The Better Angels of Our Nature (3 page)

“Gall darn it, Gen’al, I thought you were being dragged outa here by Rebs.”

This officer was wearing a large brown felt hat with a wide brim and a high crown of the type cowpokes wore to shield them from rain and sun. He looked as though he had just arrived from a cattle drive, only instead of leather chaps and a dust coat, he was wearing Union blue and the shoulder straps of a captain. Under the hat, his strong features had been burned permanently brown.

“Relax, Captain Jackson, there’s no one here but me and this raw recruit, whom I am instructing on the loading and discharging of a firearm. We’re enjoying ourselves enormously, aren’t we, my boy?”

The boy, who was now standing rigidly to attention, smiled saucily at the captain and saluted. “Yes sir,
enormously.
”

The officer nodded. He had known the commander too long to be surprised or alarmed by any eccentric behavior, or his fits of anxiety and rage. But it didn’t stop the captain from staring suspiciously at the boy out of small, deep-set gray eyes buried beneath thick gray brows. “Darn it, Gen’al,” said he tearing off that large hat, “I thought you were bein’ hauled outa here by Rebs.” The man had a deep, manly voice; both this and his demeanor gave the impression of someone accustomed to being obeyed without the need to raise his voice or his hand.

“Yes, yes.” Sherman placed a placating hand on the taller man’s arm. “So you said, Andy, so you said, sir.” He turned to the headquarters guard: “Good night, gentlemen, and thank you for your vigilance.”

As Sherman let the tent flap down, the lasting vision in the boy’s brain was of six open-mouthed enlisted men and one incredulous lieutenant.

“Well—just so long as yer okay, Gen’al—” said Captain Jackson, still looking distrustfully at the boy out of those gray, wrinkled eyes. He tugged on his thick Western mustache, a truly impressive affair, iron-gray like his brows and his eyes and his thick collar-length hair.

“Jesse Davis,” the boy said, introducing himself, though he hadn’t been asked.

“Boy?” Although it seemed impossible to Jesse Davis, one small gray eye got even smaller as the captain inclined that impressive head. “Did you say
Jeff
Davis?”

“No sir.” The boy laughed. “
Jesse
Davis, sir.”

“
Private
Davis?” Jackson wanted to know.

The boy did something strange then. He glanced at his sleeve, devoid of any rank, as if, it seemed to Jackson, he needed to check, and said, “Yes sir,
Private
Davis.”

The Hoosier then mumbled something that sounded like “Awell—” He slipped his Colt back into its worn leather holster and said good night to the general. He shot a final warning glance at the boy that made it crystal clear he wasn’t going far and could be back, pistol drawn, should this
Jesse
Davis, who didn’t seem to know if he was a private, turn out to be a young Rebel bushwhacker.

“Come along, Private, now it’s your turn,
load and fire!
” Sherman said excitedly.

The boy now took the general through the entire exercise, repeating word for word the exact instructions, and doing it in a bright and lively manner that showed he had understood the reason for every action and had not merely learned the procedure by rote. Even then, the Ohioan could not be silent but had to interpose excitedly every few minutes with a wave of the cigar, as though he thought, or perhaps hoped, the boy needed a refresher. How long was it since he had had a room filled with eager young faces hungry for instruction?
Too damn long.

“Splendid! Splendid! You are a fine student. You will make corporal in no time, no time at all.”

“Do you really think so, sir?”

“No question, no question. You will rise swiftly through the ranks. I myself will keep an eye on your progress.”

“
Thank you,
sir.” The boy spoke and saluted so seriously that Sherman laughed his hoarse, crackling laughter that was so much a match to his snapping, croaky speech that the boy marveled and started to laugh himself, uncertainly, nervously.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Sherman patting the boy on the shoulder. “I’m not laughing at you, my boy. Your enthusiasm is admirable, admirable, though a good soldier needs more than enthusiasm to survive. It’s the knowledge of little details of camp life that keeps men alive. I’ve always believed that distributing the raw recruits, like you, among the older men, the veterans of even one battle, those already familiar with the rigors of camp life and campaigning, will give the youngsters a better chance of survival. You can learn from your older, more experienced comrades the mechanics of drill, the care and use of arms, and all the necessary scraps of information it would otherwise take months to pick up, and in the meantime it would be too late for the raw recruit, he’d be dead. For instance, there’s a habit you might care to adopt when you go into battle. Take a piece of paper, write your name, company and regiment, and the address of your family, someone you wish to have notified should you be wounded or killed, then pin it to your coat so that the surgeon will be able to identify you.”

