A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (20 page)

“I do understand, James, and I will keep your home and I will be here each time you return. Then one day, when all is right, you will never leave me again.”

Then they held each other tightly, exchanged endearments, and James mounted Star and turned her south.

 

As Polly watched after him she wondered if she was making a mistake. Although she believed it wrong to say anything that might have caused James to abandon his principals, was she just as wrong for not telling him the real reason she wanted him to stay.

 

A few miles from Mapletown, James left the road, traveling over hill and hollow until he reached Virginia. Avoiding patrols from either army was essential because both sides were highly suspicious of anyone who wasn't in uniform. On this trip his first priority was to make his way back to Georgia and visit his family. The war had not yet seriously damaged the Deep South, if it ever would; the only real effect was from the Union blockade. And who could say how long it would take for that move to weaken the Confederacy's ability to wage war. All things considered, James was expecting to find everything in reasonable order at home.

For three days he traveled along the western border of Virginia encountering no opposition along the way. By the evening of April 28
th
he had crossed into Kentucky, and by nightfall he decided to make camp near Cumberland Gap. After a night's rest, his plan was to head into Tennessee toward Chattanooga, then continue south into Georgia.

The night was very peaceful and it was not at all difficult to imagine there was no war going on. As he waited for sleep to take over, he thought about his parents, his sisters, and how anxious he was to see them. Naturally, he thought about Polly. After having been with her for several months, the separation was already causing a serious longing in his heart. He wished she were with him . . . he wished she could meet his family.

By and by, sleep interrupted his thoughts and he drifted off with the fire burning brightly. By morning it had died out but for a spiral of smoke still rising from the ashes. James awoke with a start.

“Rise and shine, mister,” said the man dressed in butternut. He sat up and looked around at the grim, bearded faces. There were eight of them in all and none of them were wearing shoes or hats; their uniforms were dirty and full of holes. The man who had awakened him seemed to be in charge. “Who the hell are you and what's your business here?” he demanded. If nothing else, James was getting used to that same old question and he immediately resumed the practice of withholding his real name. “My name is Sterling Hargraves and I'm just passing through on my way to Georgia.”

“Georgia, huh? You a deserter?”

“No. I'm not in the army. I've been working as a slave catcher. It's big business these days.”

“I reckon it is for sure, but there ain't no time to be worryin about them rich plantation owners now. Let em run down their niggers their own selves. We need to be worryin about killin Yankees right now. Ifen we run across a nigger we jus shoot him dead and leave him lay.”

There was a noticeable tone of unfriendliness in the man's voice. James guessed that he was irritated by the fact that James wasn't in the army. He decided to try a little levity to ease the tension. “From what I've heard, our armies are given the Yanks all they can handle.”

“What do ya mean our armies?” snapped the disgruntled soldier. “You ain't in the army, remember? You are runnin around fillin your pockets whilst we is getting shot at and figurin ourselves lucky if we can do it on a full belly. But I reckon you'll be gettin a taste of it now.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meanin you'll be comin with us. Our camp is jus a short piece from here. We smelt your smoke and the major sent us over here to either shoot whoever we found or bring em back to camp. Lucky for you you're a Georgia boy. And since you ain't in the army you can bet you're gonna get your chance to join up.”

Then the soldier pointed at Star and said, “Our captain had his horse shot out from under him two days ago. He's gonna be real happy when I tell him I found him another.”

Once again, James was disarmed and forced to walk ahead of his captors about a quarter of a mile to the Confederate camp. It was indeed a dismal turn of events. For the time being, he decided the best thing he could do was to cooperate and see what developed. Maybe the commanding officer would be more reasonable and James could talk his way out of the situation. However, when he was taken before Major Samuel Rodgers, commanding the infantry detachment of the Army of the Mississippi under General P.G.T. Beauregard, James quickly realized that he wasn't going to talk his way out of anything.

