seconds later with a deafening roar that had every man’s ears ringing and every man’s nerves shot to hell. But worst of all was that Isaac Garrett didn’t get up after the explosion. He floated like a log on

top of swamp water turning red from blood. He was on his stomach with his back ripped open as with a buzz saw.

Johnny ran over to him and immediately placed his hands over the wound, a ten-inch jagged tear that seemed to cut his right shoulder blade in half. Through the blood, you could see ivory white bones moving between muscles sliced in half. Isaac was groaning but gallantly trying to get to his feet. It was useless. Meanwhile more shells were coming in and everyone but Johnny remained in their spread out positions, so only one man could be killed at a time when the shells exploded.

Of course there were no medics, no antiseptics, no first aid kits and no morphine. But Isaac was nevertheless lucky because he’d been wounded out in a swamp where no Yankee sharpshooters could try to kill him off. His friend could get him the Hell out of there. He’d have received no attention at all if he’d been on a battlefield, where men were commonly left to die when wounded. As things were, there was nothing except the threat of another shell falling in the same place to prevent Johnny from tearing off Isaac’s shirt and sewing up the huge gash with his sewing kit. The bleeding didn’t stop but at least lessened to an ooze. Good thing blood wasn’t spurting into the air, Johnny thought.

That would have meant a slashed artery and sure death. Corse had Isaac tied on a horse, assigned a courier to accompany him and sent him galloping to the rear with instructions to immediately get this man some medical care.

But the brigade was gloomy. Everyone expected him to die. Napoleon tried his best not to cry about it, but he did – but no one said anything or thought less of him. He’d matured. He didn’t think less of himself, either. His brother had just been wounded and would probably die. He had the right to weep and he knew it. Johnny wept too.

And no one dared say a word to either of them. Napoleon however had something to say to Johnny. Running to his position, Napoleon spurted our in a furious whisper, “I think them wild hogs give us away!”

“No they didn’t. Get back to your position or you’ll get what your brother got,” Johnny replied angrily.

“No, Goddamn it!” Napoleon insisted, “The Yanks saw them stinking hogs pointing right at our new position.

That’s how their monitor knew where to aim. Them hogs is killing us! They’re doing it on purpose!”

True or not, the monitor indeed had their new position and more shells rained down on them. No one else was hurt by the grace of God and because each man now ducked under the water when the telltale shine was heard coming toward them. Still, it was unnerving, to say the least.

So Corse had his brigade run as fast as they could to a new position one mile south – out of the Saugus’s two mile cannon range. As they were hunkering down, however, they were surprised by a Yankee infantry attack from their right flank. The ensuing battle was not only bitter and fierce, it was unrelenting – slowly driving Corse’s Brigade east toward the rest of Hoke’s Division, which was making slow but acceptable progress toward New Bern.

But General Hoke was in a stew about the non-show of the Albemarle. Not only the Saugus but several Union gunboats were shelling his men from the river and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

The Albemarle wasn’t able to assist because she was penned in and under attack on the Albemarle Sound seventy miles away on the coast. The Yankee naval authorities had assigned Captain Melancton Smith with the job of intercepting and neutralizing the Rebel ram before it could play a role in the second battle of New Bern. Smith had four large double-ended steamers, the repaired USS Miami, the USS Sassacus, the USS Matabesett and the USS Wyalusing. All four were well armed and considerably more maneuverable than the Albemarle. This time the Yanks were prepared and waiting, especially the USS Miami, which was out for revenge. She not only had nets to foul the Albemarle’s propellers, but a super-powerful torpedo attached to the end of a long boom. If the Miami could just get close enough to put this torpedo underneath the keel of the Albemarle, she could blow the bottom out of the Rebel ram.

Another surprise waiting for the Albemarle was a tactic later used by Native American war parties attempting to stop white wagon trains from passing west through the American Frontier. The four major warships, along with

several smaller gunships, would circle around the Albemarle at high speed, using their superior mobility to keep up a nonstop barrage of cannon fire from the closest possible range. The battle began the same day Johnny Hess was marching on New Bern with General Hoke’s army. Hoke, of course, was expecting the Albemarle to back him up, as it had so successfully at Plymouth. Fat chance . . ..

The Albemarle fired the first shot and missed. But her second shot scored a direct hit on the Matabesett’s rigging, wounding six Union sailors. She then tried ramming the Union vessel but missed. The Union’s Sassacus took advantage of the miss by firing a full broadside at the Albemarle, using all of its nine-inch cannons and its most powerful cannon, the Parrott rifled cannon loaded with a 100 pound solid shot shell. The Union projectiles bounced off the Albemarle, except for one lucky hit which broke 20 inches off one of the ram’s eight-inch rifled cannons. She only had two, so the crew of the Rebel ship used the cannon anyway, despite its shortened muzzle. It made little difference at the close ranges at which the gun was used.

Undaunted, the crew of the Sassacus, as it passed near the unhurt Albemarle, attempted to throw kegs of gunpowder down the Rebel ram’s smokestack and sputtering grenades through her gun ports. Again, the Albemarle suffered no damage. Inside, however, its crew was sweltering in the heat and terrified, not knowing if the armor would continue to hold out or if any of the enemy’s bombs might make it into the boilers.

From about 400 yards away, the relentless Sassacus aimed her prow at the Albemarle and attempted to ram it at full speed. Oily rags were thrown into the Union ship’s boilers to give her all the speed possible as she charged her quarry. She throbbed and shuddered and shot through the water like a whale intent on ramming a ship guilty of harpooning it. The Sassacus had worked up tremendous momentum by the time it struck, tossing crewmen all over the decks of both vessels. The Sassacus came out worst, having its bow torn apart and its underwater timbers seriously weakened. The ram was thrown into a list and tons of seawater poured into her ports. She seemed sure to sink.

But she didn’t . . .. The Sassacus was firmly wedged into the Albemarle, but unfortunately at an angle where her broadside cannons couldn’t be used. However, the Rebel ram was able to fire its powerful Parrott rifle directly into the Union ship with a 100 pound shot that punctured its starboard boiler. A hideous explosion destroyed the inside of the Sassacus – filling it with fire and steam. The shrieks of scalded crewmen drowned out even the cannons.

The Union ship drifted away. Though out of the battle, she managed to limp along on one engine thanks to her chief engineer. Much of her crew, however, had been flayed alive by escaping steam from the ruptured boiler.

Meanwhile, the force of the blast had freed the Albemarle from the grip of the Sassacus, enabling it to rejoin the battle and do serious damage to the Miami -- which never got a chance to use its torpedo – and the already injured Matabesett. The Miami had its smokestack shot in half and the Matabesett was hit with a shell that tore the legs off three crewmen. The Union ships were soundly defeated at the tactical level. But they won at the strategic level.

The Confederate ram seemed to be victorious but actually lost. She almost destroyed three Union ships but in the process was so damaged by concentrated fire that she could barely move. Her smokestack, it’s been said, looked like Swiss cheese, so riddled with holes that her speed dropped to almost nothing. Her steering apparatus was also severely damaged. The Albemarle barely made the 20 miles back to Plymouth and then only by burning lard and bacon in its boilers. The hogs again helped out . . ..

While all this was happening, Hoke’s Division was making headway against the defenders of New Bern even without the Albemarle. Johnny, a common soldier who knew only what he heard through the grapevine, realized they must be winning because the battle line was slowly but surely moving closer to the town. The Yankee infantry kept falling back to new defensive positions, which was a good sign.

Just as Hoke was convinced he could take New Bern, however, a courier galloped up on a horse with a message from President Davis. It was May 5th. Hoke was to withdraw his army from New Bern and immediately entrain for southeast Virginia, where Lee needed every available man in the trenches to defend Richmond from two huge Union armies already on their way. Following orders, General Hoke formally sent a flag of truce into New Bern and began his withdrawal as soon as it returned. The Yanks wouldn’t fire on them so long as they were retreating from the battle. It was almost more than the men could bear to pull away from the conflict when they were so close to taking the town. It seemed to them a cowardly act – walking away from a fight they were winning.

Hoke was disappointed but not crushed. He at least had the satisfaction of knowing New Bern had been his for the taking. It would be recorded in his record. Besides, there was undoubtedly more glory in this new undertaking, in which he’d been appointed temporary divisional commander of Pickett’s Division. He would be leading the troops to meet the bold Yankee Generals now marching their armies toward Richmond.

As for Johnny, he was just happy to call the whole thing off at New Bern and tramp on back to camp – there to mourn the loss of Isaac while preparing for this new struggle. He didn’t know the upcoming battle would be the worst one of the war for him and that 150 of his regiment would be lying dead or wounded on the battlefield of Drewry’s Bluff by the end of the next month. It was good that he didn’t know.

On May 7th, Johnny again got on the march with his brigade and the rest Hoke’s Temporary Division. He passed through Pollacksville and crossed the Trent River on a pontoon bridge. It was hot and dusty, quite a difference from the swamps he’d been trudging through the last months. After about 20 miles, he and the brigade got back to their original camp in Kinston, almost overcome by the heat. At the Neuse River, they stripped, bathed in the Neuse and upon drying themselves learned they were going back to Virginia. They were given one day’s rest, then left Kinston on the trains around 10 p.m. on the night of May 9th. Only three of Corse’s five regiments were able to board.

The other two had to wait.

They arrived at Goldsboro at daybreak on the 10th, then rode on to Weldon, where they were supposed to change cars. Unfortunately, the Yanks had torn up the railroad tracks and burned the bridge at Garrett’s Station on Stony Creek 35 miles north of Weldon , forcing the Rebels to march another 12 miles that night along the shore of Swift Creek till they reached another train. This one would carry them the final 18 miles to Petersburg, where they finally arrived in Petersburg around 10 that morning. The ragged Confederate railroad system had taken 48 hours to transport them 177 miles.

At least in Petersburg they were welcomed by townsfolk eager to show their hope and gratitude with cheers, hugs, kisses and bottles of wine and stronger spirits. But there was no time – certainly not for the wine . . . nor the painted ladies who kept yanking soldiers out of their units and trying to whisk them off for a tryst or two behind the bushes.

Unknown to the soldiers at the time, Richmond’s citizenry were in a much worse mood. On May 5th, they’d learned from scouts that an amphibious column over ten miles long was right then ferrying 36,000 Federal troops up the James River, under the command of Union General Benjamin F. Butler. Typically for Yankees, they called their force after a river, in this case – appropriately enough -- the Army of the James. They’d loaded the day before, while Grant’s Army of the Potomac was crossing the Rapidan and preparing his all-out offensive against Richmond. Now the city was in danger of being besieged by two massive Union armies, one from the East and one from the South.

Butler’s armada was lead by five ominous ironclad monitors, their turreted cannons constantly turning, with dozens of other gun ships placed strategically along a line of over 200 transport vessels. The ships – actually every kind of floating platform from tug boats to barges to converted ferries -- dropped its first Union division off at City Point, only nine miles from Petersburg.

The remaining five divisions, however, were transported past the northern mouth of the Appomattox River and landed at Bermuda Hundred, a plantation smack dab in the middle of an isthmus of land formed by a crook in the James River. Heaven knows what Butler had in mind but it certainly backfired on him. Within two weeks, thanks to fighting men like Johnny Hess of the 29th Virginia, the Yankee General would be firmly bottled up in the cape, unable to attack and unable to reinforce Grant’s huge Army of the Potomac when it made its move against Richmond at Cold Harbor.

The first thing Butler did was send out a small force toward Petersburg, which was easily driven back by the Rebels, as few as they were.

No one, especially Lee, was fooled by the maneuver. It was obvious from the beginning that Butler’s army was not after Petersburg, but Richmond. For that reason, the Confederate War Department decided the most defensible position was at the Rebel fort called Drewry’s Bluff, which lay on the south side of the James River only eight miles south of Richmond. Butler’s army would have to go through it to invade Richmond.

The irony – or the shame – of this fiasco is that Butler’s army could easily have taken both the turnpike and railroad running between Richmond and Petersburg, both of which lay less than 20 miles from where he had encamped his army. Upon landing he outnumbered the Rebels six to one. He had more than enough time to grab both before the Confederates could “cork” the isthmus – thus bottling Butler inside.

In his defense, the Union General did make a few halfhearted attacks but was repulsed every time – though the Rebels had fewer than 8000 effective troops available against Butler’s 36,000 at the time of the landing. Butler knew thousands of Rebel reinforcements would be sent against him but he didn’t know how soon they would arrive.

Just in case, he immediately fortified his army’s position at Bermuda Hundred to protect his men and give them a firm base from which to attack. He didn’t realize how much time he was wasting – he was building the launch pad when he should have been launching the rocket.

It took almost a week for the reinforcements to arrive. Most of the coming brigades were forced to march in by foot because the railroad tracks all over those parts of North Carolina and Virginia were either damaged or so overloaded they could travel only about 12 miles per hour. But time was on the Rebel’s side this time. Butler dilly-dallied.

In fact, only Butler’s over-cautiousness unarmed the North’s otherwise lethal bear trap. Grant’s army of steel would not be snapping shut against Butler’s army of steel with Richmond between its jaws.

The Yankee trap also failed because Butler’s no-brainer plan was too simple and easily foiled by the General then in charge of all territory south of the James River – General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard. At the time Beauregard had about 10,000 men.

His counter plan was presented to General Lee and President Davis as follows: Lee would fall back to the defensive lines of the Chickahominy, thus enabling him to dispatch 10,000 of his men to Beauregard. At the same time, the 5000-man division of General Robert Ransom would be sent to him, thus raising Beauregard’s total force to over 25,000 men.

When Butler’s Army of the James sneaked out of its hiding place at Bermuda Hundred to march toward Richmond, Beauregard would attack Butler’s force with 21,000 men, simultaneously cutting off communications at Butler’s Bermuda Hundred base. Meanwhile, General W. H. C. Whiting would march a 4000-man force from Port Walthall Junction to Butler’s rear, press him back against the James River above Drewry’s Bluff and force his army to surrender by noon. Beauregard would then ferry his forces over the James and, by a concerted movement, strike Union General Grant on his left flank while Lee attacked from the front. It was a brilliant plan. It could have won the war for the South if implemented as presented.

But President Davis disapproved. He absolutely refused to remove 10,000 men from Lee’s Army of North Virginia, not matter how long or under what circumstances. Even worse, seen in hindsight, was Davis’s insistence that Beauregard’s current force, when reinforced by General Ransom’s 5000-man Division, would suffice to beat Butler back into his base at Bermuda Hundred. Beauregard’s objection that Grant’s army must be attacked at the same time fell on deaf ears. His argument that bottling up Butler would be a futile waste of military power also fell on deaf ears.

On May 14th, General Beauregard’s command was officially enlarged to include all territory south of James River. He was to amass all the divisions then separated by different battle plans into one army under one plan.

Beauregard thus became The Man and frightened Southern eyes looked toward him as if he were the avenging angel promised by their gods and politicians. He almost lived up to their hopes . . . .

With his newly gained powers, Beauregard immediately incorporated General Ransom’s, General Colquitt’s and General Hoke’s division into his own force, expanding it from around six thousand to around 15,000 men. He was overall commander.

On May 15th – knowing Butler was going to march against Richmond the following day -- Beauregard issued his drastically watered down plan to his commanders. He began the letters to each with the following statement, “The purpose . . . is to cut off the enemy from his base of operations at Bermuda Hundred, and capture or destroy him . . . .

To this end, we shall attack and turn, by the river road, his right flank, now resting on the James River, while his center and left flank are kept engaged, to prevent him from reinforcing his right flank.”

Ransom’s Dvision was to attack Butler’s right flank at daybreak the following morning from previously prepared positions. His skirmishers were to drive back the front of the enemy column, followed by a line of battle which was to pivot on Butler’s right flank so as to engage it from the rear as well as the front. Ransom was to be aided

by Colonel Dunnovant’s regiment of cavalry, under Ransom’s direction.

Hoke’s Division, situated in trenches to the right of Ransom’s force, was at daylight to engage Butler’s army in the front as soon as Ransom’s skirmishers began to make the enemy’s front line waver. Hoke was to form in two lines of battle, four hundred yards apart, in front of his trenches “at the proper time” as to not delay his forward movement.

He would be supported by artillery.

Colquitt’s Division would constitute the reserve, forming in brigades behind Hoke long before morning. At the onset of the battle, Colquitt’s men would be about 500 yards from Hoke’s second line of battle. Afterwards, two to three hundred yards.

Meanwhile, General Whiting would move his division up from Petersburg along the turnpike and attack the enemy front and rear.

Each man in battle would be supplied with 60 round of ammunition, with each man in reserve receiving 20 rounds.

Johnny’s regiment was one of the last to arrive in Petersburg, meaning he was among the last men marching toward Drewry’s Bluff. He, along with the rest of his comrades – company, regiment and division – were extremely worried about marching up the turnpike towards Richmond to Drewery’s Bluff – because to do so meant marching in columns only twenty miles or less past butler’s huge army at Bermuda Hundred. They were surprised when they weren’t attacked, as that would have been the most obvious place to hit them. They didn’t know Butler was busy defending himself from them, though they were definitely in a weakened state with fewer men. They couldn’t see the yellow streak running down Butler’s back from the turnpike, so they just prayed.

Johnny knew something was about to happen, something horrible and terrifying. But what he could do but keep his musket loaded at halfcock and its bayonet attached. His pulse raced as he passed the barriers erected at Bermuda Neck. Just behind those entrenchments waited 24,000 Yanks, hoping their General would turn them loose

on the exhausted men of Corse’s Brigade. Johnny thought he might faint and fall out of the column, just humiliating himself -- not to mention being left behind! He began to breathe too quickly, his breaths coming in short gasps that made his heart race even faster. His head began to swim . . . . he glanced over at Napoleon, who looked absurd in his one big pig shoe. In modern times, we would say it looked like a football on his foot. But then it was nameless – just a big balloon like blob of softened baby pigskin where a boot should. Napoleon’s foot obviously wasn’t bothering so much as walking so close to the enemy when they were all so unprepared. His face was white, no sweat . . . he looked like a ghost. But he held his chin high, as much to look brave as to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

Johnny took a swig from his canteen and it seemed to help a moment before the water spewed out of his mouth and hit the man in front of him. The man was too tired and worried to respond, only growling some threat, barely heard – and actually enjoying the spray of cool water on his back and neck. But Johnny began to stagger and a fear gripped his heart. But Johnny was like so many of us who think we are weaker and more alone than anyone else – in truth, almost everyone in the column was feeling the same strains and experiencing the same symptoms.

As they marched toward Drewry’s Bluff, passing the monsters behind Bermuda Neck, Captain Smith – mounted on his roan – suddenly sung out in an great loud voice, “When Johnny Comes marching home again, hurrah!

Hurrah!” The 29th Regiment instantly joined in with all their hearts and lungs, “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“We’ll given them a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah,” belted out Smith.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” sang the men, louder than guns1 “We’ll given them a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“The men with cheer, the boys will shout! The ladies, they will all turn out! And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“The old church bells will peal with joy!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“To welcome home our darling boy!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“The villages lads and lassies say! With roses they will strew the way! And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Soon the whole column was singing away at the tops of their voices, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” And for a little while the vigor and wonder and hope of the confederacy arose again in these men, men who moments before had been mice tiptoeing by the cat, but not more that day, “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Johnny and his boys camped the night of the 11th, after marching ten or twelve miles right under the enemy’s nose. They slept on the ground that night, holding their muskets at ready . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . but the attack didn’t come that night. Johnny was baffled. How could they not attack?

Early on May 12th, Johnny moved with his brigade a short distance further down the turnpike and formed in a line of battle at a blockhouse halfway between Richmond and Petersburg. A hard rain began to fall and Johnny was soaked to the bone, but had the presence of mind to thank God for dampening the enemy’s spirits as thoroughly as He had dampened him. The Army of the James was right behind him on the turnpike but the roads weren’t paved and soon were rivers of mud over a foot thick. That slowed Butler’s men down a bit. But it didn’t make them nicer. In fact, they came on Johnny’s rear about 11 a.m. and began firing. This was a terrible shock to Johnny, who was at the very rear because the 29th had been the last of the reinforcements to arrive in Petersburg to march north on foot.

Johnny received an even worse shock when the first volley of enemy cannon shells exploded about twenty yards behind him. “Come on!” he cried, a sentiment that shot through the entire brigade like a – well, like a shot. At the same time everyone in Corse's’ Brigade broke rank and began running for all they were worth toward Drewry's Bluff -–which was only a half mile in front of them. Corse’s men flung themselves into the first row of entrenchments surrounding the Bluff and finally shot back. They were kneeling in two-foot deep ditches filled with water but they didn’t mind because a three-foot mound of earth lined the ditches to absorb bullets and shells. Butler’s men immediately silenced their guns and cannons while they also took cover. In about 15 minutes, firing resumed – but no one on either side was even nicked and all guns fell silent at nightfall.

Johnny and Napoleon made a tiny rain shelter for themselves by covering their four feet of the dirty ditch with a poncho, using sticks to anchor its four ends in the mud. There was no moon and the sky was black. Right before sunset, fleshy looking clouds had hung in the sky like lungs. An omen if Johnny had ever seen one.

Yet there were other omens. Most of the teams under tents had struck small campfires, invisible to the enemy but still hot enough to warm hands and heat tins for coffee. Looking left and right, Johnny could see hundreds of these tiny fires. But something seemed odd, not quite on base. It took Napoleon to point the curiosity out to his friend, who just didn’t see what Napoleon saw.

The entrenchments were dug on both sides of the turnpike. But they necessarily ended at the river’s edge. At Napoleon’s prompting, Johnny stared until he too could see hundreds and hundreds of tiny red spots moving around where the water met the land. Johnny stared until his head ached, unable to figure out what these tiny fireflies really were. It was much too early for real fireflies – besides, they weren’t bright red in color, like these. They were barely visible and accompanied by no sounds whatsoever. Johnny for a second almost panicked, thinking the Yankees were pulling off some flanking movement. But Napoleon knew better.

The little red winks of light were reflections off the retinas of wild hogs which had congregated in huge numbers by the water’s edge. They were watching the action, even during the night.

“So what?” Johnny asked when he realized what they were.

“You ain’t got a clue, do you?” Napoleon said.

“It’s a bunch a pigs. What’s a bunch a pigs gonna do? Let ‘em watch.”

“But why’re they watching?” Napoleon asked.

“They ain’t watching nothing. They’re just getting water. Hogs gotta drink too, you know.”

“You wrong, Johnny!” Napoleon whispered, as if the hogs could hear him; “They’re wising up. They’re getting smart about what we’re doing to each other here. When all this is over, they’ll sneak up here in the night and eat the dead. Johnny, listen to me. I don’t want to be eat up by no stinking hog. I’m serious. I want you to get me off the battlefield if I get killed. Promise me. I gotta be off it by nighttime. That’s when they come out. They’re . . . they’re ghouls! They got the devils in ‘em. Remember when Jesus cast out the evil spirits and put them in a herd a hogs?

Them spirits are still in hogs. Evil spirits. I ain’t joking. Promise me.”

Johnny tried to make a joke of it and began singing, “Oh promise me, oh promise me . . . .”

“It ain’t nothing to sing about. You ain’t funny worth a damn. I don’t give a tinker’s dam if you believe it or not. I’m your best friend and you gotta carry out my last wish, same as I’d carry out yours. Don’t let my body get eaten up by hogs. Promise. Promise me, Johnny Hess. I’ll do the same for you. Okay?”

For the first time, Johnny understood how appalled and disgusted was his friend. He sipped some coffee from his tin mug, spat out a chaw of tobacco, and said, “Yeah, I’ll keep the hogs off ya if ya get yourself killed.” Napoleon looked relieved. The idea of a Minie Ball crashing through his skull didn’t frighten him. Being blown up by a shell didn’t bother him one bit. But being eaten up by hogs? The image tied a knot in his gut. He got a pounding headache.

No, he didn’t want to be eaten by hogs! It’d mean an unholy death and he took it seriously. He didn’t mind getting killed – hell, he was just a man. But he had a right, a damn right, to die a holy death.

The next morning, Johnny saw that all of Hoke’s Division was now at Drewry’s Bluff. Not only Hoke’s men, but two other divisions – Colquitt’s and Ransom’s. There was plenty of cavalry, too, and a hundred cannon or so. It was obvious that not even Butler’s 24,000-man army was going to walk right through them without a fight.

Johnny and his regiment joined three other regiments in a battleline behind the entrenchments as an unfortunate fourth regiment went forward towards Butler’s army as skirmishers. The Yankees had worked out a plan, however, and managed to flank Johnny’s position and send most of Hoke’s Division out of their first entrenchments and into their second line of entrenchments. Johnny was furious about the blue-bellies’ trick and found himself hoping a real battle would ensure, so he could shoot some of those sons of bitches! They had no honor at all, he thought to himself! Imagine – the whole Yankee army had crawled on its belly to flank the works. Not a scout, not a picket had seen them. A sort of mini-battle did break out and it was nasty indeed. But it was just a skirmish and Johnny wanted to whip Butler’s butt-faced cowards right there and then.

Everyone knew a general engagement was coming soon. That night, Johnny and the others abandoned the second entrenchments so they could lay prone on the ground overnight. That way, if the Yanks attacked, they could spring up not only in front of them, but right in their midst and in back of them, blazing away till no blue coats were left unstained.

When the 14th arrived, Johnny and his comrades again occupied the second line of fortifications protecting Drewry’s Bluff. The men had to sit on their feet to keep them out of the muddy water at the bottom of the trenches.

So Johnny and Napoleon were sitting cross-legged when the commanding officer of the 29 th Virginia decided to inspect his troops. Less brazen than when in actual battle, Colonel Porcino crawled along the line, getting mud all over his uniform. It obviously angered him but he had no choice – he’d been ordered to inspect his regiment by General Corse, who had received the order from General Hoke, who had received the orders from a letter written by the mighty General Beauregard himself. So Porcino had no choice. He looked like a muddy piglet dragging itself along on its belly.

Upon passing Johnny and Napoleon, however, he paused and stared long and long and long at Napoleon’s piglet skin boot. He’d of course noticed it many time before and knew well what it was for. But Porcino was in a bad mood and somebody suffered when that happened. Suffered badly. The colonel hissed a sigh of disgust, then asked sarcastically, “What the hell is that on your foot, Private Garrett?”

Napoleon reddened as Johnny explained the odd boot and its purpose.

Porcino stared and Napoleon, then snapped, “Well, you ain’t wearing it in my regiment! You look like you got a clubfoot.”

“But I do,” protested Napoleon feebly, knowing his time of reckoning had come at last.

“Show it to me,” snapped Porcino, who immediately changed his mind and added, “No, don’t show me your stinking foot. It stinks bad enough around here as it is. Just get rid of the boot and that’s an order, private. I mean it!

Get rid of the goddamned boot or I’ll have you shot for insubordination! Ask your friend there, I came an inch away from getting his ass hung! I wish I had! If I see you with it tomorrow, I’ll have you shot, and that’s a promise.” He turned around and looked at the sergeant following him with a notepad and said, “Write that down, anybody see that ball on his foot, he gets shot as a deserter. The Yanks’ll be sure to get him wearing that thing.”

