Karl Bacon (24 page)

Chaplain Stevens offered a brief prayer. Then he shook our hands and took his leave to speak with others of the regiment.

Otto drew his blankets over his head and wrapped himself up tightly. I recognized the sighs and moans of a young man in distress, of a man wrestling with himself and with God. I likewise wrapped myself up as warmly as I could. On that cold, dark night, somewhere a few miles west of the Wilderness, my prayer was very simple. Certainly the time for reckoning was at hand.
Please, Lord in Heaven, watch over the widow Wyatt and her children and bless them most abundantly. Be gracious to this miserable sinner—may my end be swiftly and mercifully met.

Indeed, how small was my faith.

With first light, a group of riders clattered across the stream behind us. I recognized Colonel Smyth and General Hays among the group. There was also another general officer, a thin, muscular man who sat perfectly erect in the saddle. Even in the dim light of that early morning, this general’s eyes burned intently. He had a sharp, angular nose; the skin of his face was drawn tightly over high cheekbones. It could easily be said that this general’s face resembled that of an eagle in that it possessed all the nobility and savagery of that bird of prey. This was General Warren, a true hero of the Battle of Gettysburg, now in command of the Second Corps while General Hancock was on convalescent leave.

The officers dismounted, clambered over the breastworks, and walked carefully to the very edge of the tree line where they could view the Rebel lines directly. The officers talked together for a few minutes and then returned. General Warren walked slowly with his head down, his lips forming words that only he could hear or understand. The grand visage of the mighty eagle had vanished. The general’s countenance was now a specter of
deepest gloom and despair. He had seen what every man in the line knew already, the slaughter at Mine Run would be greater by far than any that had gone before.

At eight o’clock sharp, the heavy thump of one of our thirty-two-pound howitzers echoed up and down the line. Within a minute or two, every Union gun joined in the bombardment. It was a wondrous thing to see our shells arc across that small valley and explode over the Rebel lines. Sometimes a shell would strike part of the Rebels’ works and cause some damage, but as soon as the smoke cleared, dozens of hands quickly repaired the breach. Across the way a single Rebel soldier climbed atop the breastwork, defiantly daring our gunners to knock him off. He took his floppy hat in his hand and waved it in our direction, beckoning to us, yelling at the top of his voice words that were lost in the din of the shelling. But all who saw him knew exactly what he was saying.
Come on over here! Come on over and die, Yank!

The bombardment abruptly ceased after thirty minutes. All that remained was the call of the bugle. We stood at the ready, muscles tense, breathing shallow and labored. A long, endless minute passed, then a second. We waited for two hours of terrifying eternity, counting every second of every minute of what remained of our lives, listening for the bugle call that would send us into that valley of near-certain death.

The call never sounded. When General Warren reported to General Meade that an assault upon the enemy’s works would result in the destruction of the Second Corps, General Meade viewed the fortifications for himself and the grand assault was called off.

During the early morning hours of December 2
^nd
, my footfalls echoed upon the decking of the pontoon bridge at Germanna
Ford. Once again, my back was to the enemy, and once again, I had been spared. Indeed I was truly thankful to God for His mercy, but
He was unto me as a bear lying in wait, and as a lion in secret places.
There would yet be an accounting.

Husbands, love your wives,
even as Christ also loved the church,
and gave himself for it.
EPHESIANS 5:25

O
UR LOG HUT NEAR STEVENSBURG MIGHT HAVE SERVED AS
winter quarters for someone, but not for the men who built it. The men of the Fourteenth were ordered hither and yon to do this duty or that and did not receive orders to encamp until December 27
^th
. Then we marched about two miles south of Stevensburg to a low, forested, rock-strewn hill known appropriately as Stony Mountain. Experienced builders now, we built our second hut in just a few days.

We had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to consider Christmas celebrations, but on the last day of 1863, Jim, Charlie, Otto, and I planned and enjoyed a hearty feast. As I had done the year before, I ordered each man a pair of Hick-ham’s boots from home, although Otto’s feet were so large that, even with my years of retailing, I could not determine the size. I simply traced both the outline and the profile of each of his huge feet on a sheet of paper and sent the sheets home to Jessie Anne.

Chaplain Stevens returned to Connecticut to take up his
pastoral duties once again. He had already extended his service with the regiment four months beyond the one-year leave granted by his congregation. He would be greatly missed by the men of the Fourteenth, and as it turned out, the chaplaincy would be vacant for some time to come. Chaplain Stevens was to me the last remaining voice of truth and wisdom in the regiment; I considered his loss but another manifestation of God’s displeasure.

Charlie Merrills gathered the band members together and rehearsed them hour after hour. He invited me to sing again, but I politely declined. Perhaps General Hooker had been correct—it all seemed a frivolous waste of time and energy. Disappointed but undeterred, Charlie recruited several other men to form a small choir. The ensemble gave several concerts during the winter months, which reportedly were well received by both officers and enlisted men alike.