The major was a middle aged man with cold blue eyes and a stern disposition. He was easily six feet tall with broad shoulders and the left sleeve of his uniform coat was empty from the elbow down. James sensed that losing the arm had a great deal to do with the major's demeanor as his frustration with the difficulty caused by the missing limb was obvious. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth as if speaking was an effort and he'd rather if others could simply read his mind. As a result, he spoke quickly using short sentences.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Almost twenty-one, sir.”

“You heard of the new draft law?”

“No, sir, I haven't.”

“Explain it to him, Sergeant,” he said to the soldier who had escorted James to the tent.

“President Davis just approved a Congressional proposal that requires a military draft in the Confederate States. The law says that all persons livin in the Confederate States betwixt the ages of eighteen and thirty-five will be held to be in the military service and that means you, Georgia boy.”

“What's your name, boy?” asked the major.

“Sterling Hargraves, sir.”

“It's Private Hargraves now. Go with the sergeant. He'll see to your needs.” James stood and stared at the major, completely dumbfounded.

“You've been given an order, Private! It is customary to render a salute.”

James raised his right hand over his right eye then dropped it after the major executed the same. Then he turned and walked out ahead of the sergeant. Once outside, he was directed to a supply wagon and instructed to remove his shirt and trousers. “What for?” James asked.

“Cause you're one of us now, Georgia boy, and you gotta look like one of us.” The sergeant climbed into the wagon and after a few minutes of rooting through a large trunk, he jumped down and handed James a gray flannel shirt, a butternut jacket, and trousers to match. “This was Shelby Jenkins's uniform. He was about your size. Poor Shelby took a ball through the heart a couple days ago. New uniforms is hard to come by so we been keepin some from our dead in case we pick up a new recruit like you. You already got a hat and what appears to be a mighty fine pair of boots. That makes you better dressed than most of us. But we all is lookin to get some new footwear tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yep. Over yonder a mile or so is a Yankee camp. We is waitin for some reinforcements that be due in by tonight. In the morning we is gonna attack them Yankees. Then we be getting some Union leather for our feet. All we gotta do is shoot a Yank who be wearin our boot size. That is, them of us that don't catch some Union lead first. Now get that uniform on and I'll get you some grub. Then you can get acquainted with some a the boys.”

The sergeant walked away and the first thought that rushed to James's mind was to hightail it into the woods. But he'd never get away on foot. Even on horseback his chances would be slim and it was broad daylight, which left no way of getting to Star. In addition to that, his revolver had been taken, leaving him no way of defending himself. In complete disgust he put on the uniform, which was filthy, stinking of old sweat, and ill fitting. Not only that, but the shirt and the jacket had large holes in the front surrounded by dried blood stains. It nearly made him sick to be wearing a uniform that had so recently clothed a dead man.

Now he was a Confederate conscript when just an hour before he was on his way home to Georgia. He tried to remain calm and think positively with the intention of wining the trust of his new comrades. Then perhaps an opportunity would present itself when night fell again.

To a certain extent, James found it interesting conversing with the other soldiers; listening to their stories about where they were from and why they were fighting. For most it seemed to be a territorial issue. They saw the Yankees as invaders who had to be stopped and forced to go back to where they came from. It was as if they were fighting a war over trespassing. Not one man that James talked to owned more than a few acres of land and none of them owned a single slave. James thought it sad that the average Rebel was drawn into the war because of the rich plantation owners. They were the people with the money, the power, the influence in government, and the people who owned the slaves—people like his father and his uncles. These soldiers were fighting and dying to protect the interests of the wealthy. In truth, the men who filled the rank and file had very little to gain or lose with union or disunion.

However, the wheels had been set in motion and they were all caught up in it now. Many had to admit that the war had started out as an adventure; an adventure they now realized they could have lived without, especially since the revelation that it would be no short war.