As Porcino and his sergeant stooge crawled away, Napoleon looked at Johnny with panic in his eyes. Then the panic slowly gave way to resignation. And that finally gave way to indifference. He pulled the special boot off and said bitterly, “Then I’ll go barefoot.”

“We’ll get you a boot off somebody who don’t need it no more. Don’t worry. I’ll cut a hole in top of it and put some wadding in it. It’ll be all right.”

But it wasn’t all right. It wasn’t all right at all . . . .

Death was about to kiss both of them on the lips.

Around ‘noon, Johnny’s regiment – the 29th, including Napoleon – were ordered to march 300 yards in front of the fortifications and form a skirmish line to trade shots with the Yankees facing them. The approximately 700 men marched out as ordered and immediately came under fire, forcing them to dodge, duck, lay down or find cover the best they could while trying to return as much fire was they were getting.

Seven men of the regiment were mortally wounded – Obediah Belcher from Company I was killed, Along with George Deckard and John Evans of Company B. In Company D, Pinckney Howett was killed and his brother James went down, shot in the left knee. (James died a week later in a Richmond hospital). The only officer to get it was Major Alexander Haynes, who was shot in the left thigh. . and died three days later from shock resulting from the amputation. The seventh fatality from the unlucky 29th that day was Christopher Vought of Company B, who was also shot in the left leg and who also died shortly after amputation the next day.

Fifteen more were wounded but somehow survived. A handful was captured or simply ran away. At any rate, it was the bloodiest day yet Johnny had experienced as a private soldier in the 29 th Virginia Infantry Regiment. Only the coming Monday, May 16th, would be worse . . . .

They ran out of ammunition about five in the afternoon and ran, one by one, weaving back and forth like terrified greased pigs at a county fair, back to their safe entrenchments. As dismal and cold as that place was, it was certainly preferable to being in the line of fire.

What happened next was so quick that only Johnny and Napoleon could remember it, and then only because the aftermath of being shot seems to happen in slow motion. Johnny was flat out of ammo, so spun on his feet and began running back to safety. Then he was flat on his stomach, shot through the back! A Minie Ball had literally exploded his knapsack and ripped his blanket in half. Johnny never lost consciousness but knew he’d been hit. The terror struck him instantly! He’d heard what happened when you got shot! You didn’t feel the bullet, so you didn’t know where you were hit – and that bit of information was the difference between life and death. If you hit in the gut or back, you were as good as dead. The head of course and you just never woke up. The limbs and you had a chance – the doctors could always saw them off.

So suddenly unafraid of the enemy, Johnny jumped to his feet and began frantically ripping off his clothes to discover where he’d been hit. He had to find the wound! It’d hit him in the back and knocked him to the ground . . . and he hurt everywhere. “Check me! Check me!” he screamed, dancing around, butt naked, searching for the wound.

Suddenly he was back on the ground on his face. Napoleon had tackled him. “You gotta stop fretting so!” Napoleon whispered fiercely in his ear; “You just making a big target of yourself. You don’t want to be shot again! Just lay here while I look you over. I don’t see no blood yet.”

Johnny meanwhile was nearing a seizure. The fear was whirling through his brain like a tornado billed with lightning. His vision burred. He could hear. He couldn’t talk. All he could so is squirm . . . squirm like a lizard stuck to a board with a nail. Back and forth, back and forth, whimpering all the time, “I’m dying! I’m gonna die here! Help me! Park, help me!” Napoleon’s nickname was Park, but Johnny never used it unless there was an emergency. Then -- one second Johnny’s eyes were big and round as silver dollars, then shut tight as he lost consciousness. Napoleon thought he was dead.

Suddenly it hit him. Napoleon’s brother was gone and now Johnny was gone. Wasn’t much left to live for, was there? But he had made promises. And there was Anna and the baby – he wanted to say he’d done everything he

could. So Napoleon stood up in the midst of the shooting, hoisted Johnny’s body over his shoulder, and began the trudge back to his lines. Every step was torture. Johnny was at least 180 pounds, even butt naked. Napoleon threw away his own musket, knapsack, bayonet belt and blanket. Still every step was pain, especially in his deformed foot.

He might have made it all the way back if not for that lame, unprotected foot which sent electric currents of pain up his leg and into his spine and all the way into his brain with every step. But he stayed the course. He was fifty yards from the entrenchments when he himself got shot in the back . . and he himself fell flat on his face.

Men from the 29th Virginia saw two of their own fall and three of them risked their necks to crawl to the two unconscious men and drag them back to the trenches. Inside, the laid both bodies down on the dirt and fully expected both to be dead. But miraculously, Johnny came to, looked around and – remembering what had happened – began screaming. He stopped almost immediately when he realized with amazement that he was naked – and then noticed that he had no paid anywhere on his body. Nor blood. Captain Smith was kneeling beside him, shaking his hand, smiling, a cigar in his mouth.

“John Henry Hess, you’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever met in this war,” said the captain, still smiling, still shaking his hand, still puffing that cigar. “That Minie Ball missed you by an inch!”

“Missed me?” Johnny repeated, confused.

“Yep. Now, son, you just take it easy. You got shot in the back all right. The ball went right through your knapsack and blanket and knocked your butt on the ground. But it didn’t hit no flesh. You understand that? We gotta get you another gun and a uniform and maybe you ain’t wearing no underwear for a while, but you’re alive to tell about it and that’s something. That’s really something! God likes you. He likes you a whole lot. Too bad he wasn’t so crazy about Park.”

“What do you mean, Park?” Johnny asked, a dark look of suspicion crossing his face; “where is he?”

“I’m sorry, Johnny.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry? Where is he? What happened?”

The captain pointed at a body about fifty feet away. Five people were knelt over it. One man was desperately tearing cloth into pieces and pressing it against the thing that lay so lifeless and pathetic under his hands. Blood was on everyone. Johnny took one look, jumped to his feet, fell on his rear end, jumped up again and ran – actually staggered – over to Napoleon’s body.

The man applying the bandages said to him, “He weren’t so luck as you. Hit him in the back, went through the left lung. He carried you in on his shoulder. Limping. You owe this man your life.” Napoleon’s face was dead white in color. Not a muscle twitched. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

Someone brought to Johnny the uniform of another Reb who’d died that day. Absently, he put it on and stood there silently, not knowing what to say. He might have cried but he was in shock. All he could do was stare at Napoleon, lying there in his own blood. He’d carried him? On his shoulder? So the hogs wouldn’t eat him tonight?

Johnny watched as a wagon pulled up and the five men picked Napoleon up to throw him inside. “Oh no,” Johnny said, “Oh no! Oh no! Not Napoleon! I wish I’d got shot instead! God help me . . . I can’t live with this. God help Napoleon. Bring him back! Bring him back!” And Johnny, broken and lost, threw himself across Napoleon, who lay in the wagon, his war over. At last, Napoleon was at peace.

Johnny was removed gently from the wagon and his tears ignored. Who would laugh? The wagon rolled off toward the rear and Johnny sat down in the dirt. At first, Captain Smith came over and said, “It’s war, Johnny. Ain’t none of this your fault.” But the captain didn’t seem to get through. Colonel Porcino then came over and sat in the dirt with John Henry Hess.

Porcino, who had made so many people miserable and now apparently killed somebody with his screw-you

attitude, looked at the ground and was silent. The two of them sat that way a long time before Porcino said quietly, “I killed him, Hess.” A frog got into Porcino’s throat then and he couldn’t say more. Johnny looked into Porcino’s eyes and saw, for the first time, another human being. “He got killed trying to save me and I wasn’t even hurt. I killed him.

I panicked and he died because I panicked.” Another frog came along and somehow got into Johnny’s throat and neither one of them could talk. In an act that neither would ever forget, Johnny put his arm around Porcino and Porcino wept.

General Corse, who had been watching from a distance, walked over to the men and placed a quart bottle of whiskey in Johnny’s lap. They both looked up to him thankfully. This was exactly what they both needed. To get staggering drunk. To fall unconscious into their bedrolls. It was war. Yes . . . it was war.

It was even worse than a war in Johnny’s head when he was kicked awake before sunrise the next morning, th

May 15 . His regiment was spared skirmishing duty that day but still had to get their asses out of the rack and stand guard, ready for a surprise attack. During the night of the 14 th, General Beauregard and President Davis had arrived to personally supervise the coming battle. And during the same night, both Southern and Northern armies were positioned and ready for battle. The prize, Richmond, lay only eight miles south of the battlefield.

Both armies were somewhat entrenched, with most of Beauregard’s army settled in the last row of trenches before reaching Drewry’s Bluff and most of Butler’s in the second row. To win this battle, butler had to crash through the last barrier. The Rebels, however, had to drive the Army of the James out of the second row of trenches, then the first . . . and last – drive it all the way back to its encampment at Bermuda Hundred.

The skirmishing continued through May 15th, but the 29th had performed its role as a target and was ordered to stand read on the line. So Johnny had a day of rest, sort of – had he not been drinking all day. He’d have to pull himself together before the next day somehow. It would be Monday, bloody Monday, May 16 th. Butler would be prepared to throw everything he had into the battle. And Beauregard’s orders would have been implemented -- his three divisions in position for the collision.

Johnny had been drinking hard all the day on the 15th, slumped over in his trench, alternately crying for Napoleon, kicking himself out of guilt and throwing up that bitterest gall of all – that alcoholic gall which floods your throat whenever you remembered the friend you’d gotten shot through the chest.

He and Porcino had polished off the first quart of whiskey the same night Napoleon had been shot. It was gone by morning – or rather empty, for Porcino had left the bottle in Johnny’s muddy little den under the poncho.

Porcino had gone back to Officer’s Country to nurse his own hangover.

Johnny’s head was throbbing so badly, and his heart hammering so rapidly, that his only thought was to find another bottle. His whole body was trembling like a leaf! The thought of facing anyone, especially an officer, was terrifying. He’d shake to death and stammer incomprehensible words! His neck would wobble like a turkey’s. Only another drink could get rid of the symptoms. So he eventually bought another quart from the crooked but sympathetic quartermaster – who charged him three whole dollars. Johnny, since he didn’t have to go back on the skirmish line, stayed drunk all day and most of the night.

So, it’d come to this, he’d think. He’d got his best friend killed. Ironically, every swig of the juice made it worse. He collapsed again that night, completely unconscious – his filthy face still streaked with tears of no-shame, just guilty, horrible unbearable guilt.

On the morning of the 16th, Johnny wished he was dead as the sergeant was kicking his rear end and telling him to get in gear. He felt a bit better but the screeching of the sergeant pounded against his eardrums and scraped against his raw nerves. Johnny was already dressed and armed, so he simply forced down two lard biscuits and a tin of coffee – laced with a hair of the dog – before running to his regiment, which were already in formation and preparing

to move back to its trenches. The men were silent – they knew this was to be the worst day of all.

Everyone knew that Hoke’s Division was assigned to man the trenches to the right of Butler’s Army of the James as it charged toward Drewry’s Bluff. Hoke’s men were to counter charge en masse. Johnny endured the quick inspection of arms, ignored the unapproving looks of the officers and ran with the others back to the trenches. The ditch was home to him by then. He was glad to slump down in his little piece of dirt again, there to rest his head filled with guilt and the maggots of alcohol. It was a lonely spot now, though only a few feet from other members of company G. Without Napoleon, however, it was Johnny’s lonesome outpost with absolutely no one to talk to. Both Napoleon and Isaac gone . . . he couldn’t believe it. The three of them had known they’d one day come marching home again, hurrah . . . hurrah . . . yeah, sure . . . hurrah.

Before he could stop it, the salty lard biscuits and coffee spewed six feet out of his mouth and bespattered the wall of the ditch and the top of his poncho. The men next to him said nothing. They had their own worries. Their grim faces were empathetic but obviously didn’t want to talk. They just gave knowing glances at each other. So Johnny lay crouched alone in his trench, waiting for Butler’s army so he and his buddies could drive it to the James and ultimately back to Bermuda Hundred.

Meanwhile, Rebel General Ransom’s Division waited silently in the night for the first enemy units to appear.

It consisted of three regiments, Gracie’s, Kemperer’s (commanded by Colonel Terry), Burton’s (under Colonel Fry) and Colonel Lewis’s. They were soaked to the bone but their powder was dry and their spirits high. They were silent as they waited – confidant but slightly disturbed by the unexpected lack of visibility. It’d rained all night and a dense fog covered the entire battlefront. A soldier couldn’t see further than 20 yards in front of him. It was a weird and eerie ambiance that promised mayhem, sudden death, an unexpected bayonet thrust through the stomach.

Ransom ordered his men to charge at exactly 4:45 a.m. The four brigades were magnificent – by 6 a.m. taking in over 500 Yankee prisoners and five Yankee battle flags. Hoke, with sick Johnny aboard, was aware that his division held the right end of the battleline and the rest of the Confederate line spread out over two miles to his right, already driving Butler’s army toward his trenches.

Hoke didn’t wait till the last minute, opening his big cannon and advancing a line of skirmishers toward the now retreating Butler – whose men were in a desperate situation and wanted nothing more to murder every living soul standing between them and escape – which meant every living man in Hoke’s Division. A battle ensued, a bitter conflict costing dozens – even hundreds of lives. Hoke, instead of being over-run, forced Butler right back into the grinding jaws of Ransom. The Army of the James was indeed being chewed up, just as Beauregard planned.

Up until then, Corse’s Brigade had been two regiments short – the 17th and 30th Virginia Regiments having been left behind due to slow trains. They finally arrived in the thick of action, ran across open ground under heavy fire, and joined their brigade buddies. Now, the 15th, 17th, 29th and 30th Virginia Regiments and the 61st North Carolina was together again.

Butler’s forces gave ground before superior fire and, some say, better fighting men. But as the Army of the James was pushed toward the river, it became clear that the Federal Tenth Corps had no intention of leaving the field and was apparently prepared to fight to the death. This was double bad news for the Confederates because the Union’s Tenth – if not removed – would shortly be reinforcing the Union right.

So, at midmorning, Johnny wasn’t surprised but nevertheless horrified when the order came to prepare to charge. Hell, he could hardly walk! But extraordinary fear does something to even the sickest bodies under fire – Johnny in minutes had forgotten his hangover, Napoleon and even his fear of dying. It was a time for revenge. The sons a bitches shot Napoleon! When he was carrying a wounded comrade! They had no hearts, the Goddamned Yankees, and Johnny planned to shoot out whatever apparatus served them instead of hearts.

As the Federal Tenth Corps advanced closer and closer, adding more and more men, raining more and more lead – Corse’s five regiments and two of Clingman’s North Carolina regiments were ordered to charge. Shouting the rebel yell, Johnny joined his fellow soldiers in the charge, running as fast as he could into the furnace. They had to run over half a mile, across broken ground, deafened by cannon, blinded by heavy fog and yellow gun smoke. They crossed over ground covered with fallen timbers, screaming their Rebel Yells.

Enemy cannon swept the field with canister shot, blowing away eight to ten men at a time with hundreds of lead balls wrapped tin and fired at once. Sharpshooters brought down dozens of individuals who never even heard the guns fire before the bullets exploded their heads, splattering brains and shards of bone everywhere. On and on the Yankees came like legions of blue-coated snarling devils, their banners all red, white and blue, symbols of the sudden death they were inflicting on Johnny’s comrades and calling it liberty. How Johnny hated those flags! They stood for all the horror he’d seen inflicted all the injustices he’d endured. And the lies that flag stood for! If they loved god so much, why were they killing us? Why were they burning down our homes and raping our women? Murderers! All murderers!

So Johnny stopped running, took careful aim with his Enfield, ignored the Minie Balls whizzing by his ears and fired one clean shot that entered the chest of a Yankee flag bearer. Johnny watched the bearer keel over and drop his flag in the mud.

He ran for it! Fifty yards was too far, however, and another

flag bearer – another murderer – picked up the flag and carried it toward the advancing Rebels. So again Johnny kneeled down in the midst of peppering fire, took his sweet time and calmly fired one bullet into the flag bearer’s chest – and again the flag dropped in the dirt, where Johnny believed it belonged. Only a short distance away, he ran to the dead flag bearer to take the standard back to his lines, to be displayed or used toilet tissue, covered with the disgusting wastes of the Yankee hordes.

As he was leaning over the American flag, though, he noticed for the first time the soldier he had killed so deliberately and coldly. It was a boy who had never shaved in his life. His public hairs were no doubt still waiting for puberty to push them out. The face – the face of a ten-year-old child – was calm in death, with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly smiling. His cheeks were pink, chubby and his ears stuck out. He had dimples. He was dressed in a Yankee uniform that fit him perfectly, obviously hand sewn by a loving mother proud of her child. He saw all this in the split second it took to grab the boy’s flag and run. But something in Johnny’s head snapped at that moment – he, as if insane, tossed the flag to a Yankee soldier, who unbelievingly waved it high, back and forth, shouting, “Fight, men! Fight for Liberty! Fight for Freedom! Follow me!” And as he said “follow me”, he was shot through the stomach and the flag again fell in the dirt.

Johnny didn’t kill any more children that day. He killed two other Yankee soldiers, both grown up, but no more children. He and his brigade not only defeated the Tenth Corps in combat but pursued them to the James River, when Ransom and Colquitt finished the job. Behind was left a bloody mess. Johnny would later write in his diary, “Witness the terrible sight of the battlefield.” The men of the 29th were heroes that day, guaranteeing victory for the Confederacy. But it came at a high price. Johnny estimated in his diary that 150 fifty men of the 29 th Virginia were either wounded or killed.

Johnny was close. Later, the regimental adjutant – Rufus Brittain – counted the casualties for the campaign against Butler’s army through May 16th. According to his official figures, 21 were killed outright, 84 wounded and 12 came up missing. Four more were killed on May 18th.

The charge of Corse’s Brigade was so savage and fierce that it not only forced the Union’s Tenth corps to retreat, but drove them so far back that the spine of Butler’s army was broken – the whole Army of the James was put into route and chased all the way back to their fortifications at Bermuda Hundred. There they were bottled in and

wouldn’t be able to launch another attack. Never. Not in this war.

Johnny was jubilant and joined in the celebration that night. He drank and sang and danced and whooped and hollered . . . but inside, John Henry Hess was a piece of shattered glass, a resident in the state of pain. He didn't understand, he just didn’t understand. He had killed a little boy and had his best friend killed. What was all this killing about? Where was the honor? For God’s sake, what was honor? His inner agony showed on his face, even more obviously than the drinking he’d done during the past 48 hours. His eyes sagged at the bottom, and at the upper outer-edge corners folded in heavy blankets of gloom. You can see the same eyes on photos of Grant. Eyes that cannot talk but nevertheless shout volumes of broken hopes and despair and betrayal and, worst of all, knowledge that God does not care one way or the other who did what to who. At least, that is, until that day of reckoning comes . . . .

Johnny was happy to at last be a real hero and be promised a real medal. Colonel Porcino promised to write a letter of commendation to be placed in his records. General Corse himself was going to write a letter. Hoke would present a medal! A big ceremony for him, John Henry Hess! He would be making sergeant if the war lasted much longer.

But Johnny was tired inside – tired of living, afraid to die. He knew he had to pull himself together to finish out the war honorably, whatever that meant. And he would. The bubble of conscience in him would burst tomorrow, as it always burst. Another would come to replace it later, but for a while he could remain a real soldier – and he could be as thick-skinned and insensitive as anyone else! As he thought about it, Johnny realized he was being weak by asking himself so many questions. He got hard with himself. “Snap out of it!” he shouted at himself when alone; “It don’t mean nothing! None of this means nothing!” He slapped himself several times, so hard that his cheeks burned.

The pain felt good and he slapped himself around some more. A hardness came back to him. A child was killed, so what? He shouldn’t have been there. And that idiot Napoleon, worrying about the hogs eating him up. That kind of nonsense got a man killed. It wasn’t Johnny’s fault the fool tried to carry him back right in the middle of a firestorm.

No, none of it was Johnny’s fault.

Though victorious, Johnny’s 29th Regiment hardly came out of the battle unscathed. Seventeen were killed in the first half-hour of action and another fifty wounded before it was over.

By midafternoon of May 16th, it was all over. The beaten Union army was in retreat, running back down the turnpike toward Bermuda Hundred. Corse’s Brigade and Clingman’s Brigade followed despite another heavy thunderstorm and the onset of darkness. But the Rebels were finally stopped at Bermuda Neck, where the surviving Yanks ran behind their fortifications and refused to come out for another battle. And though they certainly tried, the Rebels couldn’t break through. So they had no choice but to return.

As they were marching back to Drewery’s’ Bluff, Johnny could hear noises in the woods along the turnpike.

Chomping noises. No one said anything. Everyone knew the hogs, just like Napoleon had said, were eating the dead.

The swine were smart enough to know the humans rarely, almost never, fought at night. Tiny red eyes shone ominously alongside the turnpike, reflected by kerosene lanterns and torches carried by the troops.

Bone could be heard grinding between powerful teeth.

Johnny remained at Drewry’s Bluff till May 20th, when Corse’s Brigade was marched the eight miles south to Richmond. There they sacked out and lay on the ground all day, waiting for the trains that would carry them to General Lee as extra troops to defend the city from Grant – who was on his way, without a doubt. The next morning found them on the Frederick Railroad, on which they rode 30 miles before detraining at Penola Station, Carolina County. From there, the soldiers formed a column on a road leading toward the North Anna River, less than a mile from General Grant’s 54th. Army Corps.

On May 22nd, Johnny with his men marched to Hanover Junction, where they stopped and stood at attention

– awed – as General Ewell’s Division passed by on his way to battle Grant. Johnny finally stopped to set up camp with his brigade on the south side of the North Anna River, knowing that Grant’s men – over 120,000 of them – were right across the water and literally dying to get across. Johnny did not sleep well that night.

May 23rd was an exciting day. Johnny and Corse’s Brigade moved with all of Lee’s Army of North Virginia – over 60,000 men – as they formed a battleline along the south shore. There Corse’s Brigade joined Pickett’s Division again. Their successful adventures and victories with General Hoke were, alas, over. Pickett was a different kind of General all together. Unlike Hoke, he was neither clever nor kind. Ever. He was a bitter and furious man, determined to wreak vengeance on those who had destroyed his division at Gettysburg. Johnny could see the obsession in his eyes and it frightened him. It may have been true, but Johnny got the impression Pickett was either an opium eater or pickled on whiskey all the time. The man was nervous and hesitant to act, with eyes that sagged with an indefinable, unbearable sadness – but at the same with a determination that said clearly, “I will do my duty, however many men it takes.” Ironically, thought Johnny, Pickett’s eyes looked just like those of Ulysses S. Grant – eyes which had seen too much.

Johnny’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened when he saw Grant’s army marching towards the North Anna.

They came in three columns, each one so long it disappeared over the horizon – never ending columns of blue-coated soldiers, all singing, all armed, all in step – with officers on horses riding alongside them, singing along, cherry, eager.

Their enthusiasm was deceptive because in fact they were dusty, hungry and exhausted after their long haul from Gettysburg to Hanover. Nevertheless, it was an effective deception, especially to Johnny. He felt as he were watching three endless columns of ants marching towards the half-alive carcass of the Confederacy, ready to cut it into millions of little pieces, whether it fought back or not.

The mighty Army of the Potomac began crossing over on the 24th, beginning with Union Major General Gouverneur Kemble Warren’s Fifth Corps near Jericho Mills. Confederate General A. P. Hill tried to stop them with a savage attack about six in the afternoon but was overwhelmed and forced to let the Yankees through. Warren was followed the next morning by General Winfield S. Hancock, who crossed over Chesterfield Bridge after having captured it the night before. Upstream, Union General Horatio G. Wright watched his corps cross over the river with only token opposition from the Rebels.

Of all the Federal units moving across the North Anna, only General Ambrose Burnside met resistance powerful enough to stop it. That was at Ox Ford, which was overlooked by heavy Rebel artillery that made any crossing perilous, to say the least. In fact, Burnside reported to Grant that any attempted crossing there would result “only in a bloodying of the water”. Grant agreed and sent orders for Burnside to leave one division to guard the ford and send his other two upstream and downstream to strengthen the forces crossing there.

Lee’s army basically did nothing but watch the incoming tide of blue, which poured across the North Anna till Grant’s whole army was on the south side and ready to march on toward Richmond. Both Grant and Lee both believed they were heading toward the climatic battle of the war. And like all generals, they believed whoever won the last battle won the war.

Grant already had numerical superiority of three to one. But he knew the Rebels well by this time and was improving his odds in every way possible. He even sent orders to General Butler – still bottled up at Bermuda Hundred -- to have 15,000 infantrymen ready to immediately board transports for shipment down the James and up the York rivers to reinforce Grant’s army if necessary.

That was Grant’s greatest asset, in Lincoln’s eyes. He would accomplish his goal no matter how many lives were lost. Grant had no concept of individual worth. Only armies of men mattered, not their individual lives. So feed them to the wolves, Grant thought! The North could replace soldiers with no problem. And damn quickly. On the

other hand, when the South lost a soldier, he couldn’t be replaced. Making matters more complicated, Robert E. Lee was the fine Southern gentleman he seemed to be. He valued a man’s life and was loath to take it away. Lee knew there was something dishonorable about wasting human lives, even for a Cause as great as the Confederacy.

This was one reason why Lee allowed Grant to cross the North Anna without real opposition. But there was another. Lee was an even craftier old fox than Grant knew. The shores of the North Anna didn’t provide the kind of terrain Lee needed to fight a defensive battle. He preferred to pick his own ground, letting Grant’s men pass over the bridges and right into a trap called Cold Harbor.

Though Lee fought all the way down to Cold Harbor, it was at there that Lee wanted to wage the final battle.

His smaller force could hold Cold Harbor forever. The banks of the North Anna – if the climatic battle were fought there – would only give Grant the advantage because Lee was unprepared for an apocalypse right then. The Confederate general was not only recovering from a serious illness, his troops had not prepared the elaborate trenches and abatements needed to repulse a larger invading enemy. So Lee let the Yanks across, like a fox allowing chickens to pass through holes in the hen house gate -- right into his waiting jaws.

Lee ordered delaying actions all the way as the Union General worked his way south toward Richmond.

Fighting, mainly between cavalry regiments, erupted at Haw’s Shop, Crump’s Creek, Jone’s Farm, Aenon Church and along the Ptotomoy River. When Grant faced Lee’s lines on the north side of the Pamunkey River, the scene was set for a spell of riot. This time it was Grant who avoided the fight. Instead, he shifted his army towards Cold Harbor and entered the trap set so shrewdly by Lee. Thank God, neither any one Yank nor any one Confederate realized what lay ahead. Now the Devil demanded his due. Lee’s army was already entrenching as Grant’s unsuspecting troops cheerily marched toward the slaughter of Cold Harbor. It was May 31 st, 1864.