The boy thought for a moment and then said, “Sir, since I have no family, would it be acceptable for me to write
your
name on the paper?”

Sherman stared at the boy. The youth had a black mark at the corner of his full mouth where he had torn open the cartridge as instructed. The commander turned away, made a great fuss of finding something in his footlocker, was bent over it with his back to the boy for a full minute before he turned again and said in a voice both emotional and overbrisk,

“Read this, it will help you master drill and bayonet exercise.”

The well-worn, blue soft-cover book was entitled
Patten’s Infantry Tactics,
published in 1861. On the cover, the boy noted, was a personal endorsement by George McClellan. Knowing
that
general’s unimpressive reputation thus far in the conflict, the boy wondered if this was in the book’s favor or not. Though McClellan was indeed highly thought-of for making that unruly mob of independent-minded citizens called the Potomac Army into real soldiers, he didn’t appear very eager to march them off to fight anyone.

“Thank you very much, sir, I’ll take good care of the book and return it to you.”

“I know you will. I know you will. Yes, read it and I’ll loan you another. Wait!” Again, he was gone.

The boy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so overjoyed was he to have made such a good impression on the general his first night in camp. Now he had only to work as hard as he could, be a good soldier, and his path to Sherman’s side would be a smooth one.

“Here.” Sherman threw aside the tent flaps and handed the young soldier a brown paper bag of the type used by sutlers.

The boy peered inside. There was a piece of baked bread and a hunk of hard cheese, together with a big rosy-red apple. From his pocket Sherman took a large square biscuit.

“Have you tried this? Hardtack. Very nutritious.” He banged it on the table and coughed, clearing his throat. “Never mind.” He tossed the biscuit onto his cot. “If you’re going to become a good soldier, you need to get some flesh on those ribs.” He poked the boy in those same ribs with one bony finger. “Now go on, get out, get out, I have letters to write.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you for everything.” The young soldier hesitated, desperately searching his mind for a way to prevent his expulsion from the warm tent and enthralling company.

“Sir, will you promise to think about what I said? I’d make you the finest servant you could—”

“Out!” Without further ado, Sherman manhandled the boy backward through the opening, sending him into the chilly night to fend once more for himself.

“Gen’al?” Captain Jackson queried, observing his commander’s still-pensive, almost tortured expression as he came into the tent moments later. “Everythin’ okay, sir?”

Sherman puffed at his cigar, gazed up at his aide-de-camp with moist eyes and explained,

“I found that boy out near the Hamburg-Purdy Road. He had nothing but the uniform on his back. Some corrupt quartermaster sergeant lining his own pockets, no doubt. I advised him to pin his name on his coat before a battle. You’ve advised other recruits to do the same. He said he had no family, asked me if he might put
my
name on the paper,”

“Darn it—” said the sentimental captain, all suspicion gone, at least for the present.

Sherman sat back in his chair, his experience with the boy leading him to another in his past. “I heard today through captured prisoners that my old friends Braxton Bragg and Beauregard are out there—and all my Louisiana boys, the cadets of the academy, whom I must fight when the time comes. I remembered the fresh-faced youngsters I had drilled and instructed in infantry tactics at Benton barracks and then sent off to General Grant at Fort Donelson. I wonder how many of them are still alive, how many of them have benefited from the instruction I tried to drum into their young heads.”

“I reckon there’s many a boy still alive today and will be at the end of this war who’ll owe their survival to you, Gen’al.”

