Yankee Belles in Dixie (13 page)

As soon as he was gone, Tom said, “I thought he'd never leave.”

“You weren't very polite to him,” Sarah said. “I thought once he'd have you put under arrest.” But she smiled, and the dimples came to her cheeks. Then she laughed out loud. “Oh, I'm glad you came. I'm so tired of him, I could scream.” She looked over at Jeff and Leah. “You two, clean those fish. I'll go inside and get ready to cook them. We'll have a good fish supper.”

“Be sure you make lots of hush puppies,” Leah said. “You can't eat fish without hush puppies. And fried potatoes too.”

After supper Sarah, Leah, Tom, and Jeff sat on the porch and talked. Uncle Silas was well enough to join them, and he said after a time, “You don't know how fine this is for me to have family around me. I've been a lonely old man. I don't know how I'll put up with myself when you girls leave.”

At the mention of their leaving, a frown crossed Tom's face. He soon found an excuse to go for a walk with Sarah in the falling twilight.

As soon as they were out of hearing of the house, he said, “Sarah, you've got to marry me! I love you more than any man ever loved a woman.” He made an impassioned plea, but, as he had expected, it all went for nothing.

“I love you too, Tom,” Sarah said gently, “but marriage is forever. It's hard enough for a young man and a young woman to get along and make a
good marriage when things are right, and now things are all wrong.”

“I love you, and that's not wrong,” Tom insisted.

Sarah said nothing for a while. They just walked, and she allowed him to take her hand.

By now darkness had almost completely fallen. He put his arms around her, held her tightly for a moment, and smelled the fragrance of her hair.

Sarah was so lonely and upset that she clung to him, obviously trying to keep the tears back.

He looked down into her face. “Marry me, Sarah.” And he kissed her.

After only a moment, she drew back. “No, it can't be. Not for now. Let's go back, Tom. We'll just have to wait.”

* * *

   But Wesley Lyons was not waiting. He had been infuriated and humiliated by the encounter with a mere sergeant, who seemed to be having success with Sarah Carter.

When he got to his office the next morning, he instructed Lieutenant Smith, “I want you to find out all you can about the Carters. Something's funny about them, I tell you.”

“What do you mean, Captain?” the lieutenant asked. “What's funny?”

“Well, they all come from Kentucky, and you know that's all Yankees up there—most of them anyhow. I found out that this sergeant that Sarah Carter's interested in is Tom Majors. He came down from the North—from Kentucky—and joined our army, but I think some of them could be spying for the Union.”

“Oh, that doesn't seem likely, does it, Captain? Silas Carter is a good strong Southern supporter.”

“They may be putting it over on the old man. It just seems funny to me. Anyway, I want you to look into it. I smell a rat about the whole thing.”

“Yes, sir, I'll see to it.”

Wesley Lyons leaned back and smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said, “I smell a rat. Something abnormal about any young woman that would turn me down for a mere sergeant!”

N
o one saw the danger of McClellan's attack on Richmond clearer than General Robert E. Lee. The Army of the Potomac outnumbered the Confederate forces probably two to one. Here the military genius of General Lee became prominent.

He sent General Stonewall Jackson into the Shenandoah Valley, leading a relatively small army of no more than 4,500 troops. Facing him was Major General Banks with more than 20,000 men, and another army almost as large stood ready in West Virginia. The Union plan was for General Banks to chase Jackson's small force out of the Valley—but it did not work.

Instead, Stonewall Jackson attacked and routed General Banks's large army. This was enough to alert President Lincoln, who sat helplessly at his desk in Washington. He had planned to send Banks and other forces to reinforce General McClellan. Instead, now he pulled them back to ring Washington with more powerful defenses.

Thus, instead of coming to battle having an overwhelming force, the cautious McClellan found himself stripped of many troops. This caused him to stop and think.

Jeff and Tom knew little or nothing of all this. Jackson told no one his plans. He once said that if his coat had the secret plan of battle he would burn it. Now he had simply marched his troops out of
Richmond into the Shenandoah Valley and begun a campaign in which he was to rout and defeat not one but three separate armies.