Four days earlier, Pickett’s Division – with Johnny and his regiment – had marched 15 miles from the Central Railroad Station and pitched cap ten miles east of Richmond. They were on bloody ground. Two years earlier the Seven Days battle had been waged on the same soil, ending with a rout of the Yanks. The survivors had limped home with a new respect for the Confederate States of America. No longer were the insurgent states an insignificant band of rebels. After the Seven Days of 1862, the North realized the Confederacy was a second American Revolution, fought by men absolutely determined to become a free and sovereign nation.

But now – two years later – over a hundred thousand Yanks were returning to revenge their rout. They were even then preparing their battle lines parallel to Lee’s line of entrenchments. They were preparing for a massive attack even as Johnny was throwing up his little white tent and for the first time in weeks to enjoy a few days of quiet. Those days were the calm before the storm, and that’s putting it mildly. At any rate, he was issued some crackers and raw pork and allowed to attend some preaching over at the 15th Virginia’s campsite. No hostile guns could be heard anywhere. Johnny smiled in his sleep. All’s well, Johnny thought.

Three days later Pickett’s Division was issued a few days’ rations and marched to a new line of battle near a little crossroads called Cold Harbor. Only a few houses gave it the right to be called a community. How peaceful it looked! There was a blooming peach orchard on acres and acres of rolling land with open fields, patches of woods, several marshes, babbling brooks and thickets of plum bushes. Only the unearthed skeletons, grotesque mummies, half-eaten corpses and grinning skulls gave it away as a former battleground.

Johnny was a worm on a hook and didn’t know it. On June 1st, 1864 – a date Civil War historians know well – he along with Pickett’s Division was ordered to move a bit to the right, dig trenches, erect wooden abatements and fortify. Pickett’s Division rubbed its right elbow with McLaw’s Division, which had previously been moved to reinforce the right part of the line held by Hoke and Breckenridge. McLaw’s men had already dug deep trenches and built abatements of earthen mounds and huge rolling wheels spiked with wooden stakes.

Interestingly, as Johnny watched with a shovel in his hand, he saw McLaw’s Division charged by a Yankee unit that very day. It wasn’t a full-blown attack but Johnny was nevertheless frightened and amazed. He had no idea the bluecoats were so close! The enemy was feeling out McLaw’s strength. Though the attack was beaten back with little trouble, the hard fact remained that Grant’s 120,000-man Army of the Potomac was not only across the Pamunkey River but were already in a battleline paralleling that of the Rebels from Pole Green Church to Grapevine bridge, a distance of about seven miles. The long battlefront was the same one on which the Seven Days battle had occurred two years before. But the Seven Days would be a skirmish compared to this shootout! The last gate of Hell was about to open and engulf them all.

Grant had already lost over 40,000 men in the unprecedented horrors of Spotsylvania and Wilderness. He’d had no choice but to storm and carry the fortified lines there because he was on the offensive and had to move south toward Richmond. Lincoln had demanded it and he had made it so. He accepted the incredible losses as inevitable and justified – just so long as the South was defeated. Now there was just one more Rebel entrenchment to breach, and that was at the shabby crossroad hamlet called Cold Harbor – with its welter of converging roads. It was strategically vital to Grant because it was his last chance to choose the ground upon which his army fought.

Apparently he had no idea that Lee had lured him there for the same reason. Grant wouldn’t be able to maneuver his troops if they failed to burst through Cold Harbor. Lee wouldn’t be able to maneuver if they did.

The decisive battle of Cold Harbor was only hours away now. For Johnny, the second day of June, 1864, was spent digging in – digging in as deep as possible. He didn’t mind the hard work because McLaw’s men had wised him up. They, like Pickett’s Division, had been sent as a last minute choice to strengthen the small gap between Hoke’s and Breckenridge’s divisions on the extreme right of the line. Though disposition of the Rebel units was mixed, basically A. P. Hill’s Corps was on the right, Anderson’s Corp’s in the center, and Early’s Corps on the left. The right had been beefed up because prisoners caught during the first day’s fighting had suggested Grant believed the right was weakest. Grant’s heaviest blow was expected right where Johnny was digging his ditch.

Union General Ulysses S. Grant’s name meant death. And he was staring at Johnny square in the eye.

So . . . .

It was the night before the third battle of Cold Harbor and Private John Henry Hess lay awake in his trench.

To his left and right, also in trenches, crouched 22,000 of Lee’s Army of North Virginia -- entrenched and waiting for Grant’s Army of the Potomac to unleash over 50,000 men in the morning -- to overwhelm the Rebels with sheer numbers before moving on to burn and sack Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy. At least, such was Grant’s plan.

Lee knew of the plan and had ordered his remaining army to dig in and lay in wait. The Gray Fox was aptly named.

Usually nothing but cannon fire could keep Private Hess awake after a day of digging trenches and building breastworks. That had been his company’s duty for the last two days. He’d slept fitfully the night before but this night he couldn’t sleep at all. His muscles were tied in knots and his nerves were worse than on edge – they were over the edge, barely hanging on. Scraped raw. Stretched to the breaking point. Wrapped in wires. A man couldn’t sleep if his nerves were about to snap.

His back was stiff as a slab of wood. His ribs were cracked and his lungs seemed to be wrapped in the coils of a cruelly persistent boa constrictor that tightened every time he was forced to breathe. His heart fluttered instead of beat – stopping completely every few moments before beginning again with a painful thump as if whacked with a hammer.

And his brain throbbed as if trying to burst out of his skull . . . desperately demanding time to stop thinking about those 50,000 bloodthirsty Yanks waiting across no man’s land. He needed cerebral peace for a while, just for an hour -- to restore his sanity, his equilibrium, his courage.

Hess couldn’t sleep because he knew what was coming with the dawn. An immense army of hollering Yanks would come charging right at his line – all of them heroes and armed to the teeth, determined to blow him to Kingdom Come or stab him in the guts with a barbed bayonet – pulling his intestines out with a yank and letting them fall in coils at his feet. Johnny could see himself staring at the shimmering slimy mess with that surprised look on his face that soldiers get when they realize their bellies have been split open. He knew he’d go into shock and topple over when he saw the first blowfly laying eggs in his guts as they lay smoking and simmering like sausages in the sun.

He could imagine it happening to him with such awesome clarity because he’d seen it happen to so many others around him. He shuddered and tried to sleep. It was no use. The faces of the dead haunted him. Those poor guys, he thought. So many had been his boyhood friends while growing up in Southwest Virginia. What odd and curious looks they had on their faces when sliced open or shot through. At first they looked puzzled, as if their feelings were hurt. Then they’d notice the wound and stare at it in astonishment a moment before looking at him with those horrible faces that said, “Help me, help me, but you can’t help me . . . .”

Napoleon Garrett had given him that unbearable look when he’d been shot through the left lung at Drewry’s Bluff just two weeks earlier. Johnny’d been with him when he was shot in the back. He’d seen him carried away, looking very dead. The hole was as big around as a nickel but didn’t bleed, only sucked in air and emitted a pinkish froth.

Napoleon’s big brother Isaac had given him that same look the week before that, when he’d got it while serving at New Bern. They’d been in neighboring foxholes. A shard of shrapnel from an exploding naval shell had neatly sliced through the blade of Isaac’s left shoulder. He’d remained conscious, marveling that – of all weapons in this war – it took a Goddamned Yankee monitor to bring him down. He’d later seen Isaac stacked on a pile of bodies – a few of them still twitching. But no one had taken his boots and that was a good sign.

Now Napoleon and Isaac were both gone. Hess didn’t know if they were dead or alive. All he knew for sure was that they’d been wounded and probably killed. They were most likely and finally dead . . . . They were lucky. But Hess was now alone and wished to God they were next to him, especially this particular night.

It seemed so long and far away that he had enlisted. Now he lay in his trench at Cold Harbor, waiting, waiting, waiting in the night . . . the silent night -- huddled up around his rifle, hugging his legs, desperately wishing his Napoleon was there with him, his Isaac was there with him . . . . He was allowing all these memories to flood through him during this last hour because it might be the last he’d ever know. He glanced at the moon – it was brighter now but hadn’t dissipated that strange yellow glow left from exploding gunpowder from the last two battles.

That foggy yellowish haze was familiar now but still filled him with horror – its weird and eerie ambiance promised hell on earth come the morrow. It wouldn’t be long now. Grant would attack at 4:30 a.m. That was the moment when the 50,000 guns would blaze and the thousand cannons belch fire.

The realization that time was creeping closer made Johnny feel a little desperate. He thought back to that day Napoleon, Isaac and himself had actually joined the Rebels. Yes, he and his friends had ridden down to Carbo and lined up to sign their names to the roster. They knew what they were doing and they did it anyway, like all great friends. They’d been told “never look back” but all three had looked back time and time again.

Lying there in such anxious fear and horrible loneliness, John Henry Hess thought for a moment of his wife back home – Anna Catharine – and for that moment he felt a bit better. He had a lovely wife . . . she was wonderful and real. But she was back home and he was here. He had a daughter, too . . . Mary Magdalene Hess, whom they called Maggie. She’d been born while he was still serving in Southwest Virginia. She had huge brown eyes and a perpetual smile and loved to hug his neck when he was home.

Home . . . Clinch Mountain, Big-A Mountain, North Mountain, Beartown Mountain, Turkey Trot, Butcher

Knife, Carbo, Castlewood, Rose Dale, Sword’s Creek, Cleveland, Finney, Green Valley, New Garden, Hansonville, Gibsonville, Dickensonville, Bickley’s Mill, Lebanon – all in Russell County -- all in that immense lush paradise called the Clinch River Valley, running all the way from Tazewell down to Knoxville. How he loved the Clinch River Valley . . . . How he wished he was there now!

Johnny’s shivering eased up a bit and his mind felt calmer when he thought of the place he’d so foolishly left behind. The memory was a small fire that kept his heart warm enough to beat in the glacier of fear that had encased it since the first time he’d seen a man’s brains bespattered by a Minie ball.

At this point – lying in the trenches of Cold Harbor – Johnny was nearing the end of his Confederate odyssey, though he didn’t realize it. All he knew was he’d probably die in the morning. He didn’t want to think about the past and he didn’t want to think about the future. And he certainly didn’t want to think about the present.

But he had to think about something, so he forced himself to think about the diary he’d kept. It was just a record of where he’d been and when he’d been there – a log partly of long marches, different places, and bizarre people. But mostly of combat. He’d seen a few battles in his time! He’d only written the names down in his diary but in those names were volumes of heroism and terror, spinning Minie balls and bursting canister shells, terrible horsemen and slicing sabers, groaning of the wounded and silence of the dead. He couldn’t help but smile. One word to describe a battle so long it turned his hair gray as his uniform . . . . It was funny!

One word to remember a million emotions and tens of thousands of men and noble generals on white stallions and stacks of dead men who waited in no man’s land to be eaten by wild hogs. “Funny,” was that the right word?

What else could it be, this game of writing a word to describe the indescribable? He tried to smile. The grime on his face caked and tiny little slivers of pain criss-crossed his lips as the flesh cracked.

He forced his mind to concentrate on the first days of his diary and what made him begin keeping a log. He’d not known at the time that it would be a sad saga – the story of his personal journey to the end of the night. He’d not realized his little diary would be a scream of despair, a long wail of protest as he fell deeper and deeper into the pit in which he now found himself -- with no rope to pull himself out. He hadn’t known he’d wind up virtually hopeless, lying in a muddy trench, wedded to a lost cause. He had only his memories and only those about home were better than those about Kentucky . . . yes, Kentucky. It was good to think of Kentucky, where he’d felt so good he thought he’d write a diary about his glorious adventures to come.

Hess had wanted to remember exactly what happened to him and his regiment during the glorious months he’d be gone – or at least, he thought he’d be gone. A diary would come in handy. He’d wanted to remember precisely the names of the places he’d been and what battles he’d fought, how many Yankees he’d killed and which great generals he’d fought for . . . so decades in the future he could tell his grandchildren all about it as they sat around the fireplace in his cozy cabin by Big Cedar Creek, not too far from Lebanon. His wife would beam with pride because he had helped found their new nation by fighting for southern freedom in the Second American Revolution. His children would carry his name and glory.

“Well,” he may have thought to himself there in the mud, “that ain’t exactly the way things went.”

The months had changed to unending years of brutal slaughter. This was true for both sides, including the Rebels. John Henry Hess faced constant exhaustion, almost constant illness and the constant threat of violent death for another two years. He knew that those he left at home had it bad, too. Many had been devastated with grief upon hearing about their sons and husbands killed at the battlefronts. Some had watched their homes burned, their possessions stolen, their lands salted, their wells poisoned, their livestock slaughtered. That was bad enough, Johnny realized, but it didn’t match marching from bloody battle to bloody battle, ultimately holing up in a muddy ditch, waiting for your own death

That night as he waited at Cold Harbor, even if he survived the next day, Hess knew he still had a long way to go before it was all over. He’d already been caught up in dozens of skirmishes, battles and campaigns. He’d been eyeball to eyeball with the enemy time after time; he’d ducked their exploding cannon balls over and over; he’d even been shelled twice by their floating gunships and monitors.

Damn, those monitors were scary! One of them had managed to put Isaac out of action, all right. And he’d been at least a mile away from the cannon that killed him. That is, if he was really dead. He didn’t know one way or the other. Same for Napoleon. Christ, he could weep for them now. But no, he’d not cried yet and he wasn’t about to now. Let the Yanks kill him, too. Of course, they might both be alive somewhere – in hospitals or prisons or even back home! What a wonderful thought, back home!

Johnny had charged into almost sure death and emerged alive at the battle of Drewry’s Bluff only a few weeks before. That’d been the worst yet. Even worse than Chester Gap and Zollicoffer. Jesus, so many times he’d been through the valley of death – with Yankees eyeballing him over the barrels of rifles and cannoneers trying to fling exploding iron bombs in his lap. What beautiful words they used for it, “sharp shooting” and “cannonade”. But Christ all mighty! Who wants to be sharpshot or cannonaded? Not Johnny. Hell no, not Johnny no more! He hated to think it, but it was a dishonorable war. That sergeant was right, hogs got more honor than folks. Hogs were winning this war. Christ was losing. Just killing and more killing. And dying, lots a’dying. Somehow he’d survived everything . . . but now it’d come to this – lying in a muddy trench at Cold Harbor waiting to for the onslaught of 50,000 Yankee soldiers in the morning. He would definitely kill tomorrow, he thought. He might be killed tomorrow, he thought.

Where’s the honor? Where’s the honor?

He thought of his diary with a strange little smile now. How young and stupid he’d been then. How old and wise he was now. Smart too late. Two years could really turn a man into a . . . well, he wasn’t sure what he’d turned into. Maybe a stone. Maybe a puppet. Maybe an old geezer. Maybe a leaf about to fall from a tree. But something without feelings for other people. Something numb and uncaring but paradoxically full of fear and pain. And especially anger. He was God-tired but the anger was still there. Anger alone had stayed with him all this time. He lived off of it. It was his bread and water now.

He looked wearily at the men around him, most of whom he’d known since they’d all grown up together in Southwest Virginia. Perhaps they would die together when the sun rose. He winced at this thought and put it out of his head. What good was worrying about yourself? Or your friends? Better to spend that energy on hate for the Yankees. Hell, he didn’t have that much energy left, anyhow. Every bit of energy had to be saved for tomorrow. It’d be needed for firing, ramming another Minie ball down his musket and firing again, over and over, till they were dead or he was dead.

Since beginning his diary, he and his regiment had fought the Yanks over and over again while marching along a crisscross combat road stretching from Zollicoffer in eastern Tennessee to Cold Harbor in southeast Virginia.

Now he lay in a trench, knowing the coming day’s battle couldn’t save the South even it were won. The Cause was lost.

The war was lost. He kept asking the sky, “Where’s the honor? Where’s the honor?” The sky was silent. “Nothing but hell and horror for the whole country,” Johnny whispered to the moon, “USA, CSA – no difference. The wild hogs got a more honorable civilization. At least they don’t kill each other. Sergeant Fulgham was right.”

His anger subsided for a moment, just long enough to remember that in the next few hours would come the battle of Cold Harbor. This would be a clash of ignorant armies, just like predicted in the Holy Bible. The whole world would hear the groaning of the thousands as if from one inexpressibly sad and dying man.

At best, it would be a decisive massacre. Resignation replaced again replaced Johnny’s anger. A lightness of the spirit overcame him as he gave up. Giving up can be such a wonderful lift for the spirit, he thought. Liberation at

last. Who cares anymore? Now, that’s emancipation! He smiled at the thought of the morrow’s conflict, thinking with grim humor that the Yankees were building a road to Richmond on the bones of their own dead. Blue-belly skulls were considerably thicker than grayback skulls, he thought to himself with a returning grim humor – those thick skulls would hold up real good under the weight of Grant’s thousand cannon and ten thousand wagons and hundred thousand living troopers.

Hess was a southern Appalachian farm boy who had come a long but bloody way. Too far to ever return, it seemed to him. His farm in Russell County seemed so distant now that he couldn’t imagine getting back. The fields he had labored in seemed a million miles away. The Southwest Virginian mountains he’d once climbed and roamed were as distant now as the Himalayans. It wasn’t the distance, however. It was the chasm of sad wisdom that had opened so wide and deep between him and his past – knowing in his heart that most humans are little more than fantastic monkeys with weapons. That chasm was bottomless now and there was no way to cross it. In his heart, people forever would be fantastic monkeys and little more. If he lived, he would take his Anna and Maggie and hide away, beating the monkeys off with a stick if he had to. He was sick of their gibbering nonsense and especially their guns . . .

Oh, he still believed in God and his only son Jesus. But it seemed obvious to him that God wasn’t concerned with mundane things like flesh, blood and pain. It was only the spirit that mattered – your spirit had to be saved by Jesus Christ. He believed without a doubt that his spirit would go for judgment when he was finally killed – or, wonder at the thought, died of old age. One thing that remains clear and constant in John Henry Hess’ diary is his belief in human spirit and the love of a caring God. But it is just as obvious that the flesh might be blown to cosmic smithereens at any second – that hideous pain or suffering could happen to anyone at any time, just as to an animal.

Johnny knew that flesh was not protected by God. It was only his spirit that was protected by God. He was certain his spirit was immortal and would dwell in the house of God forever because Jesus Christ had been sent to save people like him. And he, John Henry Hess, had accepted Christ into his spirit -- that alone enabled him to face death day after day without running hysterically off the field of battle at the sound of musket fire. He repented and just wanted peace so he could love all things, living and not living – everything in this wonderful whirling universe! He knew his sins would be forgiven. That alone made him more in God’s eyes than a monkey or a hog. It was all insane but it all made sense. If you thought only about your physical self, then life was absurd and pointless. But if you realized you were just a manifestation of a spirit, then it made sense to kill and even be killed.

What happened to the flesh didn’t matter. It could hurt! But it didn’t matter.

There was a God out there who cared about your spirit but not your body. The flesh was meaningless and Johnny had long ago made up his mind to sacrifice himself without complaint if it meant good would triumph over evil. As he thought these things, he began to regret what he’d thought earlier about it not mattering which side won.

Certainly the Yankees were evil! They were the ones invading his country, weren’t they? They wanted to take Jesus and God out of our lives, didn’t they? They hid behind the self-righteous lie of freeing the slaves, but Johnny knew the North didn’t care about no slaves. At least the slaves had Jesus – they’d have Him taken away if the North won. The Yanks wanted to destroy Christianity, simple as that. And he would die to preserve the only true religion.

He was puffed with righteousness for about five minutes. Then he began to deflate . . . .

Well, that religious stuff was well and good, he thought, but it really didn’t make him feel better as he waited for Grant’s army that third day at Cold Harbor. Knowing something and feeling something were two different things.

He believed in God with all his heart but in that same heart he was terrified and appalled. How could both those things be in one heart without bursting it?

He thought back to his childhood in Russell County. The child he had been was sane, so sane! So certain! So filled with certainty and truth! So filled with God’s pure sweet love! Now? Well . . . .no certainty, no truth, no love.

There was only life and death, maybe heaven, certainly hell. The flesh was irrelevant to God but you nevertheless had to use your fleshy body to do God’s will. Too bad God didn’t have the common courtesy to turn off a man’s fear when death was galloping toward him. God Himself must be heartless not to understand. That was the only answer.

Johnny had figured it out. So it made sense – a peculiar sense indeed – that he felt so afraid and so willing to die at the same time.

It even made sense that he was willing, even eager, to kill his Northern neighbors . . . though Christ Himself had forbidden it. The preacher man had explained it when he’d joined up. “Jesus Christ is on our side,” he’d shouted to the new recruits; “We know because the Yankees are evil doers trying to destroy Christ in our hearts, our Southern hearts!

“The Confederate States of America is the only true Christian nation on this continent and we must fight those who would destroy it. The Yanks are Godless! Christ would destroy them Himself if he were here Himself. But He exists on this continent only in our hearts, our Southern hearts! So kill the Godless Yankees to protect Christianity and our new nation based on Christianity! Remember, the United States of America has no place for God. The Confederate States of America is made of God! Made of Christ! We are Christian soldiers and our guns and cannon will smite the foe as he attacketh our Christian nation! If the Yanks take over, they’ll take God out of our cities, our counties, our states, our governments, our courts, our schools, our laws, our dealings with each other, our daily lives, our very homes! Imagine life with God! That’s why the Devil Yankees want to destroy us! Die for Christ if you must.

But kill for Christ if you can!”

Yep, it made sense all right, thought Johnny. “But why am I still so confused and afraid?” he wondered; “It ain’t the pain. It ain’t dying. It’s never seeing Anna and Maggie again. Ain’t Christ got no understanding of a man’s love for his wife and daughter? The Confederate States of America is so big and Maggie is so small. Ain’t it my number-one duty to protect Maggie?” The boa constrictor wrapped around his chest squeezed tighter and tighter, making him gasp for breath. How he wished he had someone to talk to, someone who understood.

He wished Napoleon was there. He’d understand the mish-mash of conflicting emotions and obligations in his heart. He’d bring it all together. He’d make him courageous again, filled with duty to God and Country! Christ, Napoleon had thought himself a coward when he joined and discovered he was courageous as a Clinch Mountain cougar. Just knowing a “Napoleon” was on your side made things easier to bear.

The other guys had called him “Park”, short for Bonaparte. But Johnny had called him Napoleon and Napoleon Bonaparte when things looked grim, as they did now. He’d studied Napoleon in school and understood why his parents had honored their son with the name. The real Napoleon was made of pride and honor and integrity.

Even after his enemies had sent him into exile, Napoleon had returned and again given the French someone to personify their own sense of pride, honor and integrity. They knocked him on the floor again and again and he always got up. Nothing could defeat his honor.

Sometimes Johnny even thought God had sent Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett to the 29 th Regiment for the same reason He had sent the real Napoleon to France – to represent the honor of his people, the Southerners and mountaineers who fought, as had the French, for their liberty, their justice, their pride. Their faith. Oh, how he missed Napoleon! His world had gone mad without a Napoleon to keep it sane.

Now things were so much different. And Napoleon Garrett had been shot only two weeks ago! Colonel Porcino had set him up and the Yanks had knocked him down. Everything had crumbled. When Napoleon had cried out, the world had cried out. Meaning had flown. Hess’ world went mad. Of course, to say his world had simply gone mad would be to trivialize the chaos of his mind, the agony of his spirit. In truth, the world without Napoleon spit in the face of his soul. Napoleon had laughed in the face of destiny, that power beyond his power – that magnet that had

pulled him out of battle – and apparently the world -- at Drewry’s Bluff. Johnny Hess wanted to laugh at destiny too, but he couldn’t. Not there. Destiny wasn’t funny at all. Destiny had pulled him out of paradise and thrust him into this hellish underworld of 19th century trench warfare, where peeping over a parapet in daylight could bring an ounce of molten lead crashing through your skull.

So it was with Johnny Hess as he gazed out at no man’s land the night before the massacre. Right in front of his company’s trench was Powhite Swamp, a two and half square, miniature jungle of dense leafy thicket growing around a one square acre lake. Its vegetation was growing on quivering quicksand-like ground saturated with black, stagnant water. No one could see anything inside the little quagmire, though it was rumored to be full of wounded men who had crawled inside to escape being killed.

To the right and to the left of the little swamp were grassy meadows and dusty patches of dirt -- acres and acres of naked, open ground -- hideously dangerous killing fields where thousands of men had been mowed down in earlier battles, just as they would be mowed down tomorrow. Here and there in these fields were spattered thickets of vines, second growth woods, shallow ravines, muddy gullies and rolling knolls.

The Rebels couldn’t have asked for

a better place to wipe out thousands of Yankees at once. Lee was very happy – Grant was not.

Unfortunately, Johnny could see more than he really wanted to. The moon was just bright enough to outline hundreds and hundreds of freshly killed soldiers out there – graybacks and blue-bellies slaughtered during the first aborted charges on June 1st and 2nd. There were also the wounded – most of them horribly maimed, most of them doomed, all hopelessly beyond reach, whimpering, screaming, gasping for air, unable to move. Some just lay where they’d fallen and stared silently at the stars. Others flailed at the air as if trying to grasp hallucinatory wives or mothers. A few pulled themselves painfully toward the living men who manned the trenches – a few of these made it, the rest were sport for sharpshooters.

Johnny could make out one of the wounded slowly crawling toward his lines on all fours. His lower jaw had been shot off – his head looked like a hawk’s head, hooked and chinless. No one dared to crawl out to help him. What was the use? He was as good as dead, anyway. And in fact, the wounded soldier – a grayback – fell down head and shoulders first, leaving his rear in the air like an obscene monument to the senseless death he represented. A shot rang out from the Yankee line. A sharpshooter thought it was funny to shoot this poor sap in the ass as it stuck up in the air. The slug went through with a hideous thud and a full ten seconds passed before the dead man toppled over on his side, his hawk-face turned toward the silent Rebels who’d abandoned him.

At some places no man’s land was less than 500 yards across to the enemy lines and Johnny thought he could see tiny spots of flickering enemy campfires. He even thought he could see, now and then, Yankee lanterns on the picket line. Maybe so -- but Johnny certainly couldn’t see either end of no man’s land. It extended north and south to the horizons. He couldn’t see the ends because the Rebels’ defensive line crossed the only routes to Richmond with seven miles of two-foot deep trenches topped with three-foot high earthen embankments on the sides facing the Yankees. It was a new concept in combat and thus the first application of that regimented mass murder called trench warfare.

The intention was to create an impenetrable line of defense between Grant’s invading armies and the Confederate capital of Richmond. It looked like the South had been successful when seen on a map. But the key to its impenetrability was making sure there were no holes along its length and no way to flank it. This is why three full brigades were positioned at the south end of the center, just behind the five-way cross-roads at Cold Harbor on the flat low lands of Powhite Creeks. The enemy troops would be bogged down in the swampy land and the entrenched Rebels could belch enfilading fire from three sides at once without endangering Hoke’s Corps to its right or Anderson’s to the left. The brigades could catch any attackers who got past the first line of defense in a withering intermeshed and

overlapped crossfire, not only from muskets but cannons at point blank range. It was very much like herding hogs into a funneled chute to be slaughtered before they knew what was happening.