For my part, I preferred more solitary pursuits when in camp. Sunny afternoons, when it was not too cold or windy and no other duty called, I could often be found sitting on the log bench, once again hewn by Jim Adams. Sometimes Jim or Charlie would join me, but my most regular companion was Otto Wehlmann.

“Do your parents know where you are?” I asked the big German one January afternoon. “Have you written to them since you enlisted?”

“No, Sergeant.” Otto studied the ground at his feet. “I just went away—never said good-bye. They don’t know if I’m alive or dead.”

I sagely puffed on my pipe. “The fifth commandment says, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ You should write to them, Otto, just a short note.”

“Maybe they should know I’m alive.”

I went into the hut and returned a moment later with my
journal, quill pen, and ink bottle in hand. I offered them to Otto and received a blank stare in return.

“What’s the problem, Otto?”

“I never learned.”

“You never went to school?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“But you speak well enough, and your accent is hardly noticeable. I’m surprised you were never taught to read and write.”

“I think that’s what I hold most against my parents. They never thought I would amount to much, so the only thing they taught me was canaling. But on the canal I met many people from many places, so I listened to them, and sometimes I would tell the mules long stories as I was driving them — just to hear myself talk, I guess. There wasn’t time for school.”

“Then tell me what you want me to write, and I’ll teach you to read it.”

We sat side by side for several minutes, Otto thinking of what he ought to put in the letter, and me puffing slowly away at my pipe, watching how the light blue-gray smoke from hundreds of hut hearth fires hung lazily just above the trees on Stony Mountain. Finally, Otto dictated the following note:

Dear Father and Mother,

I’m in Virginia with the Army of the Potomac. I’m well and I have enough to eat. Sergeant Palmer is looking after me and he’s helping me write this letter. He’s a good friend. I hope you will forgive me for leaving you, but I could not follow the mules anymore. I hope you had a happy Christmas and do not worry about me.

Your son,

As with my letters, I penned the date —
Tuesday, January 12
^th
, 1864
—and the place—
Camp of the 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf. — near Stevensburg, Virginia.
I showed the finished letter to Otto and read it back to him, pointing to every word as I said it, as one would do with a small child. “What address shall I write on the envelope?” I asked.

“In winter we usually worked the eastern end of the canal, unless it was frozen. I think you should send it to Mr. Erich Wehlmann at the Office of the Erie Canal, Albany, New York.”

“Done,” I said, “and I wrote ‘Please Forward’ so that if anyone at the Albany office knows where your father is, they will send this letter on to him.”

As we walked back from posting the letter, I said, “Otto, I’d like to teach you to read and write.”

“You would do that?”

“Yes. We’ll use the Bible. It’ll occupy us during the long winter. We’ll work at it every day we’re in camp.”

The bright happiness in Otto’s eyes was all the thanks this soldier would ever need.

Indeed, my own eyes brightened later that same day when I received a dispatch from regimental headquarters. I had finally been granted a fourteen-day furlough. I would leave for home on January 25
^th
.

My head bobbed once, then jerked backward more severely as the locomotive
Alfred Bishop
started to pull out of the station at Seymour. I had counted down the hours; now I was counting down the minutes, just forty or so remained. In New York the previous evening I had gone to the Sanitary Commission lodge near the depot for a hot meal. At an establishment nearby I was able to take a hot, soapy bath for the cost of fifteen cents. Refreshed and enlivened, I had thoroughly enjoyed this morning’s
four-hour ride along the New Haven Line to Bridgeport at speeds sometimes in excess of forty miles per hour, according to Martin, the conductor.

But I was not home yet. There were so many things that might delay my arrival. We had yet to pass through the river gorge just south of Naugatuck, where rock falls were a common occurrence; at least one deadly derailment had occurred there. Seasonal floods could also be a problem, but January was not the time for flooding, and I had observed the depth of the river on the way northward just to be sure. At least the provosts could not block my way, for there had been none at Bridgeport and only a few local passengers occupied the car.

The train crawled two miles up the valley to Beacon Falls, the final stop before Naugatuck. I felt as if I could walk faster than the train, but of course this was not true. The maximum speed allowed on the line was twenty miles per hour because the rails were still of the brittle, wrought-iron sort, and with stops and starts, and embarking and debarking, and grades and curves to account for, one could expect to cover about ten to twelve miles in the span of one hour. The scheduled time to go from Bridgeport to Naugatuck, a distance of twenty-seven miles, was two hours and twenty-six minutes. Thankfully, our stop at Beacon Falls was a short one. It took just a few minutes to leave a few travelers on the platform and board a few more. Baggage and mail were handed down and more taken up into the car just behind the tender. With a blast of the whistle, the cars once again jerked forward.