Jeff wiped his face on his sleeve and glanced over at Charlie Bowers. The smaller boy's face was marked with fatigue for they had marched many hours.

“Let me carry your drum awhile, Charlie, and your gear,” Jeff said. The smaller boy protested, but Jeff shook him off. “I'm not real tired yet. Give me them things.” He hooked the drum around his neck, grabbed Charlie's knapsack, and said, “Come on, we've got to keep up.”

Charlie huffed and puffed. The dust from the feet of thousands of marching men had coated his face and that of every other soldier in the army.

“I wish Stonewall would make up his mind,” he gasped. “He's gonna walk our legs off before this is over.”

Jeff was ready to drop himself. He had seen older soldiers fall out, simply unable to keep pace, but he had determined not to show his weariness. “I reckon he's got to do it. They've got so many more men than we have that we have to keep moving around so they won't get us penned up.”

Curly Henson was walking behind the two boys. He also was red faced, and veins stood out on his forehead. “Well,” he growled, “I didn't know you'd become a strategist, Jeff. Maybe Stonewall and General Lee ought to let you in on their war planning.”

Jeff turned and grinned back at the big man. He had learned to like the huge fellow, even though he had not at first. “Oh, if they get into real trouble I expect they'll call me in, Curly.” He noticed the
man's flushed face. “I still got plenty of water left—you need a drink?”

Curly had drunk his own canteen empty an hour ago. His lips were cracked, but he said, “Oh, I wouldn't want to take your water.”

“I'm not thirsty. You take it. We'll be coming to a creek soon.”

Curly took the wooden canteen from Jeff and drank several swallows. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he put the cap on and handed it back. “That was good,” he said. “Thanks a lot, youngster.” He looked down at his huge body and shook his head. “Takes more to move what I got than what you got, I guess. I'm about ready to drop, to tell the truth.”

Murmurs went up and down from the soldiers on both sides. At that moment there was a commotion, and somebody said, “There comes Stonewall,” and immediately they all turned to look.

General Jackson rode up on the horse he called Sorrel. His cap was down over his face, and his mind seemed to be a thousand miles away. The troops put up a little cheer for him, but he didn't even seem to hear them.

“He's not very friendly, is he?” Curly Henson said.

“He is too!” Charlie Bowers disagreed. “He talked to me that night at the camp meeting just like he was a common soldier—told me about the Lord and all.”

“Well, I don't think he's thinking about the Lord today—he's thinking about Yankees,” Sergeant Mapes said. He was striding along, looking ahead, his long legs covering ground faster than anyone else. “I think we're going to run into something
pretty soon. When Stonewall looks like that, there's usually trouble brewing.”

Two hours later they did exactly that. Jeff sensed a battle was coming when he heard the crackle of musket fire far ahead.

“That's it,” Sergeant Lafe Simms groaned. “We're in for it now.”

Jeff moved over beside Lafe. “You be careful now. Mathilda wouldn't like it if anything happened to you. Neither would Jake or Aileen.”

He had met the burly Sergeant Simms when he took Esther to Kentucky on the train. He had been surprised to see him in Stonewall's regiment.

Sergeant Simms gave him a brief grin. “She told me to tell you the same thing in her last letter, Jeff. Keep your head down—we're going to see the elephant today for sure.”

“What do you mean ‘see the elephant'?”

“Aw, that's what they call seeing a battle. Don't know why.”

The rifle fire became louder and louder, and soon Lieutenant Potter came running back with Tom at his side.

“Sergeant, get the men in battle line. We've struck an outfit up there—General Fremont's troops. We've got to crush their flank.”

Tom began calling out loudly as did the other sergeants. Soon the troops were in a battle line and were advancing over a broken field.

Then a tremendous crash almost deafened Jeff. He looked back and saw that some men were down from an exploded shell. Some were still moving in the dust, and others were lying still.

Fear ran along Jeff's spine, but then Lieutenant Potter came along. “Be ready, Jeff. When we have to
right flank or left flank the boys, you sound out loud and clear. Remember what the signal for charge is. Stonewall will charge us as sure as the world.”