Also on this battlefield was a peach orchard which added an incongruous touch of civility. No man’s land was at once surreal and undeniably real. Johnny’s nose, eyes and ears left him no choice but to accept the unacceptable, believe the unbelievable. The sickeningly sweet stench of rotting human flesh was real; the thrashing of the dying was real; the howls of delirium that pierced his heart were real; and the bleached bones of those killed two years ago were real. The reality of it all overwhelmed him at times and sent him running for the nearest preaching man – the closest gathering of the Godly where he could sing as loudly as he could “Onward Christian soldiers, marching off into war . . . with the cross of Jeeee-sus going on before . . .!” But no preacher man, not even Jesus Himself, could erase the images he saw, the scents he smelled, the sound he heard out on no man’s land.

Even worse was that Hess knew the hundreds of torn and tortured bodies already out there were only the vanguard – the first wave of Lincoln’s bleating, bleeding, blue-bellied lambs so eager to be sacrificed. Hess knew that ten of thousands more were waiting on the other side of no man’s land – eagerly waiting to face the Confederate guns and cannon now pointed right at them. He knew they were preparing to rush the Rebels for the third time in three days, but this time in overwhelming numbers, like one of those tidal waves he had read about at school, an impossibly huge, irresistible surge of humanity that would flood them out of their trenches. Hess didn’t know much but he knew that much. Not for nothing had the graybacks dug in with everything they had left – and not for nothing did they now wait in deadly silence.

Most nights John Henry would be curled up in a ball at the bottom of his trench, wrapped in what was left of his blanket, hugging his legs to keep his feet out of water, gripping his always loaded musket, sound asleep but tensed like a spring. He’d be fine-tuned to hear only the eruption of cannon. He’d be deaf to the ordinary sounds of an army -- the cursing, coughing, snoring, spitting, muttering, tobacco chewing, stomach growling, bowel churning, gas passing, whistling, urinating, fat-back sizzling, coffee slurping, fighting, card playing, praying, preaching, humming, singing, complaining, musket cleaning, butcher-knife honing and bayonet sharpening around him. He wouldn’t even hear the roaring of the sergeants as they ordered men to picket duty. He’d be able to sleep through the night, no matter what.

But this night was different. The uncommon quiet of his companions kept him awake. There were no sounds at all from his barricaded brigade. It was as if silence itself was entrenched with them, running like a ribbon along the defensive front. The only sounds were from far, far away – from no man’s land where shouts and screams were muffled into barely-heard but terrifying whispers -- and even further away, from behind the lines, where wounded Confederates groaned and captured Yankees pled for mercy. The only other sounds to be heard that night were the inconsolable sobbing of swamp frogs and heart-broken weeping of katydids. God of course had nothing to say. Like the moon and stars – He was there only for the show.

God’s silence was deafening. Not a rumble from Heaven, not a breeze through the bushes – nothing to pretend was a celestial blessing or prayer. Johnny again tuned his thoughts toward the divine nature of his heart. The flesh was made of the same stuff clouds were made of. Puff and it disappeared. The souls, even of soldiers blown to atoms by exploding cannon balls, became part of God in Heaven.

If Hess were killed tomorrow, his only regret would be never seeing his wife, daughter and home again. He’d have no regrets about doing his duty. One’s duty was to fight for a Christian nation for mankind – and that meant the South must win. The fact that the North would send hundreds of thousands of men to sure death only reinforced his belief that the North was a brutal state where God and Christianity meant nothing – this much Hess knew. After all, he thought with a strange little smile, not only God but Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett was on their side.

Hess’ fellow graybacks also seemed to be reflecting on some profound insight that night in the trenches, as if they’d been awed into silence by a rare understanding of life itself – and of death itself. They were silent all up and down the line. They seemed to realize something was different about this coming attack. Perhaps they had finally grasped the final truth of their existence – it was not death but destiny awaiting them across that unholy ground.

The 29th consisted almost entirely of men from Southwest Virginia. The men of Company G had all enlisted in Russell County and Johnny Hess knew all of them by name. Sometimes when the fear was getting to him, he’d recite their names from memory to calm himself down. That night, in the moonlight, he could make out the shapes of Sammy Webb, George Williams, Joe Webb, Creed Thompson, Fleming Stephens, the Spurgeon brothers and Jimmy Shoemaker to his immediate right and left, with every other man leaning forward so the men in between could lie back.

Hess knew the others, too. Waiting with him in the same trenches were the others in Company G: officers Captain Edwin R. Smith, 1st Lt. William N. Leece, 2nd Lt. Sammy Leece Jr., 2nd Lt. Beverly J. Fuller, 2nd Lt. Andy Ferguson, 2nd Lt. Sammy Hargis and the enlisted men Riley Shell, Issac Puckett, Willy Puckett, Labon Puckett, Henry Plaster, Johnny Price, his brother Wil, Claborn Peck, good ol’ Andy Martin, Harvey Martin, William & Henry Litton, Andy Litton, George Litton, Isaac Jones, Ephraim Jessee, Fullen Hurt, Andy Hurt, Willy Helbert, Wyndham Gilmer, Charles Hayes Gilmer, Charly Benton Gilmer, Johnny Gibson, Johnny Garrett, Ira Fuller, Charly Fogleman, Willy & Mitch Fields, Lafayette Fields, Cummings Fields, Mitchell Fields, Joe Fields, Tommy Lilburn Cumbow, William Counts, Sammy Counts, Jimmy Counts, Henry Casey, Johnny Alexander, Melvin Anderson, Johnny Bailey, Georgie Belcher, Fred Browning, Andy Bruster, Johnny Campbell, and Henry Casey. All of them were good ol’ Clinch Mountain boys who had stayed together during the war.

They had joined together, trained together, marched together, ate together, prayed together, fought together.

He’d grown up with most of them, those from Russell County. They’d known Napoleon and Isaac, too. Hess had even gone to school with some of them, at least to grammar school, and a few to the high school. He’d gone to church with them and flirted with their pretty sisters. He’d helped them plow the rocky fields, tossing aside the thousands of unearthed limestone rocks and boulders for building fences, dams, wells and houses.

He’d eaten at the homes of most of their moms and dads and chewed terbaccy with their Mamaws and Paw Paws. He’d helped slop their hogs and curry their horses and dehorn their calves. These were his boys and he’d live or die with them, right here, fighting not so much for ideals as for each other. He was glad they were still together.

He desperately missed the Garrett brothers, especially Napoleon, but in one sense he was glad they were out of the torture and ebbing hope that was their lot at Cold Harbor. He had heard that Isaac lived but been captured by the Yanks and sent to prison at Fort Lookout. Not many graybacks came out of there alive. As for Napoleon, he had to be dead. He knew a Minie ball through the lungs was a death sentence. Only a true miracle could have saved him.

Chances were that Napoleon was pushing up flowers somewhere. Hess hoped someone had carved Napoleon Bonaparte Lies Here, RIP, on his tombstone, providing he had one. God forbid he’d been left in one of those shallow graves the wild hogs dug up . . . .

Now the remaining Russell County boys – those who had managed to stay alive this long -- lay together in a muddy ditch, awaiting the unutterable horror of tomorrow. They were proud to be Appalachian Rebels and they had been proud to fight as Appalachian Rebels. If necessary, they would be proud to die as Appalachian Rebels. A drizzly rain had fallen the day before and the skies had been cloudy until just three hours after midnight, when a threequarter moon had suddenly appeared to illuminate Cold Harbor through the thick, hazy, orange fog that covered no man’s land.

The fog had a nose-burning, sulfuric quality to it. Literally hellish. Some of the men wondered if ghosts of

soldiers there were still wandering around in the smoky miasma, caught in limbo, blinded by fire, deafened by cannon, searching hopelessly for their regiments, for a path out of Cold Harbor. The mists seemed naturally part of the weird and eerie ambience of no man’s land – that long strip of foreboding terrain between them and the coming Yanks.

Like Hess, most of his comrades stared across those 500 yards of slimy mud flats, slippery puddles, shredded trees, ripped clothes, helter-skelter musket muzzles and untold hundreds of jaunty blue caps knocked off the hundreds of bodies left littering the ground after the firing had stopped. Most of the recent dead and wounded had been pulled back across their lines, but nevertheless hundreds of others remained where they had fallen.

The dead gazed at the moon; the wounded whimpered and begged for water. Some of the wounded even managed to drag themselves into the Powhite Creek Swamp right in front of Johnny’s trench. He could hear hideous howls of pain coming from the swamp and ever now and then a shot where some mortally wounded soldier had put his musket under his chin and fired. If Johnny had actually gone into Powhite Swamp, he’d have heard the millions of excited flies and mosquitoes buzzing around their fortuitous bounty of freshly killed meat, delicious blood and open wounds. He would have seen the black, coffee colored water that was so acidic that creatures that died in it never decayed – but lay in the water forever, meat preserved as if in a freezer. The bottom of the swamp before the war had been littered with the bodies of wild hogs. The dead hogs were still there now, but there were rumors . . . rumors . . . .

Brave men from both sides sometimes crawled out under the cover of darkness after a battle, risking sniper fire to drag in those they could. Their heroics were great and they saved many lives and perhaps a few souls – but not that night before Cold Harbor. A sightless army of dead and wounded was out there under the moon for the hundred thousand combatants to see, but no one dared go near them. For one thing, it was strictly against orders. For another, the sharpshooters on both sides had keen eyes – and the moon was unnaturally bright, illuminating moving human shapes with an uncanny precision that suggested evil spirits were lighting them up for the waiting snipers. The moon cut through the fog like modern halogen searchlights cutting through clouds – outlining shapes otherwise invisible in the mist.

You would think the all-to-common ghouls who rob the dead after battles – who never feared the night -would creep out onto no man’s land at Cold Harbor, where the pickings were so great and apparently easy to obtain.

But not that night before the third battle of Cold Harbor in June, 1864. Death was with everyone, the dead, the dying and the afraid. Even the ghouls were afraid of the night.

The sight was sobering even to the drunken shootists who loved the thrill of shooting and being shot at. Such inexplicable ogres existed on both sides. But not even they broke the sacred silence settled so sanguinely in the trenches that night before the great Yankee attack at Cold Harbor. Not a creak of leather could be heard in the Rebel or Yankee trenches, not a squeak of polish, not a whisper of prayer, not a sigh of fear. About 22,000 armed graybacks and about 50,000 armed Blue-bellies waited in silence 500 yards apart, under an indifferent sky filled with uncaring stars.

Not only Johnny Hess but the entire 29th Virginia Infantry Regiment had reason to be exhausted that night at Cold Harbor. They had about 500 men left, having lost over 150 just two weeks earlier. They’d been in the thick of things on the Virginian peninsula since May 5th, 1864, when Butler had landed his 36,000 Yankees at Bermuda Hundred between Petersburg and Richmond.

The 29th had been killing General Butler’s Yanks for weeks. They’d fought the blue-bellies eyeball to eyeball around Drewry’s Bluff from May 11th to May 21st(57) – including especially heroic and heavy action in the bloody battle of May 16th. On that day the entire brigade had charged the enemy trenches and whipped Butler’s elite Tenth Corps so badly that those who hadn’t been shot down were sliced down with sabers.

The surviving Yanks had fallen to their knees in surrender or broken ranks and fled like dogs. Corse’s great

victory had been part of the much larger Confederate victory that day – a day so demoralizing that the survivors of Butler’s Army of the James had run all the way back to Bermuda Hundred with their tails between their legs.

They’d run faster than the Minie balls whizzing after them. Hounds couldn’t catch ‘em. It’d been a replay of the Seven Days battle on the same battlefield two years before, when Confederate General Robert E. Lee had first revealed his genius, guts and fire by pushing Union General George McClellan’s army all the way back to the James River. “Little Mac” had lost over 10,000 dead and wounded, not to mention his confidence and reputation. Though he still had over 70,000 men under arms to challenge Lee’s 22,000, he never again had the courage to mount an offensive on the Virginian peninsula. He never again threatened Richmond. Hess hadn’t even been enlisted at the time, but many of his comrades remembered the victory and expected the same thing to happen this time. After all, Lee was the Gray Fox! That had been two years earlier . . . now it was 1864.

The old entrenchments were strategically perfect, still laying north to south in defensible lines in front of the Confederate capital. The only problem was the trenches had been filled and the embankments had eroded down to nothing – meaning the troopers had to dig seven miles of new trenches and build seven miles of new embankments. It was an exhausting chore, but accomplished in less than a week.

Of course, both new and old entrenchments bordered the grotesque graveyards left from the first conflict two years earlier. Shallow depressions in the ground marked where civilians had quickly buried bodies – at least the Confederate bodies. Many of the dead Yankees had been left to rot where they had fallen. These exposed bodies were now bleached, disjointed skeletons, some covered with mummified skin turned brown in the sun. Their finger bones looked strangely feminine . . . . Their skulls were agape, grinning at the new combatants with appalling sarcasm.

Their hollow eyes seemed to watch the new soldiers with detached but amused interest. The futility of it all must have been sensed by some of the 29th that silent night of June 2nd, 1864.

What made it even stranger was that freshly killed and wounded bodies lay interspersed with the skeletal bodies killed two years earlier. Strange bedfellows indeed. But for Hess, the strangeness of it all was compressed into a single skull, which he had unearthed while digging the trench in which he then lay waiting for battle. Half exposed, the skull watched him with hollow eyes as he cleaned his new .55 caliber rifled musket and honed his huge fourteeninch long bowie knife with serrated edge. Those hollow eyes watched him as he counted and recounted his 60 paperencased Minie balls, placing them just so in their black leather case attached to his belt. The skull watched as John Henry Hess finally finished preparing his killing apparatus and knelt down to say is prayers. Perhaps Hess imagined the hideous laugh coming from the skull’s mouth . . . .

Some of the men who’d been reassigned to the 29th from other regiments recognized the old battlefield of 1862. How could anyone forget where and when General Lee had butchered McClellan’s Army of the Potomac at a cost of 16,000 dead or wounded Yankees? The 1st battle of Cold Harbor had occurred on June 27th, 1862, when Pickett’s troops, with the help of General John Bell Hood’s Texas Brigade, attacked and decimated Union General John Porter’s Federal Army Corps holding Gaine’s Mill.

Of course, that was before the 29th Regiment had joined Pickett’s division. Now, two years later, the 29th was going to have its chance at the second battle of Cold Harbor. Though Hess had been in savage combat for weeks while pushing Butler’s army back to the James River, his company was only allowed to skirmish with the enemy on the day it arrived on June 1st. Most of the next day was spent at hard labor improving the defenses by digging more trenches and building more breastworks. Nevertheless, Hess’s company realized at once that a hellish maelstrom was descending on them, if for no other reason because Ulysses S. Grant was Ulysses S. Grant and June 3 rd would be his third strike.

On June 1st, Union Colonel William Farrar “Baldy” Smith’s 18th Corps of the Army of the James and Union Colonel Horatio G. Wright’s Sixth Corps were delayed until 6 P.M. upon launching their ill-fated attacks against the entrenched Rebels at Cold Harbor. Grant had given them explicit orders to attack. But both attacks were repulsed with considerable northern losses. Also, Union and Confederate cavalry clashed at Ashland, with the Yankees being driven all the way back to Hanover Court House. Grant was not doing well. To worsen things, June 2 nd brought no victory for him either because his troops were slow and fatigued and didn’t even begin to attack the Rebel lines till after five in the afternoon – when rain bogged them down and Grant was forced to postpone the Great Charge till the next morning.

About 5000 Yankees had been cut down by Rebel forces along the seven mile front between June 1 st and June 2nd, despite the limpid leadership and hampering rain that had prevented Grant from launching his all out attack against the defenders of Richmond.

The fresh bodies around Cold Harbor bore grim witness to failure of a Union break-through those first two days. Grant had failed miserably. And everyone in both armies knew Grant would sacrifice every man in his army before allowing failure to be noted on his military records. He had a thing about losing. He couldn’t bear it. After all, he had a political career after the war to think of. It was also rumored that he was drunk when ordering charges and the inebriation gave him boldness beyond normal reasoning. When drunk, it was said, Grant was so determined to win that he’d send his last reserves into battle if necessary.

He had to win and there was all there was to it. Besides, everyone both North and South knew there were plenty of blue-bellies up north to replace those lost down south – while in sad fact, the Confederacy was running out of living bodies faster than they could replace them. The final fact to be concluded was that Grant would throw a hundred Yankees at every Confederate soldier until the graybacks’ ammunition ran out, his bayonet was bent and he’d run out of stones to throw. It was not a disaster in the making at Cold Harbor; it was a cold, deliberate massacre to absorb Rebel bullets, cannon shells and canister shot until there was no more.

The Confederate troopers in the trenches of Cold Harbor were expecting the worst Grant could throw at them.

They were prepared but they’d been unnerved by the hideous state of the battlefield on which they had to kill or be killed. First, they were disturbed – some of them may have been superstitiously terrified – by the two-year-old Yankee skeletons still on the battlefield. Some of the soldiers thought they might be ghosts.

Even worse from Hess’ viewpoint, dozens or hundreds of freshly killed grayback infantrymen also lay on the battlefield, and right in front of his position. A few were wounded but couldn’t be retrieved – they lay in plain sight, silently staring at the sky or whispering for water. The Rebels had panicked after one of their boldest commanders, Colonel Lawrence Keitt, had been shot off his horse during an attack against Grant’s forces at that end of Cold Harbor on June 2nd.

They’d been so demoralized and devastated that their officer later reported that they’d lain on the ground and groveled as their officers tried to inspire them by spurring their horses on them. The gray officers reported their men’s ribs cracking under the hoofs but still refusing to go forward. One officer reported “if compelled to wriggle out of one hole, they wriggled into another”. Completing this scene of horror were dozens, maybe hundreds, of grayback snipers littering the woods within the defensive perimeter – all with huge gaping holes in their heads or their jaws blown off.

Both Yank and Rebel bodies killed June 1st and 2nd were frozen in grotesque positions where they‘d died while frantically pulling off their uniforms to find the wounds. Only those with their heads exploded had died merciful, instant deaths. Minie balls to a bone meant amputation; those to an organ meant death. The victims never felt the spinning lead bullets that expanded to the size of lemons as they smashed through their flesh and bone. This is why they so frantically tore off their uniforms looking for the wound. Often, it was only when the unlucky men collapsed and saw blood that they realized they’d been hit. Their thrashing was frozen in their death throes.

So there came on the night of June 2nd an hour of certainty for every Rebel and every Yankee soldier at Cold Harbor. The Blue-bellies would certainly charge en mass at 4:30 a.m., that much was sure. Everyone knew Grant always charged at that precise moment. The Southerners used more than logic, however. The also sensed like animals the deadly intent of the enemy.

Half of Grant’s army – about 50,000 men – would begin drumming, whooping, cheering, taunting and shouting only five hundred yards away at exactly 4:30 a.m. Their rallying cheer was a deafening “Rah Rah Rah!” Many would be singing “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, He is stamping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored!” Individual Union soldiers would be seen through the morning’s mist as they waved the Stars and Stripes at the Rebel lines. Some would shout threats. Their officers would be shouting intoxicating slogans.

It would be a full assault. There would come a bloody morrow when the sun rose a degree past 4:29 a.m.

The Rebels’ rifle trenches stretched across the Virginian Peninsula from Totopotomoy Creek to the Chickahominy River, from Pole Green Church to Boatswain’s Swamp, from Bethesda Church to Cold Harbor. Inside the trenches, Hess and the approximately 22,000 waiting grayback troopers remained silent. They were waiting with the patience of venomous snakes. On the other side waited, also silently, Grant’s 50,000 Yankees.

Meanwhile, soldiers of both armies gazed at the moonlit corpses of men killed during the last two days. And they gazed at the remains of men killed two years earlier in the Seven Day Campaign that was now repeating itself. It seemed impossible that more men could be killed here. Freshly killed bodies, twitching wounded soldiers, contorted old corpses and bleached skeletons already filled the battlefield. There didn’t seem room for thousands more to die.

Some ghastly shallow graves had shriveled arms, legs or even heads sticking out of them, usually half eaten, dried out or completely rotted away. Some of the graves had skulls on top of them -- snow-white, sun-bleached, crowpicked, grinning skulls – many of which seemed to be laughing, their naked jaws wide open, with nests of songbirds or paper wasps incongruously inside.

And there was worse to know.

Many of the wounded – from both the 1862 battles and the 1864 battles -- had crawled into the swamp to die or lay helplessly on semi-liquid black muck, their legs almost swallowed, occasionally howling for help that never came – gasping for air, gulping it down, feeling the fog in their throats as they slowly bled to death or sank beneath the swampwater.

What the soldiers couldn’t say aloud was that the wild hogs also attacked and ate alive those soldiers who lay wounded and helpless on the battlefield at night. Whether true or not, Hess didn’t know. All he knew for certain was that wild hogs indeed had eaten the dead and wounded left overnight at Shiloh. And indeed, he could see both halfeaten bodies and rooted-up graves out there in Cold Harbor’s no man’s land. They were interspersed among the bones and bodies of the undisturbed dead. A few wild hogs had ventured onto the battlefield the last two nights but had scampered back into the woods at the blast of a single musket. They’d run into Powhite Swamp, right in front of Johnny’s position.

It was only with difficulty some of the veteran soldiers of 1864 remembered it wasn’t 1862 again. Two years had passed and now the once proud graybacks of the Seven Days battle were just skeletons and mummies. Those killed in the 1864 battle so far – 5000 of them -- were also out there, fresh cadavers of raw red meat, some of it still quivering and bleeding. Were the wild hogs eating the dead even as Johnny lay waiting for his own death? Was it his destiny to wind up in the gullet of a pig?

There was no essential difference in those killed two years ago and those killed yesterday – one dead man was worth exactly as much as another dead man. Unless, that is, you believed the fresh bodies were more privileged because they would have the honor of being eaten by the wild hogs. That couldn’t be true, Hess thought to himself.

Some of the 1862 bodies still in the swamp waters were also worth being eaten by the hogs. Their bodies were preserved and still good enough for pig food. Many nights the hogs pulled the two-year old meat out of the water and dragged it back on the battlefield to be eaten. This made all dead soldiers equal in pigs’ eyes. A dead soldier was a meal, that was all. Whether rooted out of a shallow grave, devoured raw on the battlefield or pulled out of the swamp – all dead men were equal in the land of swine.

An unspoken irony lay in the bellies of the neighboring farmers. Between battles they hunted down the wild hogs on horseback. The farmers had put many of them there in the first place, every spring releasing domesticated piglets to roam freely as they grew to into huge wild hogs while foraging in the swamp. That way the farmers didn’t have to feed them. When fall came – if there were no battles underway – the farmers made a holiday out of hunting down and killing the wild hogs. It was great fun and put meat on the table. They’d hunt them with revolvers from the safety of saddles far off the ground. A tusked boar could eviscerate them if caught off their horses. It was harder to disembowel a horse, but a really huge wild boar – made very fat and very bold by feeding on human flesh – could do it with one upward slice.

But the farmers were rarely hurt and it was the hog who usually died, to be taken home and roasted for the family. They may or they may not have realized they were eating by proxy the remains of Yank and Rebel troopers killed at Cold Harbor. It’s rumored that the flesh of such swamp hogs was especially sweet and toothsome. Folks round there supposedly said those pigs who ate Yankees tasted like chicken while those who ate Rebels tasted like goose.

Perhaps some of the living soldiers wondered why they had to fight again when they had won this battle once before. Or had the hogs won the battle? Had the hogs won the whole stinking war? They seemed to be the only creatures to benefit from all the killing.

Hess’ regiment might have had happier thoughts that night, despite the bleached bones or putrescent flesh of the dead. The 29th had felt unbeatable for a day or two after the rout of Butler’s Army of the James – proudly aware they were now part of Lee’s Army of North Virginia. They’d been honored when they were moved into place to fight Grant’s Army of the Potomac as it moved toward Richmond. They’d believed for a deluded month that Grant’s invasion force would run away from massed Confederate fire just as had the Army of the James.

But the truth had descended upon them by the time they sat that night waiting for the mass attack. They knew Grant had over 50,000 troops ready to charge at 4:30 sharp; another 70,000 troops in reserve; and an infinite supply of replacements from the North. They knew, too, that Grant had no qualms about sacrificing a third, half or even all of his men to take the Confederate Capital.

So Johnny Hess couldn’t sleep that night. He had about half an hour before the attack began. To keep his mind off the coming fire, he tried to remember back . . . remember back to the time he decided to join the Confederate cause. He might be dead in a few moments, he figured, so why not try to remember back to a better time, before all this fear and madness began. He remembered back to when it all started, back in the early spring of 1862, in Lebanon, Virginia, as he sat by Big Cedar Creek in the shadow of Clinch Mountain. It was then he’d decided to join the Confederate army.

His farm surrounded him with its just-plowed fields of corn. He could see his whitewashed wooden frame house surrounded by strawberry patches, blackberry bushes, black cherry trees, chestnut trees, crabapple trees, maples and towering, thick old oaks with gnarled branches that looked so scary at night when the moon was out.

The wooden-slat barn near the house had room inside for his beloved horse named Jackson, the milk cow, the two mules, some tools, the plow, about fifty bales of hay and a couple hundred tobacco spears. The spears hung from the roof during late fall, filling the barn with the sweet but acidic aroma of raw tobacco that stung his nose and made

his eyes water.

It made Johnny feel good to remember that tobacco and to reinforce the feeling he pulled out his plug and gnawed off a piece, chewing it slowly and savoring the smoky, burley flavor before it turned bitter as bile in his mouth.

No matter about the bitter, though, he kept chewing the plug until it absorbed enough saliva to swell into a ‘baccer wad so foul he had to spit it out into the filthy muck at the bottom of his trench. The nicotine hit him just hard enough to rock him back into his reverie about home . . . .

Next to the barn lay his two-acre vegetable garden, just tilled and ready to grow a lord’s plenty of snap-beans, ‘maters, ‘taters, black-eyed peas, field peas, soup beans, cucumbers, butter beans, limas, squash, mush melons, watermelons, cantaloupes, mustard greens, carrots, collards, turnips, turnip greens, carrots, cauliflower, okra and just about any other vegetable that’d taste good until the inevitable rot set it. Only the North could can food during the civil War. That’s one reason they won.

There also were his tiny plots of tangled, translucent tobacco sprouts, waiting to be transplanted by hand to the two acres of plowed soil set aside for them. He couldn’t grow more than two acres because he had no slaves – my God, they were asking $400 apiece for able-bodied farm workers! It was only by communal labor the little farm was able to produce. He helped the Garretts with their ‘baccer -- in turn Napoleon and Isaac helped him with his.