“I wish I could believe that—” Sherman said, walking to the tent flap and staring up at the sky lit by the reflection of myriad bivouac fires. “I wish I could believe that—” After a moment he said, “That boy’s earnest manner, his eagerness to learn, reminded me of Willy. I saw him plain as day, lying in a ditch somewhere, his guts spilled and a paper pinned to his bloodstained jacket, the words ‘Next of kin: Brigadier General William T. Sherman’ scribbled in his childish hand.” He turned back to his aide. “Too close to home, Andy, too close to home, sir.” He sighed, squeezed the corners of his eyes. “You are fortunate, sir, you have only daughters—how many mothers’ sons must I advise to pin a next-of-kin to their uniform before this madness is over?”

2

The very best we know how

As Jesse Davis tried to come fully to himself, he found that he was shivering uncontrollably and could hardly feel his feet. His blanket was gone and the ground beneath him was wet.

An unfamiliar sound had awoken him, the company bugler sounding reveille, summoning soldiers to roll call.

He sat up with a start and made a panic-stricken grab at his knapsack, hugging it to his narrow chest. Fortunately, he had used it as a pillow, for whoever had taken his blanket could not have robbed him of the knapsack without waking him, or knocking him senseless. He plunged his hand inside; the precious book that General Sherman had loaned him was still there. The food also. He would not go hungry even if he froze to death. The collection of utensils, plate, cup, knife and fork, bucketsized coffeepot, in fact everything given to him by the hung-over quartermaster, was gone, even the spurs. Only the infantryman’s shoulder scales remained to mock him. At least he still had his sack coat, appropriately named, since it was two sizes too large and indeed hung like a sack on his thin frame.

He gazed around him with feverish eyes. It was a mistake to have slept so far away from the center of the camps. Despite his general’s good advice, he had settled down on the edge of the camp rather than risking the ire of the men already slumbering. He hugged the knapsack closer to him, and puckered up his full mouth determinedly. One only learned by bitter experience.

He started in the direction of the tent city. The enlisted men lived in wedge tents, or “A” tents, because they looked like the letter
A.
They lined the fields as far as the densely wooded areas beyond, and outside each tent were stands of muskets, within easy reach, should there be a surprise attack during breakfast or while they slept.

At the head of each row of five tents were the officers’ tents. Ten to fifteen feet separated the companies, allowing room for the men to wash and cook. The quartermaster tent where the general had taken him the previous night was located somewhere to the rear. He could just glimpse in the distance the log house, which gave this camp its name and where the people of the area did their Sunday-morning worship.

He stood there watching as the men reluctantly threw off their warm blankets and, like him, shivered in the early-morning dampness that penetrated their bones. Men in various stages of undress, yawning, coughing, cursing, groaning, or washing, or not, in the last instance, as they struggled to prepare themselves for the day ahead, and, more urgently, for assembly, where they would answer, only half-awake, to their names.

In a little while, the smell of food cooking wafted across, accompanied by the rhythmic clinking and grinding noise that meant coffee would soon be on the boil.

Directly ahead was a row of larger wall tents, from one of these, the most prominent, flew a yellow flag. The boy watched a soldier in an infantryman’s blouse, the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve, crouching in front of a fire, a skillet in his hand. On the skillet were fatty strips of bacon. He stood there staring at the soldier frying the bacon, enjoying the sizzling sound, almost lulled by it, and the aroma of the coffee.

The corporal looked up, stared a moment and then grinned at him, dark gums where his teeth should have been. The boy blinked uncertainly. A second soldier emerged from the large white tent, an enormous man, broad-shouldered and tall with a magnificent lustrous black beard that grew to the third button on his jacket, his large head crowned by a thick head of black, wavy hair.

“What’s the matter, boy, yer hungry?” asked the first soldier, holding out the skillet as he might have offered a crumb on the palm of his hand to a nervous bird hovering near the table.

“Yes sir.”

“Then git yerself over here. I ain’t yer mama.”

The boy glanced from the corporal to the other man, whose sleeve displayed the stripes of a sergeant, beneath a sew-on badge that the boy did not recognize, and held even tighter to his knapsack.

“The boy is afraid,” said the sergeant, who had the very slightest of accents that was not American. “Don’t be afraid of us.”