It was a fine day for midwinter, chilly but not bitingly cold, with a clear, cloudless sky, and little wind. The fair weather foretold a frosty night to come, but I would be warming myself at my own hearth that evening. The bright sun warmed my face as the train headed into the gorge, but only for a few minutes as the craggy steeps soon cast deep shadows across the gorge. The
engineer knew the hazards of this stretch far better than I, so I was content to close my eyes to rest. I felt the motion of the car gently tug at my body, first this way, then that, as the train followed the course of the meandering river. I listened to the changing squeal of wheel against rail as the friction waxed and waned.

I tried to imagine Jessie Anne’s face as I had last seen it. During my many months away, I had often engaged in this exercise, but without much success, perhaps because I was fearful of the deepest longings that would surely accompany such a vision. But now her familiar warm, loving eyes and beautiful smile played across the inside of my eyelids. I smiled to myself and wondered how she had changed since last I saw her. Patience, I told myself, just a few more minutes, and the image will be sight.

I felt the train accelerate as the tracks straightened, and I now knew the gorge was passed. I stood, walked to the rear of the car, and opened the door. I would return in exactly the same manner I had departed. I stepped out on the landing, the same landing I had stood upon seventeen months before, waving good-bye as the tears flowed unashamedly. How the freed black man Noble Weston had warmed my heart that dark and stormy morning, when he stood at the very edge of the platform in the driving rain and executed the sharpest salute I have ever seen.

Minutes were now seconds, the station was now in view, and yes, as the train drew nearer, small figures could be seen waiting on the platform for our arrival—my arrival.

From the rear of the car, I saw her first, standing anxiously next to my father while he clasped Sarah and little Edward each by the hand. She was as lovely as ever, my Jessie Anne. I paused for a moment, taking her beauty in, laying up this vision of her in the deepest and most secret place of my mind, allowing the sight of her to renew my spirit. I stepped slowly down to the platform, never allowing my gaze to drift from her. Jessie Anne
was looking toward the front of the car, and it was a moment or two before she turned and spotted me.

The bright and hopeful smile I had so expected and longed for darkened, just for a moment to be sure, but long enough for me to recognize a fleeting glimpse of shock and anguish, possibly of horror. No longer did she see the man she had known, the man she had given her life to. No, she saw me for the man I truly was, the man with blood on his hands. But in the next instant there was that smile again, glowing with happiness, and bright eyes shedding tears of unbridled joy. She rushed into my arms and we embraced for some time, each wrapped in the comfort of the other, oblivious to all else. Finally, we released each other and turned to the children.

“Sarah! Edward! Come greet your father,” Jessie Anne told the children, who for their part seemed to prefer gaping at me with wild-eyed terror, while clinging desperately to their grandfather’s strong hands. I approached my children slowly, speaking soft greetings as I knelt on the platform before them. I took first Sarah, then Edward into my arms, then both together, and suddenly I was home.

That evening after a splendid dinner of beef roast, mashed potatoes, and buttermilk biscuits, we read Scripture and prayed together as a family for the first time in seventeen months. Then Jessie Anne and I put the children to bed and retired for the evening. Jessie Anne was soon fast asleep, but I remained awake for some time. I lay on the soft bed thinking at once how luxuriously comfortable it was and also how uncomfortable it now felt to my ground-hardened body; it was simply too warm and too dry and too soft. I slipped quietly out of bed, turned up the lamp, and stood in front of the mirror that hung on the wall over the washstand.

It had also been seventeen months since I had viewed my own reflection, and now I saw what Jessie Anne had seen at the
train station: a gaunt, haggard-looking fellow who, had I not known it was myself, I would have dismissed with disgust as a street derelict. My hair was long and unkempt, graying in places and thinning on top. My beard, also streaked with gray, did nothing to cover my hollow cheeks and protruding cheekbones; my eyes were sunken and dark; the soft flesh beneath them now sagged noticeably—how like those sketches of wanted criminals I had seen posted in the several depots I had passed through on the way home.

Soft arms encircled me from behind. I had not heard Jessie Anne stir, and I welcomed her touch, but was also discomfited by it, as if in her touching me, her goodness and beauty might somehow be corrupted. I unclasped her hands and guided her around to stand in front of me so that our positions were reversed, interposing her loveliness between me and the unsightliness of my own reflection.

“You are as beautiful as you were the day I married you.”

“Oh, Michael, I am not, but I love you for saying so. See? I’m getting lines around my eyes and look here,” she added, flicking a hand through her long tresses, “my hair’s starting to turn gray.”

“It is not,” I protested.

Jessie Anne nodded sweetly. “Yes it is, but just a little.” We stood gazing at each other for a few minutes. Indeed my eyes did notice the small lines and even a strand or two of gray, but my heart overruled my eyes. This marvelous woman was only growing lovelier with the passing years.