Eventually the ‘baccer would be topped, cut, speared, dried in pyramids, hung in the barn to cure, graded by hand, baled and sold for five cents a pound or less. God knows he didn’t get much, but it meant enough to get molasses, salt, vinegar, sugar, some oats for his horse, a few cast iron tools, some nails and have a bit of his corn ground into meal for fritters, cornbread, hush-puppies and possibly a taste of moonshine for his Pop’s rheumatism on rainy winter nights.

Then there were the pastures of grass for his few head of cattle, the mules and his horse. Off to the side, near the dirt road, was the stinking mud sty for the hogs. Their wooden trough runneth over with slop every day and they grew incredibly fat – 200, 300, 400 pounds apiece, walking tubs of lard, bacon, tenderloins, chops, chitterlings, hams, tongues, hocks, pigskins, cracklings, jowls . . . plus tails, snouts, ears and feet for pickling. His dogs ran wild and free on the farm; his only horse grazed in its pasture; little Maggie played in the back yard; and the little creek babbled its way to Big Cedar Creek, ultimately making its way to the mighty Clinch River.

Johnny was as smart as he was lucky back when he’d been a farmer – he’d created a fishing pond by damming the creek with stones. Then it was filled with crappie, sunfish, rainbow trout, small-mouthed bass and mud cats caught with unbarbed hooks from other ponds. It was in fact a very small and modest farm, but it was enough . . . and back then “enough” meant about everything a living body needed to keep on living.

It was heaven, lived in by Hess and his wife, sweet Anna. Thank god he’d married her before he enlisted. His mother, dear sweet Lydia, had died when he was an infant. His father sometimes cried about losing Lydia but pretended smoke from the fireplace was getting in his eyes. But Johnny knew. He’d heard him praying aloud about Lydia and had felt the fog grip his own throat as the old man wept the sweetest kind of tears. It was heaven. The Hess farm was heaven.

Of course, Johnny didn’t realize it was heaven until the first time he found himself facing Yankee guns and cannon. It was certainly heaven when compared to the trenches of Cold Harbor, in which he now lie thinking about the home he’d left. It was his home -- a safe place full of family, friends, food, fishing and sunshine, with nobody trying to kill him.

Hess might have wept if his compatriots hadn’t been so near that night at Cold Harbor. In fact, they were shoulder to shoulder. But he was so sad. He’d talked poor Napoleon and Isaac into signing up with him that day in Carbo. Now both of them were gone, probably dead.

Johnny himself really had no regrets about joining the Confederacy -- but he sure wished he hadn’t! There was no hope left. Not even the most desperate of gambits could save it now. Nevertheless, the Rebs kept on shooting as if they had a chance. And the Yanks kept on shooting as if the South wasn’t whipped. Neither side realized they were fighting for nothing because nothing was left. The spoils of war had gone to the hogs. The wild hogs had won the war.

Johnny didn’t want to think about that anymore. He wanted to think about his home, his farm, his family. He desperately wanted to be with Anna, his beloved Anna, that very moment. He wanted to hold her forever, wrapping his arms around her and never letting go again. Flesh against flesh. Heart to heart. Mouth to mouth. Grasping each other, making one out of two, forever merging mind and spirit and flesh. He could see her dark eyes and the memory hurt him terribly. He touched his gritty fingers to his lips and pretended they were hers. He wanted to whisper how much he loved her in those tiny shell-like ears of hers, so dainty, so lady-like, so delicate.

The pain was too much and he forced her out of his mind. There was only an hour left before Grant attacked.

Instead of stabbing himself over and over with that jagged dagger of desire and regret, he forced his mind to drift back again to that early spring day he had sat by the creek and thought about signing up with the Rebels. Instead of pain he felt a wonderful warmth and even something close to comfort. He wallowed for a few moments in this sheer sentimental nostalgia.

Yes . . . it had been the fall of ’61 when he’d decided to sign up with the Rebels – right after the herd of wild hogs had invaded his cornfield. He tried to remember all that had happened since that fall. It wasn’t in his diary. The events and people were forever branded into his memory, more detailed than anyone could ever write it down. Those were the good times before the South began to lose the war and he’d never forget them.

What had happened since the shooting began was all recorded on the wad of dirty papers he called a diary.

He kept it since his regiment had invaded Kentucky in 1862 so he could later brag about the battles he’d been in. That was a joke as he lay in the mud waiting for Grant’s army at Cold Harbor – he remembered every strange new place and every hideously violent battle he’d seen since jotting down the first word. In fact, those ugly memories spilled out of his unconscious mind and into his conscious remembrance of things past. The good and the bad blended together into one tale of honey and blood. It had all begun that fall twenty-six months ago. Images and sounds and cries for help flooded his mind. He could no longer hold it back. Johnny wept and damn the men next to him.

Grant and his 50,000 blue-bellies would come screaming across no man’s land in less than an hour now. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes, checked his musket one more time, leaned forward and -- despite his desire not to remember – remembered how he’d come to this final ditch of filth, hell and horror. He remembered how he’d come from feeding hogs to seeing his friends’ bodies eaten by hogs.

All that was left for John Henry Hess were memories. His own future might lie in the jaws of a wild Cold Harbor hog – but at least his past was unspoiled, filled as it was with love of a woman and loyalty to his country and fight for a Christian nation. He only prayed that Anna Catharine and Maggie would be there for him if he somehow survived. If he lost them as well as his country, then indeed the wild hogs had won the war.

Now all he had left was the memory of his dear Anna and Maggie, back on the farm, under Beartown Mountain nest to the might Clinch River. He smiled and thought of his home – praying he would live to return. These wonderful memories and hopes were in his mind as the sun finally rose and the orders raced up and down the line, “Ready arms! Steady boys, steady . . . pick your targets . . . ready . . . wait for the signal . . . .”

Grant unleashed all 50,000 men in his II, XVIII and IX corps at precisely 4:30 in the morning. The sun was peeking over the horizon with a suspicious eye. Light slowly filling the odd yellow haze, making it glow like a luminous fog. The bluecoats marched steadfastly through this unnatural cloud all along the seven-mile front. There were no

reserves. There was no real battle plan – just to “breakthrough” at some point, allowing Grant’s Army of the Potomac to flood through the gap, sidestep Lee’s Army of North Virginia entirely, and hasten toward Richmond. It was terrifying and absurd. The line of blue trudged resolutely and silently through the ominous haze, waiting for the cannon shot that would signal them to charge. Alongside them their officers gave orders in low voices, “Keep it dressed, boys. Keep it dressed.”

Neither Grant nor his co-commander Meade had reconnoitered any part of Lee’s Cold Harbor line. Nor had any detailed battle plan been laid except to charge the Confederate guns and hope they’d run out of ammunition before the last of the Yanks reached the Rebel lines.

The cannon bellowed and a deep-throated roar issued from 50,000 throats as one: “Hurrah! Hurrah!” On they came, their banners red, white and blue, marching in step while shouting over and over, “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Their muskets were at shoulder arms with wicked bayonets fixed. Johnny was watching with a cool detachment, wondering why the attackers weren’t so full of piss as usual – no drums, no fifes, no individual shouting – just line after line of men marching in resolute silence except the incessant and harmonized, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” Rank on rank the sinuous blue lines advanced, emerging from the pinewoods and sweeping across the open fields toward the Confederate entrenchments. Not a shot was fired.

The mighty 50,000 bluecoats stopped at a distance of 200 yards, raised their rifles to their shoulders and fired all at once with a terrific explosion that rocked the entire countryside and smothered the battlefield with gun smoke.

This was the signal for Rebel’s response. As the yanks were reloading, thousands of black slouch hats popped up and thousands of rifles thudded against the earthen embankments. Meanwhile the attitude of the Yanks had changed. As soon as they rammed in their loads, the ran toward the Rebels, firing at will, roaring insults, cheering wildly, encouraging each other – suddenly changed into determined killers, over-shouted only by their officers on horseback, shouting out “Guide on the colors! Keep it dressed . . .keep it dressed!” The officers waved their swords.

“Onward! Onward!” The men had begun to cheer . . . . . .

And then a solid sheet of flame, sudden as lightning, red as blood, erupted from the Rebel breastworks, engulfing the Yankee horde in fire and whistling lead. The yanks heard all around them those horrible thuds of lead striking human flesh. Their comrades fell in droves. All commands were lost in the cacophony of noise, the pall of smoke and the holocaust of carnage. The Yankees had centered their attack on the center of Lee’s line, unwittingly exposing their flanks to enfilading fire from Confederate Early’s and Hill’ divisions, not only from heavy musket fire but from hundreds of cannon loaded with double canister shot, fired at close range. With every discharge of muskets hundreds of men collapsed in heaps of dying flesh. With every discharge of cannon, heads, arms, legs and guns flew through the air.

No one has said it better than the two Rebels quoted by Shelby Foote in his third volume of The Civil War: A Narrative: “ . . . the attack dissolved in horror. The attackers huddled together like sheep caught in a hailstorm and milled about distractedly in search of what little cover the terrain afforded. ‘They halted and began to dodge, lie down and recoil,’ a watching grayback would remember, while another noted that ‘the dead and dying lay in front of the Confederate lines in triangles, of which the apexes were the bravest men who came nearest to the breastworks under that withering, deadly fire.’”

Historian Brain C. Pohanka writes, “All along the flaming front, Federal soldiers desperately clawed at the ground, using bayonets, tin cups and their bare hands to throw up a feeble earthwork of their own. Their ordeal took on the surreal horrors of a nightmare.” A Union captain named W. S. Hubble reported that amidst this madness he looked up to see a panicked bird, “seeking refuge among human kind”. Hubble said the bird perched on a bloodbespattered corpse and began chirping.

It was over in eight minutes. Neither side realized it was over until the first clouds of gun smoke had cleared enough to see the hideous sight of a battlefield seven miles long covered with bodies on top of bodies of twitching dead Yankees. Every Rebel brigade looked out at over five acres completely draped as with a quivering quilt of blue and red dead men, filled with howls of pain and whimpers of fear – howls of delirium and gasping of the doomed.

Immediately the wailing of the wounded filled the horrid obscenity over which the survivors looked with unbelieving eyes. It was the bloodiest battle in the history of mankind, twenty times worse than the battle of Waterloo.

The Confederate commanders couldn’t believe their eyes. Their own losses were relatively insignificant, though over a thousand and half men lay dead in their trenches. But the Union losses were astonishing and terrifying – over 7000 Federals lay dead or dying in the sad slaughter fields of Cold Harbor. The air was filled with howls of delirium and screams of pain. The strange yellow fog was illuminated by the thousands of spirits released into its mist.

Yes, it lasted eight minutes – but Grant was unmoved and ordered the attacks to continue. Few of his officers could comply. Only token fire came from the survivors -- who now lay prone on the ground, trying their best to load and reload their rifles while still hugging the dirt. The entire seven-mile front looked like a boiling cauldron of bodies -- the dead jerking convulsively as the wounded thrashed around or tried to crawl off the battlefield. A disgusting odor rose from the dying as they exhaled their last sulfuric breaths. A heartrending melody of pain was heard as the maimed sang for help or begged for death.

Johnny had watched all this happen with no feeling whatsoever until it was all over. He didn’t think at all during the battle – just fired over and over at target after target, until he heard the cease-fire order move down his trench. Then he collapsed to the bottom of his trench, gulping for air.

Maybe a whole minute passed before he noticed the eerie silence and shocked looks on the faces of his comrades. When he saw the carnage himself, he vomited and slapped his hands over his eyes. It was unbearable to see so many dead and wounded – and know that he had partaken in the slaughter. He’d thought it would be a fair fight – between Lee and Grant – and before Cold Harbor he damn sure wanted to win for the Gray Fox! But now his mind was totally blank. He had no thoughts except he’d probably been killed and woken up in Hell. This was Hell, without a doubt. There stood the Devil with a smoking gun – his name was George Pickett.

For a crazy moment, Johnny considered putting a bullet through Pickett’s head, especially when Pickett turned to gaze at his division, smiling with his mouth and eyes. The son of a bitch had got his revenge at last. But Johnny didn’t shoot. Johnny just wanted desperately to go marching home again, Hurrah! Hurrah! Johnny deliberately shut his eyes and filled his mind with images of Anna and Maggie and his animals back home, the dogs, the mules, his horse, the hogs . . . those big fat cuddly hogs. A memory lasting only a millisecond flashed through his head – slaughtering thousands of hogs at Russell County’s Hog Killing Festival – but was instantly extinguished.

Those were men out there, not hogs.

Johnny felt his heart beating faster and faster – this meant he was a murderer because the Yanks never had a chance. Where was the honor? They hadn’t known what they were marching toward. Grant had lead them into a furnace. Their officers had failed them. God had failed them. Johnny wasn’t innocent simply because he’d been ordered to shoot down the bluecoats. He felt a great fear that his spirit was now damned forever. Surely everyone in Lee’s seven miles of trenches were guilty of manslaughter.

One of the worst confrontations had happened right before Johnny’s eyes. Thousands of bluecoats in Union General Winfield S. Hancock’s right-hand division (under Brigadier General John Gibbon) floundered in the mires of Powhite Swamp. As described by Army of the Potomac’s Chief of Staff General Andrew A. Humphreys in his Virginia Campaign of ’64 and ’65, “Gibbon had ordered his second line to follow the first promptly, push rapidly forward and

pass over the front line its column, and effect a lodgment if possible in the enemy’s works, and then deploy. His line was cut in two by an impassable swamp . . . . The troops pushed gallantly forward close up to the enemy’s works under . . . a terrific fire of artillery and musketry.”

The boggy ground broke up their formations – forcing their line to split and advance around the flooded parts or bull their way through the thickets. The charge was reduced to a creep, making them easy targets. Almost all were pierced with dozens of Minie balls before they came within two hundred feet of Johnny’s position – and those who somehow missed being killed were wounded so dreadfully they couldn’t retreat. All the wounded could do was drop to the ground and pray for a miracle. The “miracle” came when a hushed lull overcame the front after the Rebels ceased fire. Some of them were able to crawl away while they still had the strength.

Those with their wits intact managed to crawl toward Rebel lines, where they were either put out of their misery or pulled over the parapets and arrested as prisoners of war. Most of these died anyway – later in hospitals or POW camps -- but they certainly had a better chance than the men left on the battlefield. Those left with only half their wits tried to crawl back to their own lines, though the 500 yards seemed 5000. A few made it but most bled to death along the way or were picked off like broken-legged ducks by Rebel sharpshooters.

Some of the wounded, however, just wanted to get the hell out off the firing range – and they chose to crawl into Powhite Swamp. It was right in front of Johnny’s position, covering about four acres with swampy brush that surrounded a one-acre lake. Just enough vegetation remained so they couldn’t be seen – thus the illusion of safety.

Perhaps they could rest up enough for a belly-crawl home! Such is hope!

There most of them quickly died without further agony – but a few were strong enough to force a little fetid water down their throats, prop themselves up and wait for help. Some tied tourniquets around shattered limbs. Some thrust moss into bleeding wounds. These were the lucid ones -- they gave thanks to God and Nature for the deceptive safety of the swamp.

Others passed into delirium, smiling at wives who were not there, weeping for mothers who could not come, talking to brothers lost long ago, combing the hair of daughters they’d never seen, giving advice to sons who’d never hear them.

Lucid or feverish, none of them realized the swamp belonged to wild hogs – cruel beasts -- who’d left it only temporarily while humans battled it out around Cold Harbor. None realized the hogs would be returning soon – returning to eat them alive or drag them into the lake as aperitifs for later. Even then the swamp hogs were rushing back to repossess their kingdom.

Johnny wasn’t aware of this sad drama in the swamp but he did notice the wounded as they crawled into it.

“Powhite” was aptly named, he thought. Poor white boys lost in the swamp. But it was only after the fight that he could think about them. While the battle raged, he was too busy killing those advancing on foot to bother with those crawling on all fours. They were allowed to “escape” into Powhite Swamp, to what surely were even more painful deaths.

The battle, though it was absolutely and decisively over, might have continued because Grant, in his bulldog manner, ordered his divisions to continue the attack no matter how decimated were their ranks. The Yanks adamantly refused to attack again, both officers and privates, showing to Johnny that the Yanks had a lick of sense after all. Their men were completely demoralized and shaken, their spirits infected with a bitter mixture of cynical fatalism, apathy and doom. They in the end wouldn’t die for their country after all . . . not for a bunch of idiot officers who didn’t have the sense to determine an enemy’s strength before attacking him.

But Grant intended to win and he had men to spare – 70,000 fresh soldiers in reserve and an unlimited supply from Lincoln, not to mention those not shattered in the charge against Cold Harbor nor the 15,000 still waiting

for word at Bermuda Hundred. He later expressed regret about those lost at Cold Harbor – even accepted the blame -- but as a general he didn’t care so long as he achieved his objective, accomplished the mission. His Army of the Potomac was somehow getting around Bobby Lee’s good old boys. Grant himself was going to thrust his lance into the still beating heart of the Confederacy.

Meanwhile, Johnny learned, no truce could be arranged for removing the dead and wounded. Four days and nights would pass before they could be removed – but by then only two where left alive. The eight to ten thousand other casualties had either perished, crawled off the field, fled into swamps or – most fortunately of all – been removed at night by daring comrades willing to risk the sharpshooter fire continually crisscrossing the field The battlefield till June 7th looked like a massive raw wound teeming with maggots – it’s surface a scab of rotting flesh – a scum of blackened, bloated men -- over which crawled the desperate wounded. Pulling themselves along like drunken spiders, they screamed in pain and howled in delirium, begging for help that didn’t come. Weeping was heard everywhere. Praying was heard everywhere. Everywhere human arms, heads and legs littered the field.

Lifeless bodies jerked convulsively -- twitching, shuddering, throbbing. And worst of all, if you looked closely, over ten thousand eyes stared out at their killers – accusing, accusing . . . .

Each night Johnny slept in his trench, cramped, unable to get up or go out without peril to his life. He had to relieve himself right there, as did the others – the stench was appalling but not as sickening as the stench of the dead on the battlefield. The dead filled with gases, swelled up twice their normal size, turned black, burst open and became covered with teeming maggots and beetles. Their tongues stuck out in obscene gestures. Their eyes popped out of their heads and hung on stalks to be swallowed whole by crows and jays. But no hogs appeared to eat the dead – the sharpshooters kept them away.

What Johnny didn’t know was that wild hogs, hundreds of them, lay hidden and waiting on far off hillsides behind their lines. The beasts watched patiently from miles away, licking their chops while watching their wounded quarry crawl within their marshy turf called Powhite Swamp. They’d return for the feast as soon as the battlefield was safe again.

It was the third night and Johnny hid in his trench. Peep over and your head might draw a bead. He wanted to pull some of the wounded to safety but dared not risk the Yankee sharpshooters – nor even the nervous trigger fingers of his fellow Rebs. So he tried to ignore the constant moaning and begging – he tried to ignore the unbearable stench.

Worse than everything put together was the knowledge that he, John Henry Hess, was something less than the honorable man he’d intended to become -- instead he’d become this soulless killer sleeping in a ditch filled with his own piss, shit and vomit, listening to pleas from wounded men he couldn’t help.

Cold Harbor had turned him into a monster without a soul, without a spirit. He killed not only automatically but gleefully. Fulgham had been right, hogs had more honor than men. Certainly they had more honor than him -because he had none at all. His fine philosophical distinction between God’s love of spirit and His indifference toward flesh no longer consoled him. When the flesh was as soiled and contaminated as his, the spirit was also soiled and contaminated. He knew in his heart that he’d been abandoned by God at Cold Harbor. They all had. Mankind had been abandoned at Cold Harbor.

He was half-asleep in his trench of piss and vomit when he felt a fist pound him on the back. Angrily he spun around to see Captain Smith, commander of Company G, 29th Virginia Infantry. He had to swallow his anger and the gulp made him even more nauseous than he’d been. Now his stomach was full of the same disgusting air circulating through his lungs. He tried to force himself to burp it up but could only force himself to spit up a little bile, which he immediately spat in the trench.

“Private Hess, John H., ready for duty, sir,” Hess said sullenly.

“We got skirmish duty, Hess. Our whole Company. Let’s go,” Smith answered, well aware of the danger his men was about to face. But an order is an order, so Johnny and the rest of Company G half-cocked their weapons, spread out and slowly as slugs crawled onto the battlefield. Their job was to die first if the enemy launched a night raid. Their screams would wake up those sleeping behind them.

The battlefield was still strewn with bodies, all in varying states of putrefaction. There were so many bodies that Company G had to crawl over them like over a carpet of rotting meat. A particularly swollen corpse burst open and let loose a tremendous, resounding gust as it was crossed – loud as a cannon, it seemed to Company G -- bringing a Yankee sharpshooter’s bullet within inches of Johnny’s head. Hess was infuriated as well as scared and fired back at the flash of fire he’d seen on the enemy line. He heard the thud of his bullet striking earth but not the sound of it striking flesh, as he’d hoped.

Firing back was a mistake. Company G’s position was immediately subjected to a fusillade of lead for a full ten minutes. Bullets screamed in as if they had minds of their own -- but fortunately hitting soldiers already dead. Johnny and his comrades snuggled up to Yankee cadavers as if lovers, using the dead meat as shields between themselves and the snipers. It was the only thing to do but was also the most awful. The bodies oozed a greasy putrescence that was absorbed into their skin – a permanent reminder of Cold Harbor death -- which no amount of scrubbing could ever remove. The men of Company G would smell of the putrid Cold Harbor dead as long as they wore their own skins.

For those who died, it didn’t matter. But for those who lived -- at night their wives would move to the far end of the bed. Their dogs would give them suspicious looks. Their grandchildren would instinctively fear them as the smell of rotting flesh wafted up from their grandfathers’ skin.

Stinking at the moment, however, was not their top priority. Living was. The men spread further out, rifles pointed forward, crawled up a hundred feet and watched for movement. Rain was on its way, darkening much of the scene with clouds. Some of the guys thought they saw movement. They didn’t fire because the shapes weren’t human.

Actually, the movements they saw were wild hogs – the very boldest and the most hungry – who dared enter the battlefield. The hogs were much smaller than domestic ones, ranging between 150 to 200 pounds – not much for a hog, Johnny thought. Nevertheless, their heads and jaws were just as powerful and from the battlefield came crunches and gnawing sounds as the hogs feasted off the Yankee dead. Their tusks were also just as sharp – Johnny hope he didn’t cross one’s path.

“At least the hogs ain’t on our side,” Johnny said; “they must like Yankee meat better’n Rebel meat. They ain’t coming over here. ” “Oh, they’re coming soon enough, don’t you worry,” Smith told him; “They’re smart. They’ll know when a cease-fire has been called and after that they’ll be grazing on dead people like cattle grazing grass. Till then, long as its quiet out there, a few of ‘em will sneak near enough to eat the dead without getting themselves shot. Right now they’re just reconnoitering, checking out the banquet table, counting our guns . . . that type of stuff.”

Johnny wondered about this. Powhite Swamp would be natural place for them to live but it’d been subjected to terrific shelling every day since June 1st. Actually, the hogs had deserted Powhite Swamp as soon as they saw Rebels manning the trenches behind it several weeks before the three-day battle. There were no hogs there during the shooting and there were none there now. They were miles away, watching from the hills.

Johnny and his Company, having lain on the battlefield all night while pulling picket duty, were relieved by another Company just before daylight and allowed to crawl back to their trenches. They reported the dead-eating hogs to Colonel Porcino but nothing was said or done – except that some of his officers shook their heads in disgust.

It rained the next day and the 29th Virginia – like all the other regiments along the Cold Harbor front – had to

huddle together in their trenches, shoulder to shoulder, butt to butt. They’d been ordered not to leave their battle stations even to take a piss or relieve their bowels. The trench was the only latrine . . . so the Rebel line was unbearably and literally flooded with human waste by the time the 29th was given new orders on June 8th. By that time, nausea and dysentery were sweeping the lines and every man in the regiment was relieved to get out of the disease-ridden cesspool.

Rebel General Early had made a flanking movement on the enemy the day before, driving the Yankee lines back several hundred yards. To keep this advantage, the 29th was ordered to move up from the trench and establish a new line 100 yards in front of the old. One of the regiment was killed in the process, several others wounded or captured – but Colonel Porcino’s men accomplished their task. They wound up entrenched far in front of the rest of Pickett’s Cold Harbor line.

On the 9th, after spending the day digging a new trench and erecting new earthen embankments, Company G was surprised with orders to serve picket duty again, meaning they had to creep forward again to keep a closer eye on the Yankees. Midnight found Johnny and his Southwest Virginia comrades spread out along another miniature front, this one a hundred yards in front of their new line. Thus they were a total of 200 yards in front of Pickett’s first line and, in everyone’s opinion, absolutely too close to the enemy.

Powhite Swamp, however, now lay between the 29th’s new position and its original position back with Pickett.

It was well behind the line of battle. As if knowing the Rebels wouldn’t be shelling their own territory, the wild hogs had reoccupied Powhite as the 29th was establishing its new position in front of the swamp. As if on cue, the whole herd had charged down the hillside behind the Rebel line and stampeded down Powhite Creek -- which sliced right through Corse’s entrenchment and into the swamp. Over a hundred hogs had run through around one in the morning, under a clear sky illuminated by a three-quarter moon.

The men around the creek were startled but only laughed when they realized the “attackers” were just a bunch of wild hogs. Sighing with relief, they’d sat back and watched the drove dash through their ranks and disappear into the swamp. It didn’t make any difference to them.

So they made a casual report of the incident, sent it upstairs to General Pickett and forgot all about it. Lee’s generals were unconcerned, as were the junior officers – all except Colonel Squealing Porcino, who saw in the move a chance to kill whatever Yankee soldiers his men had missed. He suspected the swamp hid many wounded and probably some deserters -- blue-bellies who’d simply run off the battlefield and took cover in the swamp. Porcino took it upon himself to clear out this possible nest of injured or cowardly Yankees. After all, he’d signed up to kill Yanks and he’d killed plenty – now was his chance to kill even more. So he requested an audience with General Corse, put forth his plan, had it approved and waited till nightfall to inform his men. Besides looking great in his files, the action would enact a little justice – that four-time deserter Johnny Hess would have the honor of checking out Powhite Swamp.

With this in mind, Porcino had sent orders down to Captain Smith. He was to take twenty volunteers from Company G and sweep through Powhite Swamp on the 11th, killing or taking prisoner any Yankee soldiers found inside. The dead should be left where they were. The orders were simple: if the enemy could walk, take him prisoner; if he couldn’t walk, leave him to die; if he resisted, shoot him down; if he hid, hunt him down . . . and then take him prisoner or kill him, depending on whether he surrendered or ran.

So in the early morning of June 11th, 1864, twenty volunteers from Company G – with Captain Smith commanding – spread out and approached the swamp. Four acres doesn’t seem very big but it can hide plenty of bodies and wounded men. To make matters worse was the lake hidden inside. Surely only the dead would be in its waters – but still it had to be checked.