“He’s scared fer sure—” said the corporal. “He’s jest a young’un too.”

“If you are hungry,” said the sergeant, “come, eat breakfast with us, we have plenty.”

The corporal went cautiously toward the youngster, who backed away. He had lost too much during the night to risk the theft of the book.

“Gently,” counseled the sergeant. “He is very nervous.”

“Kin see that, kaint ah? Nervous as a jackrabbit, aright,” agreed the corporal. “Come on, boy,” he said, going toward him, bent over as though he was getting ready to pounce, “we ain’t gonna hurt yer none.”

The young soldier moved forward toward the fire and the food. He trusted the sergeant, if not the toothless corporal. All around him now the camps were coming to life, somewhere was even the melancholy sound of a harmonica, and many of the men who moved around between the tents, lighting campfires and filling coffeepots, wore bandages, had an arm in a sling or hobbled on a crutch, as if they had been wounded. He looked into the large white tent from where the sergeant had emerged and saw a row of cots on both sides where men lay or sat.

There was sweat on the boy’s face, on his upper lip and on his brow. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. The sergeant came to meet him; quickening his pace, guessing that the boy was weak, and he lifted him effortlessly in his strong arms as the boy held tight to the knapsack, held with the last ounce of strength left in his arms. The sergeant called for a blanket as the boy closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, perhaps only a few minutes later, he was wrapped in a blanket and sitting near the fire, the knapsack still held against his chest. The sergeant was holding a tin cup to his lips and urging him to drink the warm liquid.

“Drink slowly, child, very slowly.” He laid a hand on the boy’s damp brow, a remarkably gentle hand, considering the sergeant was a giant of a man with hands to match. “There is no fever.” He spoke with the authority of one who knows from experience.

“Thank…thank you…sir…” the boy stammered. “I wasn’t afraid, sir—”

“No, just cold, and hungry, I think.” The sergeant’s full red lips parted in a reassuring smile.

“Does he wanna eat sumpthin’?” asked the corporal, coming into view at the left corner of the boy’s sight as he dangled a slice of bacon dripping grease onto the earth. He peered into the young soldier’s pale, generously freckled face. “Bacon grease and oatmeal. Good fer what ails yer.”

“Just the drink…thank you, sir…” the boy said, cupping his hands around the tin cup that the sergeant was still patiently holding for him. “Coffee?”

“Tea,” said the sergeant, “better for your stomach.” He drew the blanket closer around the boy’s narrow shoulders and inquired, “How is that?”

“Warm, sir, thank you.”

“I am Sergeant Jacob De Groot, and your name is…?”

“Jesse Davis. Pleased to meet you, sir.” The boy extracted his right hand from the folds of the blanket and offered it to the sergeant, who grasped it tightly. His rich laughter warmed the boy almost as much as the tea and the blanket. To the corporal he said, “Pleased to meet you too, sir.”

“Sir, is it? Well, least he’s po-lite.” The corporal poked the boy in the ribs like a housewife checking for meat on a hen before parting with any money. “Though seems to me if’in he’s what they’re enlistin’ these days we ain’t never gonna whip those Rebs, not in a month a Sundays. That there boy don’t look strong ’nough to lift a musket. A whole darn regimint a boys like him ain’t worth spit.”

“Not only can I
lift
a musket, sir, I can load and fire one,” said Jesse Davis. “General Sherman
himself
taught me how!”

“Pfufff! Now yer don’t have to go makin’ up no stories jest to prove a point.”

“General Sherman advised me to find veteran soldiers who would show me what I needed to know to survive. You look like a veteran soldier, sir.”

“Well, now, ain’t that jest like old Gen. Sherman, always handin’ out good advice to anyone who’ll listen.” To the sergeant he said, “Boy’s soft in the head.”

“I don’t believe he is,” said the sergeant with an esoteric smile, “and if so—all the more reason for us to take care of him.”

“Barble talk.” The corporal was disdainful as he first scratched at and then removed a “grayback” from his armpit, squashed it between forefinger and thumb and deposited the corpse in the fire. He coughed up a ball of phlegm that he shot at a large black beetle that was crawling across the ground in front of his feet and missed by a mile. He flattened it instead with the heel of one of his enormous brogans.