Shortly after dark, the expected reinforcements reached the camp. They were South Carolina troops all the way from Charleston. James guessed there must have been three or four thousand, bringing the Confederate force up to roughly nine thousand men. He wondered how many men the Yankees had.

After an evening meal of something that James could not exactly describe, except to say that it might have contained squirrel meat, the troops began to turn in. Most of the conversation had dried up and he suspected that everyone was thinking about what was to happen the following morning. He could not deny that his own thoughts were the same. It was difficult to imagine what it must be like. The closest he had come to the experience was the fight at the train station in Morgantown. He could vividly remember the horror of that morning and he had not even been directly involved. It would be much different to charge an enemy position on the field of combat. It was a given that many of the men in camp that night would die the following day. It was also very possible that he might be one of them.

In spite of the impending threat, James could see that escape from the camp would be impossible. About an hour before sunrise the men began to stir. James could smell coffee cooking; the sound of meat sizzling in a frying pan was mixed with the murmur of quiet conversation. Although he knew that the meal would not make one's mouth water, he was very hungry and hoped that someone would offer him breakfast. He needn't have worried because before long the sergeant who had supplied him with the uniform stopped by.

“How'd ya sleep, Georgia boy?” he asked. “I've heard a man's last night on earth he sleeps sound cause there ain't no worries left to keep him awake.”

“Was last night my last sleep on earth?” James asked.

“Any man who ain't thinkin so the night before a battle is a fool. Anyhow, I got some grub cookin over yonder and after you've et I'll be takin you over to the major's tent.”

“Any special reason?” The sergeant stopped and looked at him in a very strange way. It was rather, thought James, the way you might look at a man who is standing on a gallows. “You is bein assigned to the 5
th
South Carolina. They requested a man for a special job.” James prodded the sergeant for a clearer answer but the man would say no more. When he had finished eating he was taken over to Major Rodgers's tent and told to wait outside. “Wait here for Lieutenant Trask. He'll explain things to you.” Then the sergeant said, “So long, Georgia boy.”

One thing that James was completely aware of was just how much his fellow soldiers resented him for being a conscript. They took it as a personal insult if a Southerner didn't volunteer to defend his country. It was for that reason he was standing outside the tent waiting for Lieutenant Trask. He was being forced to volunteer for the second time in twenty-four hours.

After waiting for about an hour, the lieutenant finally came out of the tent. James saluted without a prompt. The officer ignored the formalities and stepped up to stand so close that James could smell cigar smoke mixed with stale liquor on his breath. He was a large, burly creature with long greasy hair and an unkempt beard. The thing that bothered James most was that he was sure he'd met the man before. Then, when the lieutenant spoke, he was able to place him.

“I reckon you must be the new recruit. Tell me something, boy, do you think you're too good to join the army or are you jes plain yeller?” There was no mistaking the ogre's rough voice. It was Virgil, the slave catcher from Greenville, South Carolina; the man James had tied to a tree along with his partner, Henry; the man who swore he'd kill James if he ever saw him again. How terribly true, thought James, that it really was a small world. The only thing left to ponder was whether or not Virgil recognized him. If he did he dropped no hints, which bolstered James's confidence a little. He did not consider an oaf like Virgil to be intelligent enough to carry off a convincing deception. So James maintained his composure and pretended he had never seen the lieutenant before.

“I am not a coward, sir, and I do not think that I am too good to be in the army. I will prove to be a good soldier. But, my revolver was taken away. Could you have it returned to me, sir?”

The lieutenant smiled, showing the brown teeth James remembered having seen before. “You ain't gonna need a gun, boy. You are gonna be the new color bearer.”

The realization struck like a bolt of lightning. Virgil might as well have handed him a shovel and told him to dig his own grave. The color bearer led the army into battle. He was right out front, waving the flag, the prefect, and the favorite target of the enemy. James had read accounts of battles where as many as a dozen color bearers were killed. What better way to teach a conscript a lesson? There was no way out. James was sure that he would die that morning.