It was possible, however unlikely, that a company of armed and still combative Yankees were hidden inside, said Porcino. No one believed it because they’d seen the swamp plummeted by cannon balls and scorched by exploding shells. Porcino hadn’t bothered to tell them about the swamp hogs reoccupying it – that was his private joke and he tried to imagine the terror on his men’s faces as they heard noises in the thickets around them. It’d be funny! Porcino could hardly keep his grin hidden away. It was all he could do to maintain the frown usually etched on his face. The smile appeared for a few seconds when the colonel heard Hess had “volunteered” but was gone before anyone could notice.

Johnny and the 19 others of Company G crawled on all fours behind a little ridge most of the way, keeping out of the sharpshooters’ sights. The rest of the way they simply crouched, ran and hid – crouched, ran and hid. It wasn’t long before the whole team of volunteers was lying on the ground and peering into the swamp. There were twenty of them. Captain Smith dubbed them his Swamp Team.

Powhite Swamp had been shelled thoroughly and no one expected to find much in it – maybe a few dead and wounded, nothing more. So it was without fear they circled around, found the little cove entering it, and began wading down Powhite Creek toward the hidden lake. They were startled to hear footsteps – just out of eyesight -following them along the stream, just as Porcino had hoped. And indeed every man in the Swamp Team loaded his rifle, set it at half-cock and carried it at ready. But Smith, who didn’t frighten as easily, said to them, “Easy, boys. It’s just ‘coons or dogs. They’d be shooting at us if it was Yankees. We ain’t dead so we’re okay. Just keep following me.”

The swamp in front of them was just beginning to show itself in the morning sun, revealing its tangled but battle-damaged shield of vines, saplings, bushes, brush, laurels, broken trees and fallen branches. The undergrowth had originally stood six or more feet high but now stood less than three, sliced off neatly at the height of a man’s waist by the hail of gunfire that had slashed through it a week before. The earth itself was dark, loamy, semi-solid, soft as quicksand – and of course littered everywhere with spent lead.

The little marsh was shaped like a doughnut - a circle of vegetation surrounding a shallow lake about half the size of a football field. Smith’s Swamp Team soon found itself staring at the lake from its position in the creek, standing in the two feet of running water.

Johnny’s eyes could see across the lake but his mind at first refused to believe what he saw. The lake’s surface was dotted by strange melon sized objects that seemed to move around, leaving little wakes behind. On top of this mystery were sounds coming from those melon-sized objects -- sounds he’d heard before but still couldn’t identify.

They were lower and more guttural than the noise of animals -- an oddly familiar and constant yammering broken by an occasional scream, like a bird being snatched in its sleep by a snake.

As he stood in the stream, looking across the lake, the sounds began to sound human – pleas, moans, chattering teeth, sighing, muttering – but still held together by an underlying calm chatter, like men discussing sports in a barbershop. Johnny’s heart missed a beat when he realized what he was looking at and listening to. Dozens and dozens of human heads were sticking out of the pond’s surface. He counted them -- exactly 72.

Then his eyes swept across the shoreline. Over a hundred swamp hogs surrounded the waters edge, watching and listening to the heads. And as he stared in amazement, he could hear another large animal, no doubt another wild pig, bulling its way through the thicket. It was pulling something – something that wore a blue jacket, swore and howled in horror – it was one of the many soldiers who’d tried to escape the massacre of Cold Harbor by crawling into Powhite Swamp.

Horrified, Johnny watched as the hog backed out of the thicket with its jaws firmly clamped on the arm of a Yankee too weak and exhausted to resist. The soldier’s hand was gone and a scarf had been twisted around his wrist as a tourniquet. Fully conscious, he was pulled to the edge of the water and nudged into the water by his capturer.

Having no other place else to go, the wounded man dragged himself into deeper water until only his head showed above the surface – wearing an expressions of astonished confusion, madness and fear. Many of the other heads let loose a wild, hysterical laugh that left every hair on Johnny’s head standing straight up. “My god,” he thought, “they’re cackling like they’re possessed!”

Unknown at the time, the thickets around him were filled with less fortunate human beings who’d been attacked and eaten alive when the hogs returned. All that remained of them now were skeletons still clad in scraps of blue. Grotesque hunks of meat and gristle remained around the knees and elbows. The rib cages had been consumed, along with every internal organ. The feet and hands were gone completely -- the skulls had been cracked open to get at the brains. The men’s lower jaws had been gnawed off and consumed. These wretched skeletons – hundreds of them – lay in the bushes around the Swamp Team. At the time, though, none of them knew what lay rotting in that deceptively calm thicket around the lake of living heads. Nor did they know why these talking heads bobbed around on the lake, alive as you and I. Johnny figured it out first. Wounded and helpless soldiers were being eaten alive by the wild hogs. Or they were being dragged alive to the pond – where they were forced into the water. There’d been hundreds of dead and wounded soldiers in the swamp when the hogs had taken it back over – and they’d made a feast of it. They’d literally stuffed themselves, first on the dead then by attacking and eating alive the wounded. But the prevalence of so much bleeding raw meat had sufficed to fill the stomach of every single hog. Over 70 living human beings remained, however, and the wild hogs – in their uncanny, almost human minds – decided to preserve them for hard times in the future.

Perhaps it was an accident; we’ll never really know if the hogs had foresight enough to do what they did. The fact remains, however, that after filling their bellies, the hogs had drug the remaining men to the lake and forced them in. Now, as Johnny looked across the pond, exactly 73 heads stuck out of the water, looking around in hopeless resignation, most of them wounded and unable to move.

A terrified muttering, a gnashing of teeth, a stultified sobbing came from the adult soldiers who were attached to those horrible heads which protruded just above the water. All day the heads talked among themselves, wept, cried out with their mouths just above the surface, made frightful grimaces and even made faces at the hogs who’d corralled them. Their eyes were all bright with terror.

The bravest and most patient were two young boys, not more than ten years old, who’d beat the Yankee drums and blown their bugles. They didn’t cry or call out, but looked around them with serene eyes, gazing at the fearful spectacle, and smiled at the adult soldiers. They had that wonderful resignation so characteristic of children, who forgive the impotence of their seniors and pity those who can’t help them.

Something clicked in his mind as Johnny watched the horror show in front of him. A memory. It was returning but not yet ready to be remembered. The bobbing heads could still talk, and they indeed talked to each other – between screams, they swapped names, spoke about where they were born, all about their families back home, what kind of hobbies they enjoyed, their favorite guns, their favorite hunting dogs, even sex – bizarre as it was, they talked about the shapely thighs they’d once kissed and how sweet was the perfumed hairy deltas of the whores they’d loved illicitly in the night.

As the sun rose higher, Johnny noticed a dark tint lining the bottom of the lake where several hundred dead Yankees – still wearing their uniforms -- had earlier drowned or bled to death and sunken to their final bed. They covered the entire foundation. He could hardly believe what he was looking at – a layer of dead men wrapped in royal blue shrouds, at last peaceful in this cruel, turbulent world. He envied them as they lay there, no longer suffering, no longer afraid. They looked so calm – he could see most of them had accepted death without struggle, as if they’d

welcomed it and enjoyed its gentle dousing of the flames that until that moment had been burning them alive.

Those who still lived talked to each other and to themselves – chatting to kill time and to keep what sanity they had left, what dignity they had left. They had to talk to keep from screaming. After all, they’d been drug through the thickets and forced into the lake by snorting wild hogs whose snouts dripped with slime and tusks tore at their calves. Most of them had nips on their ankles where the hogs had urged them in. Perhaps the floating heads saw the irony. Perhaps they saw the justice.

Those ghastly heads gave Johnny a feeling of madness. What was humanity if it could be used like this? Why were the swamp hogs confining them in the lake? Then Johnny remembered the fact that’d escaped him till now – the water of the swamp, black and transparent as coffee, was so acidic that bacteria couldn’t survive in it. Most swamps in east Virginia were like that. That meant nothing ever decayed in the blackwater marshes. The water preserved any creature that happened to die in it.

On the bottom of this very pond were drowned creatures that had died ten, twenty even fifty years earlier.

Cows, pigs, ‘possoms, ‘coons, dogs, cats, snakes . . . . These now lay underneath the layer of dead Yankees. It made no difference whether the beings were animal or human. They were all carcasses of preserved meat that would never decompose, never rejoin the universal muck of the universe. Johnny realized that Napoleon Garrett had been right – the wild hogs had “caught on” – their minds were human, all too human. They’d even learned how to preserve human meat.

The hogs were saving the dead and dying men for less opulent times. In this lake would be preserved hundreds of corpses, ready to be dragged out of storage and eaten when needed – especially in the dead of winter.

This herd was prepared for hard times. It had its own ghoulish storage locker. Whenever a hog got hungry, all it had to do was drag out a human body and feast. The hog first ripped open the belly and ate the liver, lungs, intestines, smaller organs and heart. They’d be first to spoil and had to be eaten quickly. The rest could take several days. The feet and hands were delicacies, like our Buffalo chicken wings, which the swamp hogs munched with obvious enjoyment, slobbering and drooling. The large muscles were usually eaten on the second or third day, as they would keep with no problem. The lower jaw, however, was the hog’s favorite delicacy – one might be carried around for over a week, with the hogs every now and then chewing it like chewing gum.

Johnny couldn’t help but compare this method of preserving human bodies to his own way of preserving hogs’ bodies. Salt and smoke worked best, and the sun. But this was also an excellent idea, he had to admit. For one crazy moment he admired the swamp hogs for their intelligence, kindness and foresight. It was hard to hate them when the humans had been doing exactly the same thing to them for centuries. Besides, the humans had killed each other while the hogs had just taken advantage of the human’s antagonism toward each other. Killing the wounded folks was kind.

Saved them from a whole heap a’ suffering, Johnny figured.

Not only that, but herds of hogs didn’t fight other herds – as did herds of men. They never killed their own kind. They indeed were more honorable than people, just as Fulgham had said. They were never abandoned when wounded – as the wounded humans of Gettysburg and Cold Harbor had been abandoned. No, the wild hogs surrounded their wounded comrades, tusks outward, fiercely protected them till all escaped or all died.

Johnny’s head was swimming with unacceptable analogies. He began muttering to himself in frustration, “people ain’t hogs, people ain’t hogs . . . .”

Meanwhile, those dreadful heads talked – some coherently, some deliriously. Eventually they had to die, even though none of them were in water over their heads. The water was only about four feet at its deepest point. But few of the men had enough strength to move, much less come out of the water. Besides, if any managed to make it back to land, he’d be driven back or eaten before he had a chance to escape. This was an effective deterrent because all the

heads had seen other humans eaten alive by hogs. It was terrifying, much more so than sitting in a pond and waiting till enough blood was lost to enjoy an easy death, flop over, and sink to the bottom. Yes, it was tempting to join those sleeping so peacefully on the bottom. Johnny wondered if any of them realized they were being forced into the pond so they would provide fresh meals in leaner times?

Johnny and the rest of the Swamp Team were speechless. All they could do was watch the incredible scene unfolding before them. Then something happened. As they watched, a soldier came crashing through the brush on the other side of the lake, obviously desperate for safety and drink. But he wasn’t in blue; he was in gray. He dropped his rifle twenty feet before reaching the lake’s edge, where he scooped water into his mouth by the handful. He didn’t notice the wild hogs watching him with such interest until several of them had silently sneaked up behind him. He didn’t seem very afraid when he noticed them.

The Rebel infantryman, who was running away but not wounded, tried to frighten them off with a shout and a wave of the hand. Ha! The hogs got a good laugh out of his gesture. That didn’t work. Before he knew what was happening, the hogs were nudging him into the water with their rubbery snouts and sharp tusks. A few nips at his heels and the grayback scrambled into the lake, waded out as far as he could and gazed back at his tormentors. That made 74 heads waiting to drown, preserved as hog food in the world’s strangest meat locker.

As he was thinking about all this, Captain Smith came alongside Johnny and said, “We’re gonna save that Reb, Private Hess. You and me.” Johnny was surprised but he shouldn’t have been – after all, here was one of their own men trapped by the hogs of Cold Harbor! Of course they’d save him. Johnny liked the idea. He’d been thinking too much lately and decided neither he nor anyone else he knew had done anything honorable during the whole war. The entire conflict was obscene – one injustice after another -- there was no honor in it. But here, finally, was a chance for him – John Henry Hess – to do an honorable thing by saving a fellow soldier. He turned and shook the captain’s hand. “Yes, sir!” he said very loudly; “I’m honored you’d ask me!” The captain looked at him curiously but remained silent.

They looked out over the pond and found the grayback looking right back at them from a spot only thirty or so yards away. He’d hoped they were thinking about saving his ass. Indeed, the good old Reb was already making his way toward the Swamp Team, who stood at parade rest, watching him with great curiosity. John Henry Hess, needing this act of kindness under his belt, jumped into the lake and helped the grayback ashore. When he was safe, Johnny swapped jackets with the saved man, putting the wet jacket on his own back. He felt he was being Christ-like. “Here,” he said, offering the man some cornbread, raw pork and black beans out of his haversack. The saved man ate it greedily, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Johnny knew he was helping a man who had been through cruel, cruel times . . . . It didn’t bother him that the man ate the last of his provisions down to the last crumbs.

Meanwhile, the talking Yankee heads also wanted to be saved – but only one of them had the strength to move toward the Rebels’ position. It was the latest victim, the one whose hand was missing. The others had been without help too long. They’d been immersed too long. They were just too weak. They could only watch with bitter, inconsolable eyes.

The Rebel – whose name proved to be Master Sergeant Jake Holland – was grinning as he joined the Swamp Team. He was over six feet, about 180 pounds and had the face of another Robert E. Lee, white beard and all -though he couldn’t have been more than forty. He had a permanent smile – a huge smile – on his face. He had a good word for everyone and an understanding ear. He was immensely likable and everyone shook his hand and said what an honor it was to meet him.

He held the rank of master sergeant but acted with the confidence, grace and refinement of a general. He said he knew his honorable brothers would save him – he’d never had a doubt. He clutched some men’s hand and put his

arms around other’s backs. The men liked him – he was a real Southern Gentleman. He even told them he’d arrange for them all to get medals for this because he personally knew General Longstreet. Man, they’d all get medals!

“Wait’ll I show that to Anna,” Johnny thought.

The only problem was the injured Yankee who was still wading toward them -- reaching a hand out for salvation with the innocent faith of a child. He knew he’d be taken care of. And it was true – they were going to take care of him. He needn’t have worried. Johnny watched him anxiously, not sure of his captain’s reaction. The Yankee didn’t seem to realize he was wearing the wrong color. “We’re all Christians here,” he called out; “God is with us.

Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil . . . .”

“Looks like we’re saving more than one,” Johnny commented; “We’re gonna have us a prisoner to take home tonight.”

“No way,” Captain Smith said in a far-away voice, watching without any emotion as the head came nearer.

Johnny focused on the man as he neared – and the talking head transformed into a living human being as Johnny noticed the gleaming bright light in his eyes. They were grey with black halos around the irises, like his Anna back at home. Those eyes crinkled with joy. The man was young, in his twenties, with perfect teeth, clear skin, curly brown hair and brown eyes – just like Johnny — and a mole above his left eyebrow. His nose was big, very big – with a magnificent hook, a classic Roman nose. That face held one hell of a lot of character. “I’m coming in!” he shouted, “Oh Lordy, I’m coming in! Jesus is with me this day!”

Meanwhile, Jake Holland was told he’d be turned over to the provost marshal when they got back. He was surprised but grinned anyway – he was just happy to escape the hogs of Cold Harbor! He’d be going back to his own unit, of course. They’d think him risen from the dead, ha! He punched Johnny on the shoulder as if he’d said the funniest thing ever uttered. Meanwhile, the hogs watched curiously and silently, the only sounds being a constant coughing and grunting, as if they were discussing the events unfolding before them.

The wounded Yankee waded to Johnny’s position and clambered out of the lake to be with the Rebels who could save his life. Drops of blood dripped one after the other from his handless wrist. He didn’t seem to feel any pain, but apologized profusely for getting blood on Johnny’s uniform when Hess pulled him up to his feet. Then he held out his remaining hand toward Captain Smith, who at first ignored him and his gratitude. “Private Hiram Sutter, captain.

Maker of the best shoes in Ohio!” the man said happily, causing Smith to slowly turn around and look at him. He had short curly black hair and a Greek face with small ears. His face was one big smile, but he had a missing tooth and saliva spurted out in thin streams when he talked.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, captain,.” said Hiram. Smith finally shook the man’s one good hand before ordering him to attention and motioning for his sergeant to come over beside him.

The captain whispered to the sergeant then turned his back as the NCO pulled a piece of rope from his haversack and bound the Yankee’s one good hand to the stump of his other behind his back. The Yankee stared at the Swamp Team in sudden terror, pleading with his eyes for help he knew he’d not receive. He looked right at Johnny and said, “For God’s sake, man, stop them! I’m just a shoemaker from Ohio. I ain’t done nothing to nobody. I was drafted. Damn Lincoln! I never meant to come here to bother ya’ll. They made me do it!” The sergeant shoved him toward the remains of an old tree and told him to stand still.

“Six men!” shouted the sergeant as Captain Smith turned back around. The officer stared not the bound man’s face but his belt buckle with its big embossed USA. At the same time the sergeant shouted, “Hess! You, Robinson, Reynolds, Norton, Jessee and Ivory! Form rank, hut! Ready -- arms!” The man who’d just emerged from the lake struggled so violently that four other Rebels were ordered to subdue him and secure his body to the tree. He soon stood strapped to it by his waist and legs, his eyes meanwhile wide with fear and his face frozen in a final plea for

mercy. It wasn’t coming.

Johnny and the other six stood at ready, their rifles loaded, knowing what they had to do. “Ready!” shouted the sergeant. “Aim!” shouted the sergeant. At this point the man collapsed in a faint and hung unconscious from the rope around his waist. Extremely annoyed, the sergeant grabbed another piece of cord, yanked the man’s head up, banged it against the tree, and tied it tight. The unconscious man now seemed to see his executions – but his eyes were shut. The only evidence that he was still alive was his body, which trembled until he woke up, looked around, and cried out, “No!” “Fire!” shouted the sergeant and all six executioners hit their mark – striking the one-handed Yankee’s heart and literally blowing it out of his chest. The man’s body slumped, a hole the size of a canteen where he heart had once beat. He looked as if he’d been hit with a 200 pounder cannonball. “Cut his ass down and throw him back in the lake,” said the sergeant without emotion. Johnny was aghast. It had happened too quickly. His rifle was still smoking. The tree behind the dead man was blown half in two. Johnny hoped no one noticed how he was trembling all over. He had this painful, horrible bubble of something right above his stomach. A foam of horror. He tasted it every time he breathed – it was bitter as gall and made him gag.

The hogs had disappeared into the underbrush as soon as the executioners had raised their rifles. Now the beasts came streaming back to the shore, warily watching the Swamp Team as they again surrounded those doomed heads in the water. Johnny looked at the animals as his team was ordered to form columns and prepare to march out of Powhite Swamp. Every hog seemed to be staring right at him, their little eyes accusing him of something, perhaps cowardice, perhaps murder, perhaps simple and uncomplicated hatred . . . .

Johnny had seen enough. In fact, they’d all seen enough. The search of Powhite Swamp was over. Those who’d fled there during the battle were all dead except those in the lake. Captain Smith wasn’t going to waste ammunition on them -- nor time searching for survivors in the brush. There were no survivors. A soldier had found one of the half-clad, bone-gnawed skeletons and dragged it to the creek so all could see. It was fresh and still wet with gore. They’d all been horrified by the missing lower jaw and the cracked-open skull. They could see where a long tongue had lapped out the brain. The Swamp Team saw the light quick enough. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand, living swamp hogs living in the swamp. The dead and wounded had all been eaten or dragged to the lake.

As for the only healthy man they’d found, Confederate Master Sergeant Jake Holland -- he said he’d been foraging in the area, looking for shoes. His regiment was on General Pickett’s rear line in back of the swamp. First he needed the shoes. But also he’d wanted to single-handedly capture a Yankee prisoner to take back home as a prize for his commander. But he’d gotten lost in the swamp, he said while thanking God they’d found him before those godawful hogs kilt him. He thanked them yet again, shaking all their hands again. Yep, he’d been foraging for shoes – looking for a good fit off a kilt Yankee – when he’d made the mistake of checking out the swamp thickets for a prisoner. He’d lost his direction . . . . He’d circled around and around, finally finding the lake. Thank God his brother Rebs were watching over him when those hogs showed up . . . yes sir . . . thank God for that!

Master Sergeant Jake Holland was beaming with joy but he was the only one. The other men were glum and tired and for some reason unsettled in their souls . . . . They wanted to get out of there.

There was no point searching for the enemy. Colonel Porcino had ordered them to find any Yankees who’d been wounded and crawled into the swamp. But they knew there were no living human beings left in the thickets after seeing that chewed-up skeleton and all those hungry-looking wild hogs. There weren’t any survivors except those dying in the lake. And Holland, of course, whom they’d saved. Hess was glad they were leaving – he wanted the hell out of there. Quick. Double-quick. He felt a mysterious guilt – but at the same time he felt proud of honorably saving a fellow rebel’s life. Now he’d have something to tell his wife and daughter without having to hang his head and cry.

The hogs knew Captain Smith’s men were armed and dangerous. The creatures kept out of their way, watching the men’s weapons, ready to scamper into the underbrush the moment they were lifted to shoulders. But the hogs seemed to have an uncanny pride, too. Some of them expressed this pride by lifting their tails, and squirting streams of their unique black marmalade four feet out of their rear ends. It was a send-off, a good-bye card, from the hogs of Cold Harbor.

A great overwhelming stink filled the swamp and the Rebels grabbed their noses at the same instant. It was lucky for Holland that Smith’s men were escorting him out of the swamp – those hogs especially wanted him because his meat was untainted with blood or filth. He was white, tender and plump. He also looked as if he’d been in a shower instead of a lake. Even hogs like cleanliness if given a chance to indulge. But the hogs of Cold Harbor really didn’t mind losing this one – they had more than enough to last. They’d be a fat and happy herd of hogs all the way through winter. They’d feast every day!

It was tough luck only for those poor bastards abandoned in the lake. They were utterly and hopelessly doomed. They would die with cruel certainty in the slowness of time -- which to them meant weeks of agonizing consciousness as they contemplated the darkness enveloping their worlds while slipping in and out of hallucinations.

But sometimes merciful daydreams would make them smile as they remembered better times -- when they were young and free, running across endless fields, buoyant and cheerful, barking with the wild foxes, singing with the larks, knowing that time would never end. Other times they’d drift into rapturous deliriums, gazing underwater at their mortal wounds as if they were beautiful red blossoms – crimson passion flowers with lovely pink petals drifting in currents pulsating from the doomed men’s hearts. As the sun darkened and the night moved in, however, all of them would wake to the terrible truth – time at last was ending for them, they were being enveloped and smothered by gloom. During the night they would suffer an unrelenting awareness that their daytime memories and visions were only ironic jokes of Nature – that cruelest prankster of all.

The blossoms in fact were festering lesions of bloody flesh, sloughing off morsels of putrefied meat and petals of rotting skin. Corrupted lymph oozed from these blossoms like nectar, draining their veins -- and emptying their hearts -- as the fluids mixed with water already stained red with seeping blood. You could see death in their faces. You could hear it in their nighttime cries. They were damned, doomed sons of bitches. But the swamp hogs didn’t care.

They had their meat for the winter.

The wounded heads didn’t take darkness lightly – they muttered and pleaded and wailed and wept like babies.

Those who could move beat themselves on their heads and tried to drown themselves, always popping back up for air at the last second. Those who had the courage to cut their throats or wrists with knives had already done so – they were now part of the fleshy bottom of the watery meat locker. They were the lucky ones.

Without warning, Captain Smith suddenly shouted, “Present Company! Stand to Ready! Sergeant to the fore!

Prepare to march!” The floating heads gasped at once, “Oh no!”. This was their last hope. Immediately a common cry went up to Johnny and his comrades, “Help us . . . save us . . . help us . . . save us . . . .” One screamed, “Don’t leave us like this! Don’t leave us like this! For God’s sake, don’t leave us! Shoot us! Please, you owe it to God! You owe us mercy! Please end it for us!”

Johnny shuddered but followed orders. He wanted to ask a question. He wanted to ask the captain if he’d just participated in a mercy killing. If so, why not shoot the others? Those suffering in the lake? He decided to risk being indicted himself by asking Captain Smith the big question. He worked up his nerve – but then he remembered he was just a private and decided wisely to keep his Goddamned mouth shut.

In fact, Captain Smith had simply followed the book when he’d executed the shoemaker from Ohio. He put together his story as he began walking out of the swamp. He would report that his men were approached by an enemy

who never intimated in any way that he was surrendering. In fact, the Northern solider had shown ever indication of joining his men. He’d already been talking to one of them. He’d been a sky – Smith wasn’t fooled, he’d tell the investigators (if it came to that). Smith knew as a human being that the Yank simply wanted to escape the hogs of Cold Harbor – but as a captain, he knew nothing of the kind. The enemy had approached his troops with unclear intentions, even if underwater. How did he know? The Yankee might have had a knife or waterproof explosive. He might have been planted there to be found by one of Grant’s goons.

No, the correct response was to fire upon any suspicious action by the enemy and ask questions later. And this was what he had one. His men would say whatever they were told to say. Their testimony would hold up at any court martial. The doomed Yankee had died the death of a spy, however he actually drew his last breath – so Smith wasn’t responsible for his death. Yes, Captain Smith had done the right thing. Eventually, even Johnny would figure it out. Johnny had felt a twinge of guilt when the Yank was executed, as if they were murdering an innocent man. But he came to his senses – yes, he came to his senses. The one-handed talking head was the enemy and that was that. As it turned out, Johnny wrongly concluded, Jesus hadn’t been with the executed man after all.

As for the honor he wanted to carry home with him after the war – that would be the honorable act of saving this fine Rebel soldier who otherwise would have been killed and eaten alive by the hogs of Cold Harbor. Yes, that was honorable! Johnny forgot about the chattering Yankee heads. The hogs had also been honorable about their part in the drama he’d seen today. They’d not attacked or betrayed each other. He hadn’t seen any hog heads bobbing around the water, had he? They hadn’t ambushed their own kind, had they? They probably had their own God and their own Jesus – perhaps its name was Porkus Christus, King of Hogs. Maybe Colonel Squealing Porcino was his apostle? It began to make sense. But Johnny all of a sudden had the strange feeling that he was losing his mind . . . .

It was almost dusk. Sergeant Holland continued to praise and befriend those who had saved him. He showed them card tricks and slights of hand – pulling coins out of Johnny’s ears. He knew a thousand raunchy jokes which kept them all laughing. He did impersonations of Abraham Lincoln that kept everyone in stitches.

During a moment of relative silence, he said to Johnny, “You’re smarter than the others, I can tell. People like you got a mark on ‘em says ‘I think for myself’.”

“Who you t shitting?” Johnny asked. Suddenly he was suspicious. This guy was pulling somebody’s leg. “Why don’t you kiss my ass and bug off?”