The boy sat on a tree stump and ate two strips of bacon and some beans while he watched the great activity at this hospital camp of the Seventieth Ohio, Fourth Brigade, commanded by Colonel Buckland. He watched as the men went about their important business, serving breakfast to the wounded and sick inside the tents, while two men the corporal identified as doctors did their daily rounds, moving from cot to cot examining and then discussing the patients.

While the boy watched and ate, still wrapped in the blanket like an Indian squaw, the corporal, whose name was Cornelius Grimes, and who, between cooking for the patients and generally making himself useful, talked. He seemed to like to talk more than anything, mostly about those he served with.

“…the Dutchman, Sergeant De Groot? He’s okay, I guess, fer a Barble reader. Reads the Barble like it was—” He blinked his lidless eyes rapidly as he thought about it. “—Well, like it was a Barble, I guess,” he concluded and burst into a wet laughter that sprayed the boy with spittle. “Queer thing, though, he reads the Barble but he don’t go to church,” he continued quizzically, scratching his few gray hairs. “I been ’round ’im two months or more and I ain’t ever seen ’im go ter church. If’in he’s so taken with the Barble why don’t he go ter church like other ree-li-jus folk, that’s what I wanna know.”

Army food was another of his favorite themes.

“Hardtack.” He crumbled the large dense cracker into the bacon grease the boy had left on his plate. “Ain’t no mystery. Shortenin’ and flour. Only mystery is how a man can stay alive on these things. Boys call ’em wormcastles on account a the weevols and maggits livin’ in thar.” On his plate was now a wholly indigestible mess, which the old soldier proceeded to eat with undisguised relish, a starving man tucking into the greatest banquet ever set before a king. “Ain’t no point wastin’ good bac’n grease. If’in yer break up yer hard bread into yer coffee an see those weevils a swimmin’ around on the surface yer just skim ’em off this away.” He showed the boy. “An’ they don’t leave no taste, well, hardly any. That’s a-why most boys is shy a drinkin’ thar coffee in tha dark. No tellin’ what yer might swallow!” He laughed his crazy cackling laughter, giving the boy his second showering of the morning, and then shoveled the mess into his toothless mouth. “If’in yer can’t eat ’em, yer just hurl it at Johnny Reb.” He produced a clay pipe with a stem as long as his arm and nearly as thin. He looked across at the tent where two doctors were engaged in animated debate. Actually, the younger of the two was animated; the older man was merely listening with set, arrogant features. “Them sawbones know nuthin’, they’s jest guessin’ most a the time. If they cures us they takes the cred-ite, if they kills us they go blaming God a’mighty. What you got in that knapsack yer keep aholdin’?” Cornelius fixed the boy with his red-rimmed eyes buried in so many sun-baked wrinkles it was impossible to see where the sockets began and the wrinkles ended.

“Bread and cheese and an apple,” said the boy, “given to me by General Sherman. I would consider it an honor to share them with you at suppertime.” Jesse brought the food from his knapsack and the wily old corporal stared at the
real
baked bread with the dark brown crusty edges and soft, white interior. “I don’t expect to be around here for too long.”

“Why’s that, boy, where yer plannin’ on goin’, Richmond?” Cornelius dug something out of his bulbous, pockmarked nose.

“No sir, but I expect to become one of General Sherman’s servants.”

“Is that a fact? Well, yer expicktitions is gonna be disappointed. Gen’als don’t need servints, they git dumb-arsed niggers to fetch an carry and such like, and them orderlies git the best jobs, like ridin’ round the country deliverin’ messages no one, least of all other gen’als, wants ter hear, and secondly what makes yer reckon the gen’al even knows yer alive?”

“I told you, sir, it was General Sherman who gave me the cheese and the bread and the apple.”

“Well, I’ll say one thin’.” Cornelius scratched his crotch. “Yer sure didn’t magic them vittles outa thin air. Yer stole ’em some place and I giss ole Gen Sherman’s mess is as good a place as any.”