After that the air was filled with smoke and sound and whistling bullets. Jeff remembered once that George Washington had said the sound of bullets had a pleasing sound, but he didn't think so. They whined around like bees, and he had to stop thinking of it.

Finally Sergeant Potter got his orders from a courier and yelled, “Sound the charge, Jeff!”

Jeff began rattling out the charge. The men rammed balls in their muskets and moved forward. They were spread out in three lines about ten feet apart. Ahead Jeff could see muskets winking as they exploded, and he was tempted to lie down.

He suddenly was aware that Tom was beside him. Tom's face was already black with gunpowder from firing his musket. “Take care now,” Tom said. “You stay back when the attack begins.”

Jeff didn't say anything, but he determined to go with the men.

Then, as they charged against a broken field, he saw blue uniforms ahead. The Confederates were yelling at the top of their lungs. They had heard that the Rebel yell frightened the Yankees, so they screamed until they had no breath left.

The battle went on for some time. Sometimes the Confederates charged, sometimes they backed away when the opposing force got too strong. At last General Jackson rode along the line shouting, “We've got 'em! We've got 'em! Lieutenant Potter! Charge that gun emplacement over there! Put that cannon out of action!”

“Yes, sir!” Potter yelled. “Sergeant Majors, take a squad, flank that cannon, and put it out.”

“Yes, sir!” Tom called out the names of a half dozen men. They left, running low to the ground, and disappeared into a grove of trees.

Jeff had fallen back with the rest of the waiting troops. Several men were down, and he went around giving them water, but he worried about Tom.

One of his friends—Phineas Rollins, a tall, raw-boned man—was lying down, holding his stomach. Jeff took one look, and his heart sank. Wounds like that were almost always fatal. He said, “Can I get you anything, Phineas?”

Phineas looked up and gasped. “No, I reckon I won't need anything—but you might say a prayer for me, Jeff.”

Jeff knelt down beside the tall man. “Does it hurt much?”

“No, not really.” Phineas looked down at his stomach and shook his head. “It'll be a miracle if I live through this. Write to my wife, will you? Tell her I died talking about her.”

“Don't talk like that Phineas,” Jeff cried. “God can help us. Let's pray.” So Jeff began to pray in a halting, stumbling way. He had never prayed for a man like this, but he poured his heart out. When he finally said, “In Jesus' name, save this man's life. Amen,” he looked at his friend. “I'll get a stretcher bearer, Phineas. We'll get you to the hospital, to the doctors.”

He ran until he found the ambulance where the surgeon was already at work at the field hospital. He saw two stretcher bearers standing idle and persuaded them to go with him. They made their way
back, and soon Phineas was on his way to a field hospital.

Jeff took a deep breath and began hunting for Tom. He began to grow fearful and started to ask everyone. But no one had seen his brother since the last action started.

And then he heard someone call his name. “Jeff! Oh, Jeff!”

With relief he saw that it was Tom. He ran to him and noticed that Tom was holding his left hand, which was wrapped in some kind of white cloth. “Tom! Are you all right?”

“Well, I got a little nick in my hand here.” He held up the bloody bandage. “Not bad—but I can't handle a musket.”

At that moment Lieutenant Potter came by. He saw Tom and asked, “How bad is it, Sergeant?”

“Oh, it'll be all right.” Tom drew the cloth back and showed the wound. “Going to take a while before I can load a musket, I guess.”

Potter shook his head. “Just the luck. Well, are you able to take a detail? We got some Yankee prisoners here. Got to get 'em back to Richmond.”

“Yes, sir. I'll do that.” He looked at Jeff and said, “If it's all right, I'd like to take Jeff here with me.”

Potter considered, then said, “Yes, take the boy with you.”

Jeff and Tom got their gear and met the party of some twenty Federal prisoners. There was a wagon carrying some wounded men, and they were to take them too.

“Well, at least we get to ride back,” Tom said. “You'll have to drive.” They climbed up on the wagon seat. Jeff said, “Giddup,” and the team
surged forward. Two guards followed along behind the prisoners.

Jeff said, “Phineas got shot in the stomach. We've got him in the wagon here. You think he'll be all right, Tom? I sure pray he will.”