Holland looked at him a long time, as if summing him up. Then he said, “You ain’t buying my crap, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Johnny, I can tell you’re a different kind of person. I’ll be straight with you,” Holland suddenly became very serious. “I can trust you. I can tell,” he said.

Johnny looked at this guy very carefully. He didn’t need any trouble and was tempted to tell him to keep his trap shut. But there was something about him – something that perked his interest, as if he were meeting a twin he didn’t know he had.

“We ain’t gonna win this war. I was looking for a wounded Yank so I could write myself a ticket back to Petersburg as his guard. That ain’t dishonorable – I weren’t deserting or nothing like that. But I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve wised up. You better start thinking like me. And I mean looking for a way out, ‘cause we gonna lose. Them hogs back at the swamp got our number. Yank, Rebel –don’t make any difference anymore. We’re just meat. We ain’t got no flag now but our skin. Our skin is our flag.”

“So what you getting at, Holland?”

“I just want to know if I’m the only one. It’s all been a lie, one big lie, the whole war. Ain’t no honor in it.

Never was. Just killing and gutting people like they was pigs. You know what? I liked them damn pigs in the swamp.

I’d rather be a pig than a man in this stinking war.”

“So you weren’t getting at nothing?” Johnny asked, relieved that he had no secrets to guard.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you. See if I was crazy or what.”

With that, Holland sped up and joined Captain Smith at the head of the column. Johnny’s feelings weren’t hurt. The guy’d been funny, in a way. And he had to face it. What Holland had said was true. All they had left was their skins.

Meanwhile, Holland had again transformed into a really nice fellow full of compliments for everyone. Johnny admired him for being so slick and deceptive. That’s what it took to keep living these days. You had to know how to butter up the officers. Holland busied himself by complimenting the captain, noting how authoritative he was and how his men “snapped to” when he gave a command. He praised him for his handling of the “touchy” spy-in-the-lake trick the Yankee had almost gotten away with. Officers like Smith can’t be fooled! Captain Smith admired Holland for seeing how a great leader like himself could command respect through superior knowledge of the enemy. He realized how smart and experienced Holland was because he, too, had seen that the Yankee was a spy, not a – for God’s sake! – a shoemaker from Ohio. What a story! Only a fool would believe it! Smith thought Holland was indeed a great man and was happy to have had the honor of saving him from the hogs of Cold Harbor.

Smith decided to bypass the provost marshal when they got back to the 29th’s forward battleline. Instead he escorted the master sergeant directly to Colonel Porcino. The colonel listened to Smith’s account, took one look at Holland and said, “Place this man under arrest for desertion”.

Smith was aghast. Holland was astonished. The provost marshal was called and, indeed, Holland was arrested and led away as a deserter. Johnny knew nothing of this until the next evening, when he heard that a court martial had found Holland guilty and condemned him to death by hanging. He was to swing the following morning as the sun rose. Despite the circumstances – what with General Grant pounding at the Rebels’ door – all of Corse’s Brigade was ordered to witness the execution. Even Pickett himself decided to watch the show. Holland was to hang right behind the front lines, with every man of Corse’s Brigade standing armed and ready to man their trenches if Grant dared strike again.

So the next morning, Corse’s Brigade was already in ranks and at attention when Sergeant Holland was led to the gallows. He sat on a pale dappled horse with his hands tied behind his back. At first, his head was uncovered and he gazed at the soldiers around him. Then, to the amazement of all, he cried out, “Johnny Hess knows the truth!” It made no difference, of course, and he said nothing more as the hood was placed over his head and the drawstring pulled tight. A young lieutenant uttered official words. Then the horse was slapped out from under him and Holland danced the Dixie Dangle for five minutes before going limp. Gurgling and choking sounds came from beneath the hood as he slowly strangled to death.

This was an omen – an ominous omen. The hanged man. The Confederacy hung on the end of that rope. The Rebels may have stopped Grant at Cold Harbor but they’d never stop him again. Grant was relentless, ruthless, inescapable, overwhelming. In a word, he was powerful. General Pickett believed Grant would win because he had no honor. Johnny didn’t agree. Grant would win because he did have honor. He’d promised to crush the Confederacy if he had to sacrifice a hundred thousand men. He was keeping his bargain. He was an honorable man.

Holland hadn’t been whistling Dixie when he’d shouted, “Johnny Hess knows the truth”! Johnny had wised up. Everything he’d been told up till Drewry’s Bluff had been a lie. He’d figured that out as he’d watched the hogs of Cold Harbor turning the tables on the human beings who’d been using them as food for centuries. They’d wised up, too.

It’d all been so simple in 1862, there in line with the boys, waiting to sign up in General Marshall’s Army of

Eastern Kentucky. Johnny had believed then that his new nation was fighting for liberty, for the right of all Americans to own and work a piece of land, to be free to walk with pride in the sun. The North was dehumanizing people, housing them in beehive-like tenements where millions of men were forced by low wages to live in squalid sunless rooms – working from dawn to dusk in noisy factories without windows, sweltering over soulless machines, abused by heartless bosses. He believed with all his heart – in the marrow of his bones – that the North was a tyranny of the rich, that Christ and individual liberty had been erased from the United States’ Constitution.

In 1862 he had believed he was Christian soldier fighting for Biblical decency and honor. The Northern masses were the real slaves, not the Africans. Everyone knew Lincoln had offered to let the Southern states keep their slaves if they’d stay in the Union – wasn’t that proof of the North’s hypocrisy? But the South was a separate culture. It had honorably declined the offer. Of course it was going to end slavery – it was the honorable thing to do. Plans were already in the Confederate Senate to free the Africans like all other enslaved peoples had been liberated -- gradually into a society prepared to absorb them as equals. Yes, it’d seemed so simple back in 1862. The North had to preserve the Union because Southern taxes were paying for an industrial revolution in which the South wanted no part. The Confederacy was therefore honorable and the United States therefore dishonorable. It had been that simple in 1862.

But now it wasn’t simple at all. Johnny had been crucified on the Southern Cross he’d loved. He was no longer sure that the Cause was as honorable as it seemed so long ago in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. He was no longer an 18 year old hayseed farmer – he’d been transformed by combat into a philosopher, that most courageous of all mortals. He now dared to question what once was simple and obvious.

The truth began to crystallize as he gazed at the hanged man: it was power and not honor that decided wars.

The United States was going to win this war against the Confederate States because it was more powerful. Did that mean the South would lose because it was honorable? No . . . it only meant the South had less power. There was no honor in wars, Johnny now believed, or the nations that waged them. He watched the hanged man swing first to the right, then to the left, in the capricious winds of change -- and he felt in his own being that he’d finally found the truth.

Honor existed in the self. Honor was born, matured, persisted and prevailed only in the individual human soul.

The hanged man was a silent witness to Johnny’s awakening. Perhaps people in some unimaginable future will be one organism and have one soul, Johnny thought – and then God, if there is one, will love or not love mankind.

But at that moment, having just bathed in the bloodbath of Cold Harbor, he knew that honor – like love -- is at home only in solitary hearts.

The hanged man silently said it all. Power had torn him from life – neither honor nor truth had ever come into the equation leading to his death. Johnny looked at Holland and wept, there in the morning sun, alone amidst a thousand men – him, John Henry Hess, an individual of honor, now a rebel only against any state which would strip him of that individuality.

Johnny walked back to the new trench he would have to defend against strangers, though neither he nor the strangers wanted to own that filthy ditch. He knew Grant would eventually take Richmond and the war would end.

But he also knew that it had been a struggle for power, not for ideals. So neither the North nor the South could win this war with honor. Such a slaughter was an obscene defiance – the denial of love in the human heart, of honor in the human soul.

The hanged man swung back and forth. The sun beat down on the ignorant armies about to clash. It no longer mattered who killed the most men. Neither the North nor South would win. It was too late. The wild hogs had already won the war. And Christ had lost the war.

EPILOGUE The war was well over by the Johnny came limping home again. There were no crowds, no adoring girls, no shouts of hurrah, hurrah. He’d walked home all the way from Petersburg, having no other transportation, not even a horse. In Richmond they’d all been starved, blown to bits or eaten by soldiers or civilians. West of Richmond his money was worthless. So Johnny walked. Behind him he left a Richmond in flames, burning with such a bright flame that he could still see it’s glow, still see its smoke spiraling into the sky, a hundred miles away. His own men had torched the hospital where he’d been quartered on April 1st, 1865, as Grant neared. Only charred wood and blackened marble remained for the victors by the time they occupied the city April 2nd.

He began walking towards Southwest Virginia eleven days before Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Station on April 9, 1865. He was still walking in late May when the last guerilla operations were finally ending on the Texas/Mexican borders as Rebel guerillas made their last desperate attempts to escape. During that month Johnny was picked up six times by Federal patrols, each of which listened to him swear allegiance to the USA and let him continue.

On the first of June, 1865, he knocked on the door of his old farm in Russell County and stared several long moments into his Anna’s eyes. She had hardened during his absence and didn’t cry. But he did . . . grabbing her and holding on so tight and long she finally had to peel his arms from around her neck. Then he stepped into the house, gazed at Maggie’s face as she lay sleeping in a crib and fell face down on his old bed.

There he slept for over 26

hours, waking only to sip hot pea soup and listen to a few passages from the New Testament before again drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep in which nothing living or dead dared materialize in his mind or whisper in his ears. Anna as she waited also began to weep – and Maggie kept ogling, smiling, drooling and clapping her hands together, bubbling in baby talk, “Dat Daddy? Dat Daddy?” Anna nodded. She put the child in bed with him – Maggie ran her hands over his face, feeling his nose, his eyes, his bearded chin . . . . Her touches didn’t wake him so Anna only watched and waited. That was all she could do till Johnny decided – somewhere in the depths of his unconscious mind – to return to the land of the living.

He hadn’t had an easy time of it after Cold Harbor. Ten days after the slaughter, on June 16 th, he and the rest of Pickett’s Division were ordered to double-quick march back to Bermuda Hundred. They were told to trot like horses, so great was the rush. They had to get all the way back before nightfall.

General Lee had been hoodwinked. Grant had sneaked his army away from the Cold Harbor line secretly on th

June 12 . Lee had thought Grant would stay on the north side of the James River, tensed up like a wolverine while finding a better vantage point from which to strike Richmond. But Grant was as much weasel as wolverine. While the whole Confederacy was massing against him on the north side of the river, Grant had marched his whole army to the south side on giant pontoon bridges. He was going for Petersburg first.

By the time Lee realized what had happened on June 15th, he could only metaphorically kick Beauregard’s ass to get his men to Petersburg in time to slow down the Yankee assault. That meant Beauregard had only a few hours to strip his Howlett Line of every man but a tiny guard. This would release Butler’s trapped troops to join the offensive against Petersburg unless Pickett’s Division could contain them in time.

So Johnny found himself ordered to again bottle up the Union’s Army of the James at Bermuda Hundred. He was glad enough to get out of the stinking trenches, but living so long under such conditions had taken its toll on his health. Even before he left, he was seeing hallucinations and hearing voices every night as alternating fits of freezing and burning-up hit during the night. He was a sick, sick man. Half-mad, his mouth would froth . . . . Every night the hogs of Cold Harbor would visit him, squealing and laughing – some of them with human heads in their jaws, heads

that looked at Johnny and begged to be saved. Every night Holland would hang again. Malaria. It visited without fail.

Malarial delirium – that disease of the night. So during the day Johnny’s head whirlwinds and electrical storms inside, left over from the visions of madness at night.

In addition, so much time in the trenches had left Johnny’s muscles sore and stiff. The marching was painful because he couldn’t stand upright -- his back was arched into a bow that refused straighten up. The muscles of his legs were just as bad – cramping into knots as he walked. So he marched as if he’d been shot in the stomach, leaning forward as the pain tried to pull him to the ground. He lurched with each step. Porcino didn’t like it but Johnny didn’t care – he slogged along, dragging his musket behind him in the dirt.

Nevertheless, on June 16th, Johnny began marching due south at daylight, crossed Chaffin’s and Drewery’s Bluff again, crossed the James and entered Telegraph Road below the same half-way house they’d passed and taken on the way up. Johnny felt an understandable rage that they’d have to drive the Army of the James back again, just as they’d just done a month earlier. How many times must a man be a hero, he wondered? How many times a fool?

The Yankees started shooting at them again at the half-way house and Johnny joined his buddies in firing back. It was vicious firefight and many men died who had survived before. It wasn’t fair, he thought – but then he’d think of the hogs of Cold Harbor and, in his heart, he’d not give a damn anymore. The hogs were the victors – so this was just a last attempt to get him gut-shot or cannon-kilt before the war ended. Patriot, hell! Patriotism was for the general officers who were well paid to be heroes and loved to make their men bleed for glory. As for him, he’d had enough – the hell with it.

Besides the constant musket fire zipping through his ranks, Johnny’s unit was repeatedly shelled with massive cannonballs lobbed from Union gunboats on the Neuse River. One man was blown in half by a direct hit. For ten or fifteen seconds his top half looked around incredulously, his mouth moving with silent curse words, until he saw his hips and legs twitching ten feet away. Seeing this convinced him he was dead and he shut his eyes, hissed like an alligator and flopped over on his face. Another had a pumpkin sized ball hit in front of him -- roll right over him – and crush him into a five-inch thick slab of bone, guts, muscle and skin. He looked like an enormous steak, six feet long and three wide.

Johnny upon seeing this remembered Holland’s words, “Our skin is our flag now”. So he stuck the slab of dead-man through the head with his bayonet, held it up in the air and tried to wave it back and forth like a slimy, soggy flag. But the dead man refused to wave – he only flopped unhappily to the left, then the right. The dead man didn’t want to be a flag – he wanted to be a dead man. Nevertheless, Johnny held the crushed carcass high and did his best to wave it, no matter how much the dead man objected. Johnny felt giddy – maybe it was the Malaria, maybe he was just going mad. At any rate, he wagged the flag of human meat back and forth in the night, shouting, “Rally round the flag, boys, rally round the flag!”

His Southwestern Virginia friends tackled him to the ground and forced some brandy down his throat.

Johnny was a sick man – the malaria was taking more than its toll. They covered him with blankets and guarded him with loaded rifles. Not everyone realized he was maddened by the illness – they thought he was just giving up the Cause. The “flag” was rolled up into a tight little scroll to be buried later. It was indeed the flag of the South. . . .

The battle raged till dark but by midnight Pickett’s Division had repossessed the Confederate breastworks left unmanned by Beauregard. The Union’s Army of the James was back in its bottle and all was well . . . so to speak.

Johnny was again entrenched behind the rebel fortifications on the Howlett Line in front of Bermuda Hundred. He was to stay there, under fire every day, for the next four months. He was struck with a piece of shrapnel once but fifteen stitches with wire fixed him up enough fight on. His malaria, unfortunately, could not be stitched.

Of course we could fill another book with Johnny’s adventures here but like the South, we’ve flat out run out

of time. Johnny’s attacks of malarial fever continued to get worse. The hallucinatory hogs of Cold Harbor began to chase him around the camp at night. They wanted his meat for their locker in the lake. On October 19 th, Johnny wrote this entry: “Monday. Finds me very weak, take more quinine. Seeing visions every night now. Wild hogs chase me. The Dr. says fever is nothing, he has been with it all his life and pronounces my case is not very dangerous.”

Then on the 27th Johnny had tooth pulled out with a pair of pliers. No anesthetic. He bled profusely and fell into the worse deliriums he’d ever experienced that night. He was free in his mad dreams – he ran with the wild hogs – he watched humans from the mountaintops. He pulled bodies out of Powhite lake and munched on human hands as if they were crunchy candy and nibbled at human feet as he were nibbling pickled pig’s feet at the Russell County Hog Killing Day Festival and Square Dance. Dosey Doe My Darling – Dosey Doe My Darling . . . . He made love to his Anna beneath the cadaver of the hog’s Christ, who smiled upon them . . . . He laughed hysterically in his delirium and tapped his foot to a tune . . . . He tried to get up and dance but his buddies held him down until he squealed in anger . . . .

This seems to have been the final factor of his breakdown. He shows interest in the war, especially around his home, for a few more days, then there’s a final entry on October 11th, 1864: “ Tuesday. Finds me still sick, no medicine, all quiet in our front, hear heavy artillery firing towards Dutch Gap.” Then there is no more diary.

As for Johnny, there was still a Johnny. After a few weeks at home, he regained enough strength to talk to visitors. Two were let in to see him on the fourth of July. His heart pounded with an indescribable joy when he recognized Napoleon Bonaparte and Isaac Garrett standing by his bed! He couldn’t get over it – they’d both survived.

Napoleon had been shot with an old-fashioned round musket ball instead of a Minie ball and the doctors had managed to plug the wound. Isaac had been captured by the Yanks and given time to heal in a prisoner of war camp.

At the end of the war, they’d both been pardoned and both returned to Russell county, where, like Johnny, they just wanted to farm and live and take life slow . . . breathing the wind that is free and cold, walking the paths that are unguarded and endless, climbing the mountains that take you to the freedom you so sought when lying in the trenches of Cold Harbor. The three men, Johnny lying in bed, a fire roaring in the fireplace, his hounds yawning in the heat, tobacco smoke hanging in the air, spirits in tin cups . . . they were home. Oh god, they were home at last.

Three months passed. Johnny’s will survived and grew strong. His muscles repaired themselves and his bones stopped aching. The malaria didn’t go away – it never does – but the hallucinations of wild hogs didn’t frighten him for he loved the wild hogs now and wished he could run with them . . . through the laurel mountain tops, through the shady trails in the hollers, over the grassy hills, on to the Cold Harbor swamps . . . free . . . .

One night there was a heartrending cry from the barn and Johnny rushed to check on his animals. His sow was having a litter of piglets – he held them and kissed them – and swore he’d release them all at Cold Harbor come next spring. Life was going on. It was returning to normal. Johnny Hess was back in paradise. He’d learned the great lesson of the world – tend your own garden and let the world spin, let it whirl its mad way through the stars, – race through the universe. Meanwhile he would love his Anna and grow his crops and raise his cattle. As for the hogs . . . well, he’d never be able to harm them again. They were human, all too human. He often thought kindly of the hogs of Cold Harbor – even on those nights when he woke up screaming and Anna had to hold him close until he stopped shaking.

THE END

Appendix

The Original Unpublished Diary as Written by:

Private John Henry Hess, CSA Company G, 29th Regiment, Corses’ Brigade, Pickett’s Division, Longstreet’s Corps 1862 – 1864

With Permission of Diary’s Owner, Barry Hess – Great grandson of John Henry Hess (Original in possession of Dr. Ralph Hess, Charlottesville, Virginia)

October, 1862: October 8th. th

9 .

Arrived after a journey of near two weeks at Lexington, Ky, a beautiful city.

Stayed at the fair grounds in Lexington. Late in the evening left the city of Lexington and marched

several miles and laid down to sleep.

10th.

Marched through Nickolesville to Hickman’s Bridge, about 15 miles, a ver wet day.

th

Left the Bridge and marched to Bryantville and camped for the night.

th

12 .

Left Bryantville early and went back to Hickman’s Bridge on the Ky. River.

14th.

Stayed at the Bridge, expecting a fight.

11 .

th.

Left Hickman’s Bridge and started on the retreat from Ky.

st

We arrived at Saltville. (sic: author apparently meant Salyersville, as Saltville is in Va.)

nd

22 .

Rested there. Got coarse corn meal, our bread rations very small.

23rd.

Continued our march out of Ky.

15

21 .

November, 1862: 1st.

G. Marshall’s command arrived at Abingdon, Va. All were glad to get to Va. Several of our company

went home without permission to recruit up and rest ourselves. Our friends visit us and we fare very well. Weather tolerable cold on the 10th.

9th.

Left Abingdon and went to Wytheville on a freight train, a distance of 54 miles. Went into camp at

Camp Jackson and had a very good time. Absentees return.

15th.

Left Camp Jackson, Wytheville, and marched several miles and took up camp on Mr. Crockett’s farm.

th

th

16 and 17 . th

18 .

All quiet in camp. Mr. Crockett gave us all a mess of Irish potatoes.

Marched to the Crab Orchard, the county seat of Bland County.

December, 1862: 1st.

All still in camp in Bland.

th

th

th

5 , 6 , 19 . th

At home.

20 .

Started for my regiment. Laid over at Wytheville.

22nd.

Traveled. Arrived in Richmond for the night. Went with a friend to the Spotswood Hotel.

rd

Reached the regiment, found it 7 miles below Richmond.

th

We marched to Petersburg, a distance of 16 miles. Went into camp near the city cemetery. We have

23 .

24 .

much that is strange and uncommon to gaze at.

25th. th

26 .

Christmas remained quiet in camp near the city.

Moved out 3 miles from the city and went into camp.

January, 1863: 1st. th

6 .

Finds us in camp 3 miles from the city of Petersburg.

Our company (Company G) detached from the regiment and sent on duty to City Point, 10 miles from

Petersburg, a good deal of duty to perform. It was light and interesting. Witnessed the coming and going of Flag of Truce, boats, and the exchange of prisoners. A beautiful place, a nice view of the James and Appomattox Rivers. Got plenty of persimmons.

14th. th

15 .

Our company relieved, we return to the regiment near Petersburg.

Harvey Miller goes home.

31st.

Drew clothing.

February, 1863: 1st. th

9 . th

29 .

Still in camp near Petersburg.

Visited S. W. Aston.

On Provost duty at Petersburg. A portion of our company detailed for train guard, very soft duty. Our

quarters in the city. Have a nice time.

March, 1863: 1st. th

25 .

Still on duty in the city.

Relieved from duty at Petersburg and started on the march to Ivon Station, 29 th regiment reached

Ivon Station and joined Corse’s Brigade.

April, 1863: 1st.

In camp at Ivon. Colonel Herbert in command of our regiment.

9th.

Left Ivon Station and marched to Franklin Station on the Blackwater River, went in two days.

th

11 .

We left Franklin and marched to Suffolk, a distance of 25 miles. Passed wild hogs watching us as we

marched through Dismal Swamp. We prayed together it wasn’t omen.

12th.

We laid siege to Suffolk under General Longstreet.

May, 1863: 1st.

At our entrenchments near Suffolk. Saw dead Yank cut open like hog.

3rd.

Left Suffolk.

th

Arrived at Petersburg.

th

Moved to Falling Creek in 7 miles of Richmond and took up camp.

8 .

9 . th

10 .

Marched through Richmond.

17th.

Went to Hanover Junction and the 3rd started on an expedition to New Town in King and Queen Co.

11th. (Sic)

Our Brigade started to join the Division at Culpepper, marched 2 days and then about-faced and came

back to Taylorsville.

25th.

Taylorsville and went to Gordonsville on the cars.

July, 1863: 1st.

In camp at Gordonsville.

3rd.

Have fine times.

th

7 .

8th. th

Heard about Gettysburg from Sgt. Mjr. of 2nd N.C. Cavalry.

Left Gordonsville and started on the march to Winchester, Va.

14 .

Arrived at Winchester, an exceedingly wet day.

20th.

Left Winchester and marched Cedarville, some 20 miles.

st

21 .

Continued the march, waded both forks of the Shenandoah River, took possession of Chester Gap in

the Blue Ridge and had a skirmish with the Yankee cavalry. I shot one dead. N. C. Sgt. Mjr. with us. One of the 29 th

killed. Pickett's Division comes up.

22nd.

Our Brigade joins the Division. Left Chester Gap in the evening and marched all night.

rd

23 .

Continued to march hard.

24th.

Arrived at Culpepper Court House Station.

August, 1863: 1st.

Left Culpepper Court House and marched to Rapidan Station, a distance of 15 miles.

2nd.

Remained in that place.

rd

3 .

Moved down the river within 8 miles of Orange Court House and took up camp.

September, 1863: 7th.

Pickett's Division left camp on the Rapidan in Orange County. On the evening of the 12 th after 5 days

hard marching we arrived in 3 miles of Richmond.

13th.

Sunday. Our Brigade marched through Richmond and took the cars for Petersburg.

th

14 .

Our Brigade left Petersburg in the evening on the South side train bound for East Tenn.

25th.

Had a skirmish with the Yankees at Zollicoffer.

th

26 .

Remained in line of battle. Wild hogs watch us. One shot and ran in woods. I got real sick. Fell out

of line of battle. Hid with hurt hog till spell passed. Hog OK. I went back to battle.

29th.

Left Zollicoffer and went down to Watauga River. Had some sheep or mutton.

October, 1863: 1st.

Started to Petersburg.

th

5 .

Arrived at Petersburg.

6th, 7th.

Cleaned off a camp.

th

8 , 10th. th

th

11 , 12 . th

Drew Tents and clothes and blankets.

Seeing fine times in camp.

13 .

Left Petersburg in return to East Tenn.

16th.

Arrived at (unintelligible).

November, 1863: 1st.

In camp near Blountville, Tenn.

25th.

Left Blountville and marched to Kingsport about 20 miles.

December, 1863: 20th.

At Bean Station.

25th.

In camp 4 miles east of Rogersville.

th

29 .

Crossed the Holston in a ferryboat.

January, 1864: 1st. th

8 . th

15 .

Near Whitesburg, Tenn.

Marched from Whitesburg to Bull's Gap, a distance of 7 miles.

Marched from the Gap to Morristown, 17 miles.

17th, 18th.

Marched several miles. Went near Dandridge, Tenn. The Yankees returned and we escaped a fight.

th

Got back to old camp near Bulls Gap, after taking a very hard trip.

nd

Our brigade left Bulls Gap and started on the march to Va. Arrived at Bristol on the 26 th, received

20 .

22 .

letter from brother and home, a distance of 80 miles. Got on cars that night.

30th. st

31 .

We arrived at Kinston, North Carolina, a ride of the cars of 450 miles. Camp near Kinston.

Start to Newbern.

February, 1864: 1st.

General Pickett attacks Newbern. Our regiment engaged in skirmish at Bachelor's (sic, "Batchelders")

Creek.

2nd.

Lay in line of battle near Newbern.

3rd.

Leave Newbern.

th

Arrived back to Kinston, a distance of 40 miles.

th

Leave Kinston.

th

7 .

Reach Goldsboro, a distance of 30 miles.

14th.

22 from Bachelor’s Creek blockhouse to hang as deserters.

4 .

5 .

th

15 .

Company G sent back to Kinston to bury deserters. We watch. Horrible.

March, 1864: 1st.

Our brigade camps at Goldsboro.

nd

2 .

Start on the march to Kinston. Went about 10 miles when we got orders to go to Richmond, Virginia.

We return to Goldsboro and get on the cars and get as far as Weldon, N. C. when the orders were countermanded.

4th.

We return to Goldsboro.

7th.

Corse's Brigade started on the march to Kinston.

th

8 . th

15 .

Arrive there and take up camp on the south side of Neuse River.

S. P. Fuller, Lt. Samuel Leece, and John M. Price start home on furlough. We have good preaching.

April, 1864: 13th. th

17 .

The boys return from furlough. We receive them joyfully.

Went to within 12 miles of Newbern to make a demonstration on the place while Hoke attacked

Plymouth, N. C. 18th.

Returned to our camp at Kinston.

th

No drill in the evening.

th

Grand review, inspection of arms and muster for pay.

29 .

30 .

May, 1864: 1st.

Sunday, rained a little, prevented preaching. Capt. Smith and John Price return to Co.

nd

Got marching orders, wrote a letter to brother Harry.

rd

Started on the march to Newbern with four days rations. Marched 25 miles and camped near Trent

2 .

3 .

River.

4th. th

5 .

Continued the march, passed through the town of Trenton, went 12 to 15 miles.

Took up line of march early, moved slowly, reached the Yankee Blockhouse. We advanced slowly and

formed in line, battle about 4 o'clock. Gen. Hoke in a few shots from our cannon, and the Yankees left their Blockhouse. About 1 o'clock the Yankees shelled us from their R. R. Monitor and gunboats on the Neuse, very bitter infantry fighting. Wild hogs watch from mountaintops. Left in line of battle during night. Roused up early at 7 o'clock. Gen. Hoke sent a flag of truce into Newbern. All quiet along the lines. Flag of true return at 10 o'clock. We then retired from Newbern, marched 10 miles and camped for the night.

7th.

Proceeded on the march, passed through Pollocksville, crossed Trent River at that place on a pontoon

bridge, very hot and dusty. Marched about 20 miles.

8th.

Sunday. We got back to our camp at Kinston, marched about 14 miles in 6 hours, almost overcome by

the heat and dust when arrived to camp. Went to the Neuse, too a bath and put on clean clothes. Got orders to fix up to go to Va. 9th.

Still under moving orders. Wrote a letter home, went into Kinston, ready to take the train, lay there

all day. Leave Kinston at 10 o'clock on the cars in the night.

10th.

At daylight at Goldsboro. Get to Weldon in evening and change cars. The RR track having been torn

up and bridge burned at Stony Creek, we had to march 12 miles that night.

11th.

Arrived at Petersburg about 10 o'clock. The people of the city glad to see us and treat us well. Drew

some rations at 1 o'clock, we moved in the direction of Richmond, on the main road, expect a fight. Our company deployed as skirmishes to protect the flank as we marched. Moved 9 or 10 miles and stopped for the night. Under arms all night.

12th.

Moved a short distance further and formed in line of battle at the Half-way House between Petersburg

and Richmond. Hard rain in the morning. Skirmishing commenced about 11 o'clock and was kept up heavily all day.

There was also some cannonading, our skirmishers were driven back. Firing ceased at dark when we fell back to the first Breastworks around Richmond and Drewry's Bluff.

13th.

We formed in line of fight behind our works and sent out skirmishers. The enemy advanced

cautiously. Near the middle of the day the Yankees flanked our works, and we had to abandon them. Heavy skirmishing and cannonading that evening, a general engagement was expected. Lay in line of battle that night in open field.

14th.

Before daylight we fell back to the second line of fortifications which protected Drewry's Bluff. Our

company went out on skirmish deployed on a line about 300 yards in front of the line of battle. Heavy skirmishing along the line of our division all day, also a good deal of cannonading. At 3 o'clock the Yankee pickets advanced in a heavy line on us. Many being out of ammunition we had to fall back to the breastworks during which time I was struck with a minie ball on the back, passing through coat and blanket. Park Garrett (typist's note: Napoleon Bonaparte Garrett) and a great many of the other regiment were wounded, some killed. Major Haynes among the wounded. The Yankees having our skirmish line they annoy us a great deal with their sharpshooting.

15th.

Sunday. Lay close behind our breastworks. Could not raise our heads above the works without being

shot at. The Yanks formed us in the evening. All tolerable quiet Sunday night.

16th.

Monday. Morning foggy. The noise of battle was commenced by canon and sharpshooting. At 8

o'clock a.m. our whole line made a charge on the Yankees. Our brigade was on the right and farthest from Drewry's Bluff. We drove the Yankees and retook the works. We left on the 16 th. Many were killed and wounded on our side.

The Yankee loss greater than ours. 150 of our regiment were killed and wounded. Witness the horrible sight of a battlefield.

17th.

Tuesday. Followed up the Yankees, moved very slowly. General Beauregard rode by us. Came up with

the enemy at Bermuda Hundred and formed a line of battle, threw up fortifications, skirmish fighting during the

night. Our company reinforced the skirmish line, dug rifle pits, got no sleep.

18th.

Wednesday. Early in the morning our skirmish line advanced to find out the position of the Yankees.

Heavy skirmishing all day -- an awful day on us. Capt. Smith and George Anderson wounded, relieved at night. We got to the line of battle and enjoyed one night's sleep.

19th.

Thursday. In line of battle behind our breastworks. Awaked from our morning slumbers by a grand

chorus of artillery. Beauregard opened several pieces on the Yanks, but little firing during the day. Received marching orders. Left battle line at 8 o'clock p.m. Traveled all night, went by Drewry's Bluff. Lay down on the roadside in 3 miles of Richmond and slept 2 hours, which brought daylight.

20th.

Friday. Early in the morning our brigade marched into the Capitol Square in Richmond. Slacked

down and lay down to rest and wait for trains to carry us to General Lee. Got good water. Met with old friends. Many ladies walk in the square to look at us soldiers. Saw Congress in session. Hon. McMullen complimented the 29 th. In a speech. A pleasant day for us. Slept in Square at night.

21st.

Saturday. Our brigade left Richmond at daylight on the Fredericksburg RR, rode 30 miles and got off

the cars at Penola Station, Carolina County -- moved out on a road and stayed in line of battle all night in less than a mile of Grant's 5th army corps. Two of Co. G left.

22nd.

Sunday. Marched to Hanover Junction. Ewell's Corps passed us. We stopped on the south side of the

North Anna River and camped. I heard the brother was captured, but glad it was false.

23rd.

Monday. Our troops all moving. General Lee formed his line along the North Anna. There our

brigade joined the division again, stayed near Hanover Junction all day. Soon after dark our division marched out on Central RR, at daylight we formed in line of battle in reserve and fortified.

24th.

Tuesday. In line of battle. In the evening heavy fighting at the bridge over North Anna River. The

Yankees charge with several lines of battle. We get orders to reinforce.

25th.

Wednesday. Still in fighting now. Some skirmish firing along the line in our front. The Yankees

threw some shell over us.

26th. th

27 .

Thursday. All quiet except a little picket firing.

Friday. We move from our position on the C. RR., marched 15 miles and slept within 10 miles of

Richmond. A very had march on us. Grant moving over to the Peninsula.

28th.

Saturday. Marched about 10 miles, 8 miles east of Richmond, still in Hanover Co., passed Capt.

Vaughter. Saw General Lee. All out of rations. Drew meat and crackers at 10 o'clock at night. After eating betook ourselves to sleep.

29th.

Sunday. The most quiet we experienced in 3 weeks. Near no hostile guns. Preaching in our regiment

and the 15th also.

30th.

Monday. Got orders to be ready to move. Drew some rations. Our division moved to the line of

battle. Got into position about midnight, fortified, but little.

31st.

Tuesday. In line behind our hardy works. I went to see Cousin Henry, who was a short distance on

our right. Ewell's Corps moved to the left in evening. We moved to our right. Co. G on picket line at night, no sleep.

June, 1864 1st.

Wednesday. Move again to our right and establish our line and fortify. The Yankees make a charge

on McLaws Division, which joined us on the right. Our skirmish line fell back. Our Co. relieved. The Yankees were repulsed.

2nd.

Thursday. Lay behind our works, a good deal of fighting all day.

3rd.

Friday. Heavy cannoning. The Yankees charge Hoke's and Breckinridge's lines. They are repulsed

with slaughter.

4th.

Saturday. Nothing of interest occurs. Skirmishers keep up a slow firing all day. The Yankees made a

demonstration in our front as if to charge us. Our Co. went on the skirmish line at night.

5th.

Sunday. A disagreeable day to Co. G. Rained on us all day, had to lay close to our muddy rifle pits. A

little firing all day. Lebbern Cumbow relieved at night.

6th.

Monday. In line behind our fortifications. Slow firing on the skirmish line. Got orders to be ready to

move, have to lay low from the Yankee sharpshooters. Get plenty of eat.

7th.

Tuesday. The Yankees shell our lines of battle. Got letter from home, answered it. General Early

made a flank movement on the enemy and drove him some distance.

8th.

Wednesday. Our skirmish line advanced about 100 yards and established a new line. One of our

regiment killed, some wounded and captured. A Continual bang, bang, bang, and pop, pop, on the picket line as usual.

Gent Fuller returns to Co. having been very sick.

9th.

Thursday. Have to still listen to the noise of skirmishing and artillery. It being almost incessant day

after day. Cousin came and spent the evening with us. Co. G went on the skirmish line at night, have to watch the Yanks close, no sleep.

10th.

Friday. On front line, seemingly a long day, very warm, but little firing. See very few Yankees, though

very close to them. They keep their heads low behind their works. Relieved at night, return to line of battle. Get rations and sleep. Lt. Fuller sick, goes back to wagons.

11th.

Saturday. Morning spent checking swamp. Wild hogs had eaten dead and wounded Yanks. Some

wounded alive in water. Beyond help. One came out, had to execute. Found unwounded Rebel. Returned him to command. Continued skirmishing and artillery firing. Ewell's Corps camped a mile in our rear.

12th.

Sunday. Rebel from swamp hung as deserter. Rather dull skirmishing, kept up their usual noise. The

Yankees shell us from their monitor guns. I was struck with a piece of shell. Cousin came and stayed a while. All quiet during the night.

13th.

Monday. Started a letter home, received one from home. All Quiet along the lines except a little

booming from our cannon. It was soon ascertained the enemy had retired from our front. The whole of Lee's army on the move. Our division moved from the position near Cold Harbor, passed by Gaine's House, crossed the Chickahominy River by the McClellan Bridge road to within a mile and a half of Malvern Hill, a distance of 15 miles, very warm and dusty. The march hard on us, so much service in the trenches made us unfit for marching.

14th.

Tuesday. Reached near Malvern Hill, waiting the design of the enemy to be developed. Hear but little

firing, a little fight at Malvern Hill, near the river, cool night.

15th.

Wednesday. Under marching orders. Remained at our bivouac near Malvern Hill. The Yankees try

to get possession of Malvern Hill, but they do not succeed. Some of our Corps moving.

16th.

Thursday. Our Division started on the march at daylight. Marched by Chaffings Bluff to Drewry's

Bluff, crossed the James River there on a pontoon bridge, came into the Telegraph Road below the Half-way house.

The front of the Division unexpectedly fired into the Yankees near Chester a little after the middle of the day. From that till night we had heavy skirmishing. The Yankees were driven back by our skirmish line. At night we took possession of our line of breastworks that Beauregard had left that morning. One of the 29 th killed. Marched 14 miles.

17th.

Friday. In line of battle behind our fortifications at Bermuda. The left of our Brigade rested on the

river at Howlett's House. Heavy skirmishing. General Lee and Anderson (on) the field. Artillery in afternoon. The Yankees shell us from their monitors on the river. Throw 200 to 300 pound balls. Kill one and wound two in 30 th

Regt. Our Co. on picket at night, have a good position. Hear firing at Petersburg.

18th.

Saturday. Our Co. relieved from picket. I am not well. Pickett's Division deployed on one rank and

occupy the line of breastworks from Fort Clifton to the Appomattox to Howlett House on the James, a distance of 5 or 6 miles. Our cannon made a demonstration on the yanks, our skirmish line also advanced, drove in the Yankee skirmishers, run up the enemy's line of battle in breastworks, then fell back to their rifle pits. One of our regt. mortally, one slightly wounded. Hear firing at Petersburg.

19th.

Sunday. Tolerable quiet, very warm and dry. Get ice from Howlett's icehouse. The Yankees begrudge

it to us like they do everything else and throw booms at the icehouse from their boats.

20th. st

21 .

Monday. All quiet along our line. The Yankees withdrew their picket line. I am still sick.

Tuesday. Heavy artillery firing between our sight pieces and the Yankee ironclads. Jefferson Davis,

McMallory, see navy and some other gentlemen on the field. Our Co. on picket at night.

22nd.

Wednesday. Quiet along the line. Easy picket duty, very warm. Relieved at night. Our defenses

strengthened, or fortifications strong, heavy abattis in front.

23rd.

Thursday. All still except a little cannonading. Lieut. Fuller returns to company, health improved.

Fighting around Petersburg. Started letter home by McHiggenbothans RR, communications cut between me and home.

24th.

Friday. Our pickets and those of the enemy get too intimate, artillery and picket firing along the line

to keep the pickets from talking with each other.

25th.

Saturday. Quiet, except an occasional picket gun along the skirmish line. Two Yankee deserters came

into our lines. Health still bad.

26th. th

27 .

Sunday. No firing on our lines. Extremely warm day. Our Co. on picket at night.

Monday. On the skirmish line very quiet, warm day. Our scouts go close to the Yankee lines. The

enemy very friendly, get Yankee newspapers. Relieved at night.

28th.

Tuesday. Morning passed off quiet. The stillness of the afternoon was disturbed by a sound from our

siege guns, which was followed by a reply from the Yankee monitors. Several big shots were exchanged without effective results except they brought our boys who were bathing and fishing hastily to the trenches. Some Yankee deserters came into our lines, tired of war. They got to go to Richmond easy. Not well.

29th.

Wednesday. Hear cannonading towards Chaffins Bluff which proved to be our men driving some

Yankee foreigners from an oat field. All quiet along our line. Got orders to strengthen our abattis, expecting an assault by the Yankees. Night cool.

30th.

Thursday. Usual occurred.

July, 1864: 1st. nd

2 .

Friday. Usual quiet along our line. The din of battle still comes from the suburbs of Petersburg.

Saturday. All quiet except an occasional random picket gun. Very warm and dry, company on picket

at night.

3rd.

Sunday. On the skirmish line. Got orders to be very vigilant. Warm day. Relieved at night. Very

sick.

4th.

Monday. No pomp or circumstance displayed in honor of the day by the Confederates. The Yankees

fire a few cannon. They shell Petersburg in the evening.

16th. th

17 .

Saturday. Nothing unusual.

Sunday. Quiet day. Got some blackberries, our company on picket at night.

18th. th

19 .

Monday. On the skirmish line, see no Yankees. All quiet except the usual booming about Petersburg.

Tuesday. An exceedingly rainy day. The only rain in a month, much needed. John M. Price elected

brevet, see Lieutenant in Col. G. C. W. Johnson 3rd. Sgt. And Vincent Jessie 3rd. Corporal.

20th. st

21 .

Wednesday. Have some more rain, very warm.

Thursday. The Yankees disturbed the usual quiet by throwing a few shells at some four men threshing

wheat, which served to remind us that hostility had not ceased at the Howlett House.

22nd.

Friday. Nothing unusual takes place. Hear a few cannon down the river. Our company goes on

picket line in evening see no Yankees, night cool.

23rd.

Saturday. On the picket line, all quiet. Get good news from our army in Georgia.

th

Sunday. Cloudy day. Rained all night, wet and cold.

th

25 .

Monday. Cool and quiet.

26th.

Tuesday. The usual quiet prevailed. The camp in policed and breastworks repaired. Company drew

24 .

some clothing.

27th. th

28 .

Wednesday. Some of the company on picket, on picket at night.

Thursday. On the picket line, see no Yanks. The abattis in our front strengthened, an attack expected.

Get news of General Early's victory at Kearnstown, Va. 29th.

Friday. Warm day, wrote letter home. Drew four months wages of new issue. Bound up about

midnight, scared of the Yanks. Witnessed the execution of a man who deserted to the enemy from 30 th Va. Regt. He was shot at a stake, was a young man and met death very firmly. The Yankees blew up one of our batteries near Petersburg, a sharp engagement took place at same time. The Yankees were repulsed.

31st.

Sunday. Extremely warm, quiet and dull. Company on picket at night.

August, 1864: 1st.

Monday. On picket line, very warm.

nd

Tuesday. Nothing of interest takes place, weather terribly hot, usual quiet.

rd

Wednesday. Nothing of importance takes place, unusually quiet around Petersburg. The boys spend

2 .

3 .

their money freely for loaf of bread, onion, watermelons and cantaloupes and Co. drew some fresh beef.

4th. th

5 .

Thursday. Weather hot, usual quiet.

Friday. Samuel Webb starts home, sent some money by him. The common quiet disturbed in evening

by artillery fire between our heavy battery at Howlett House. The Yankees land batteries, no person hurt on our side, tremendous cannonading at Petersburg. Co. on picket duty at night.

6th.

Saturday. On the picket line, all quiet.

th

Sunday. A dull day, very warm. No rumors astir, whatsoever. No religious services.

th

Monday. Nothing of interest. Mr. Burges Hurt came from Russell to see his boys, warm day.

th

Tuesday. Weather continuous warm and dry. An immense explosion was heard and the volume of

7 .

8 .

9 .

smoke seem to raise in the direction of Bermuda, Hundred and City Point -- supposed to be the blowing up of a Yankee boat or magazine.

10th.

Wednesday. Very quiet, a force of Yankees make their appearance in Dutch Gap, their tents being

visible a distant 3miles. Fort Howlett preparing to open on them, a great deal of huckstering along our line, money very flush. Co. on picket at night.

11th. th

12 .

Thursday. On the skirmish line, no Yanks in sight.

Friday. Have orders to build a boom proof along our breastworks, a protection against mortar shells.

Warm day, quiet also.

13th.

Saturday. Work at the boom proof until too warm to labor. The usual quiet which prevailed for some

time disturbed by heavy artillery firing between ours, and the Yankees land batteries, also by the ironclads on both sides. Seven artillerymen wounded. Our men try to drive the Yankees from Dutch Gap. General Lee was present at Fort Howlett.

14th.

Sunday. Weather very warm and sultry. The solemnity of the day was broken buy the noise of battle.

Fighting began early in the vicinity of Dutch Gap and continued with intervals through the day. Artillery and musketry heard distinctly at Fort Howlett. Our men held their position. An immense smoke across the river. In evening received orders to hold ourselves in readiness to move at a moment’s notice. Company on picket at night.

Orders to be watchful, have a little rain.

15th.

Monday. Finds us vigilant on the picket line. The heat which on Sunday had reached as high as it

ever gets on this mundane sphere was somewhat dispersed. The little thundershower in the night and the morning was temperate.

16th.

Tuesday. Fighting continues across the river, heavy cannonading. The Yankee gun boats busy. Work

on our boom proof, very warm.

17th.

Wednesday. Artillery firing in the region of Dutch Gap, also at Fort Howlett. Work on our boom

proof. A thundercloud arose from out of the northwest and passed over the south muttering premonitory growls and gave us a refreshing baptism of rain.

18th.

Thursday. Have a fine rain during the day, refreshing to man and beast. Hear the noise of battle

across the river beyond Dutch Gap. Also hear cannonading at Petersburg. Fort Howlett also took part in the thundering chorus of artillery. A Yankee prisoner brought in.

19th.

Friday. A fight took place two miles below Petersburg on the Weldon RR. Our troops victors. A wet

day. On the picket line at night, have a wet line.

20th.

Saturday. Rainy, the clouds lowering. Looked for the Yankees to make an assault on our line before

daylight.

21st.

Sunday. Cloudy and hear the din of hard fighting at Petersburg. Yankee forces leave the north side of

James River.

22nd.

Monday. No satisfactory news about fight at Petersburg. Vincent Browning visited our company.

rd

Tuesday. Mr. Browning returns to Richmond. Company on picket at night.

th

Wednesday. On picket line. Very warm. Got orders to advance the skirmish line but did not have to

23 .

24 .

advance. Glad to be relieved. Two Yankee deserters came to us.

25th.

Thursday. At daylight our skirmishers advanced on the Yankees to straighten the picket line in one

place and also to feel the strength of the enemy. The noise of hostile guns boom roused us from our morning slumbers and we flew to arms and cartridge box. Seven of our brigade wounded. About 25 of the other brigades killed, wounded and captured. The peace and quiet which had reigned so long along our line disturbed. Some artillery firing along the line and at Fort Howlett during the day. 60 Yankees captured.

26th.

Friday. A little artillery firing along our line in front of Bermuda Hundred, also had some

cannonading on the river about Dutch Gap. Drew 2 months wages, plenty of hucksters, a heavy rain at night.

27th.

Saturday. Very warm, a few cannon fired along our line -- also some on the river. The peace

sentiment discussed a great deal. Co. On picket at night.

28th.

Sunday. All quiet in front of Bermuda -- mortar shooting about Dutch Gap. Nothing unusual on the

picket line, the Yankees will to exchange papers, passed the day a little better than common on the picket line. The

subject of peace a general topic of conservation.

29th.

Monday. Anxious anticipation about the result of the Chicago convention, quiet around the

circumference of war except the continued mortar shelling at Dutch Gap both from the gunboats and land batteries.

30th. st

31 .

Tuesday. Nothing of uncommon occurrence in war circles.

Wednesday. Inspection of arms and muster for pay. Mortars busy at Dutch Gap. Butler building an

observatory near Dutch Gap. On picket at night.

September, 1864: 1st.

Thursday. Our picket line all very quiet, weather feels very much like fall of year, went out to front to

exchange papers with the Yankees and to circulate general orders, 65 around them but they would not trade with me.

2nd.

Friday. The good old month of September comes in but brings few joys for us soldiers, news of

McClellan being nominated for President in the north, also Pendleton for vice President at Chicago, great cheering among the Yankees.

3rd. th

4 .

Saturday. Weather pleasantly cool, chills and fever in camp, but little news of importance.

Sunday. Weather pleasant, all usually quiet, got unpleasant news from Atlanta, Georgia, Cousin

Clarbourn sent to hospital.

5th.

Monday. All quiet, come up a thunderstorm in evening – immense amount of lightning. Lightning

and wet night on us, our house leaked. Gen. Corse took command again having been absent, sick.

6th.

Tuesday. A drizzly day, of interest nothing on the picket line. Orders more strict on account of the

men being too intimate with the Yankees.

7th.

Wednesday. Weather cool, attending young men’s Christian Association at night, very pleasant

meeting indeed.

8th.

Thursday. Nothing uncommon, artillery firing continues around Dutch Gap. An occasional gun at

Petersburg reminded us of hostilities there.

9th. th

Friday. Nothing uncommon in our circles.

10 .

Saturday. Quiet day.

11.th.

Sunday. Preaching at 15 Va. Regt.

12th.

Monday. Weather cool, Fort Dantsler fired a few rounds at the Yankee lookout.

th

Tuesday. Weather continues cool, detached from Co.

th

Wednesday. Artillery firing at Dutch Gap Dantsler.

th

15 .

Thursday. Weather cool, our Co. received 25 or 30 boxes of provisions from home.

16th.

Friday. Lieut. Samual Harris returned from home to co. Got some onions. I have a bad cold, very sick

13 .

14 .

at night, sleep none.

17th. th

18 .

Saturday. Finds me still sick with fever, take medicine, feel some better in evening, all quiet.

Sunday. Feel very bad, take quinine pills, suffer much at night. A great many of our co. have the chills

and fever.

19th.

Monday. Finds me very weak, take more quinine. Seeing visions every night now. Wild hogs chase

me. The Dr. says fever is nothing, he has been with it all his life and pronounces my case not very dangerous, which I was to hear.

20th.

Tuesday. Finds me much weakened from the effects of medicine, but feel some better this morning.

All still, but the sound of drums over toward Yankeedom, which appears to be a favorite amusement with them.

21st.

Wednesday. The quietude disturbed by heavy cannonading all along our line in the morning, rained

all night.

22nd. rd

23 .

Thursday. Warm and pleasant, cloudy day, clouds very heavy and lowering, rained at night.

Friday. Cloudy and warm, feel much better. Digging a ditch in front of our breastworks and building

boom proofs in the rear of it. Commenced raining about 10 o’clock.

24th.

Saturday. Rainy day, heavy artillery firing at Petersburg. The Yankees shell our whole line for a

salute as Gen. Early has been whipped in the valley again.

25th.

Sunday. Cool and clear, all still except one big gun firing in the direction of Dutch Gap. Preaching at

the stand of the 15th. Regt. By Rev. Parson Angus.

26th.

Monday. Cool and quiet except the almost continual firing of artillery towards Dutch Gap, a beautiful

day – so clear sweet autumn has once more visited us. “O I could be home to reap some of the delicious fruit of the glorious season of the year.” The last man has gone on furlough who was before me, perhaps my time will be next.

27th. th

28 .

Tuesday. Weather cool, all quiet, went to Cook Yard, got a tooth pulled, it pained me very much.

Wednesday. All quiet this morning except the well known cannoning at Dutch Gap. A great many

sick in our co. I am suffering very much from the effects of the tooth pulled on yesterday and still remember that gentleman with his crooked instrument called tooth drawers and his cruel surges at my jaw.

29th.

Thursday. No mail from the west, I fear RR is cut. Received orders about 10 o’clock to prepare to

move at a moment’s notice. Fighting on north side of James. The 32nd Regt. Goes for reinforcements from our brigade, our Regt. Is deployed out to fill up the vacancy. Hear heavy artillery firing. Grant is making another desperate effort for Richmond.

30th.

Friday. Wrote a letter home, wet day, turned cold at night, hear heavy artillery firing towards

Petersburg, also musketry.

October, 1864: 1st.

Saturday. Very cold and wet day, hear the roaring of the cannons mouth, both on our right and on our

left. October came in like a lion in reference both to weather and war, hear the news that our men whipped the Yankees at Petersburg, last taking 700 prisoners, also that Gen. Early had whipped them in the valley.

2nd.

Sunday. Quiet in our front, hear heavy cannonading on right and left, got no mail, pleasant day after

cold rain.

3rd. th

4 .

Monday. Yankees shell Fort Howlett vigorously in morning.

Tuesday. The Yankees shell us from their mortar guns, make us by case to our breastworks, hear the

news that Yankees are within 20 miles of Saltville with 8000 men, would like to be there to defend our homes and friends.

5th.

Wednesday. All quiet, hear the glorious news that Gen. Echols has whipped the enemy near Saltville

and is driving them towards Sandy River. All wish to hear from home.

6th.

Thursday. All quiet in our front, warm and pleasant day. Got no mail from southwest Va. Very

anxious to learn how our friends came out in the fight near Saltville.

7th.

Friday. A beautiful day, hear cannonading on the north side of the James River, get no mail from the

southwest.

8th.

Saturday. Nothing uncommon occurs on our line, got no mail from the west, but hear some

particulars about the fight near Saltville by the papers.

9th.

Sunday. Hear artillery firing towards Chaffins Bluff, get letter from home. Very cold and windy day, I

took chill in evening.

10th. th

11 .

Monday. Very cold with frost, finds me sick with chills and fever.

Tuesday. Finds me still sick, no medicine, all quiet in our front, hear heavy artillery firing towards

Dutch Gap.

End of Diary

End of The Hogs of Cold Harbor