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Silently Beats the Drum
© 2004 W.R. Benton, All Rights Reserved
This manuscript may not be reproduced in any form. All rights belong to the author and or the publisher. All characters are from the imaginations of the authors and do not represent any persons living or dead. Any similarities between real persons and the characters in this manuscript are a coincidence.
CHAPTER 1
This Excerpt may contain rough language, typical for the period.
Jeb Patton rubbed his tired eyes and squinted into the early morning darkness, looking for the damn Yankees. He was a young man, with intelligent green eyes, a sober appearance, a well-formed body, but his long dark brown hair was damp from a light overnight rain and he felt chilled to the bone. Jeb laughed to himself, as he remembered his father pronouncing it as one word, Damnyankees. Being a soldier was nothing like Jeb had thought it would be and the glory as well as the excitement he had once felt was long gone. Most of the friends he joined up with were gone too, either dead or maimed in some horrible fashion.
He noticed a group of riders coming in hard and fast from the west toward the bivouac. It was a second later that Jeb recognized the blue uniforms, which made the riders Yankees bent on killing him and his friends.
"Y'all better get yer asses up” We are about to have a passel full of Yankee visitors here in about thirty seconds!" Jeb yelled as loud as he could as he moved quickly behind a large log and cocked the hammer back on his rifle back.
The men reached for weapons, threw their blankets off, and stood. William was the last to stand and he suddenly screamed, grabbed at his chest, falling beside his blanket. Jeb quickly glanced at the young man and noticed bright red blood running down to his belt and a perfect circle was in the middle of William's chest.
Young Davie screamed a rebel yell, fired his rifle, and Jeb watched in fascination as the Yankee captain's arms flew up to his head, grasping it. He continued to watch as the captain fell from his horse and slid on the wet grass. The horse continued his run toward the Confederate lines until a rifle ball struck the animal middle of its chest. The injured animal gave a horrible scream of deep pain, collapsed, and started rolling. With the sudden death of their leader, the other riders in blue veered off away from the main camp and quickly disappeared into the woods.
"Cease Fire! Cease fire, you Goddamned idiots. Cain't ya see they're gone?" the Colonel yelled as he rode his mount up and down the line of Southern men.
Jeb quickly looked around the campsite, noticed five forms still in their bed rolls, and saw blood leaking from three of them. Five more we cannot afford to lose, he thought, so when will this madness stop? Jeb realized at that exact moment that he was very tired of the war. The glory and honor he had heard so much about had just not come. All he had seen was death and all he had ever felt was a terrible constant hunger. He wished he was still at home on the farm.
"All right, y'all listen up!" the Sergeant yelled as he took a fresh wad of chewing tobacco, placed it in his mouth and waited a few moments before he spoke again, "I want every last one of y'all up and ready to move in about five minutes. If-un ya eat, you eat on foot as we walk. Now, get your butts to movin'."
"Sergeant!" yelled the colonel. "Get a couple of men to bury the dead and take the injured to the horse doctor."
"Yes suh!" the old grizzled sergeant replied immediately and he continued as he turned to fact his men, “Johnson, Patton, Moreland, and Wilkes, get some shovels and bury them poor souls. Y'all can catch up with us once you get the chore done and do the damn job right! Bartley, Smith, Freeman, and Jones, get the injured to the side of the road, so the doc can pick ‘em up when his wagon rolls by. Come on, we ain't got all day, we got us some Yanks to kill."
Jeb, along the rest of the men, slowly moved to sides of the recently killed men and he was filled with dread Jeb hated this part of being a soldier in the Confederate army, because he felt the war was already lost and more deaths would accomplish nothing. Nonetheless, he knew the burying had to be done.
"Damn, this 'un here is head shot." Moreland muttered as he approached the first body and then quickly added, "They are always a mess to bury."
"Just wrap 'em up in his blanket and let's get this chore done with," Wilkes spoke as he moved over about ten feet from the dead men and started to dig in the mud.
Jeb noticed how the thick brown sludge stuck to Wilkes' shovel and had to be removed by his foot every few seconds. As quickly as the small hole formed by the shovel it instantly filled with water, though after about fifteen minutes the hole had grown in size.
"I hate this shit!" Johnson screamed as he suddenly threw his shovel down in the mud, leaned over, and starting puking.
"Pick the shovel up Johnson and dig boy!" an immediate order came from the sergeant "Or, I will come over and whop ya a new ass. You ain't been nothin' but trouble since yer rich old man let you join this here outfit, Johnson. I am tired of yer shit."
Jeb watched Johnson give the sergeant a mean glare as he bent over to pick up his shovel. Before Jeb realized what was happening, the sergeant ran up behind Johnson, kicked him in the rear, and with a loud splash the man hit the water filled grave.
"Johnson, now get your ass out of that water and finish this detail! The rest of you men, continue with this grave diggin' and hurry it up. Remember, these are your friends you're burying!" The sergeant snapped in anger as he shook his head and then slowly walked away.
It took the better part of another 30 minutes to dig a common grave, pull the five bodies to the hole, and then push them in. Sorry place to die and a sorrier way to be buried, thought Jeb as he began shoveling mud on the dead men.
As soon as the grave was filled in, Jeb returned for his gear. He rolled up his wet and cold blanket, put his tin cup inside his knapsack, and rearranged his knife and canteen on his belt. He felt like he had never had a night of uninterrupted sleep in his life. Jeb and little Frank went over to put the fire out by peeing on it. The raising steam from the water striking the fire reminded Jeb of a Yankee warehouse he had seen burning just two days past. While the smoke and fire had been a real sight to see, the burning building had provided the Southerners their first real warmth in weeks.
"Jeb! Frank! You two get a-movin'!" Corporal Applegate ordered from the muddy road as he walked by with the unit.
"Sho' nuf masser Applegate, suh!" Frank replied, and then gave a loud horse like laugh.
Frank was a tall and lanky red headed boy from Alabama . Wardlaw was his last name and he was the newest addition to the unit. The young man had joined them as a straggler one day the week before. Try as he might, Wardlaw had not yet been accepted by the unit, mainly because his status as a straggler had been questioned by some, and his being from Alabama by others.
Wardlaw also had the natural ability to appear absolutely filthy no matter how clean he tried to be. His red hair was always coated with a thick coat of dirt and grease, because the man never washed it and his clothes were a mixture of confederate gray and Yankee blue. His teeth were a stained dark brown from the chewing tobacco he always had in his left cheek. Jeb had decided he did not like Wardlaw at all. Jeb's daddy had always told him that white trash was always white trash and, well, Wardlaw was white trash in Jeb's book.
Quicker than a rifle ball, Corporal Applegate was standing in front of Frank and before a word could be said by the Alabamian he struck the man in the mouth with the butt of his horse pistol. The young man fell screaming to the ground, clawing in the mud with both of his hands.
Then, in an almost a whisper, Applegate looked down at Frank and with narrow eyes he said, "Ya open your Goddamned big mouth like that to me again, Wardlaw, and I'll whop your ass. I don't take no mouth from a hind teat-sucking whelp of a man. Do you understand me, boy?"
Frank looked up at the corporal, nodded, and then slowly lowered his head. Blood ran down his split lips onto his Yankee blue uniform shirt and pieces of his three front teeth were stuck to the front of the shirt along with wet red blood.
"Corporal, y'all didn't have to hit me so hard. You busted my teeth some and I was just a-funnin' ya." Wardlaw finally spoke in his own defense as he stood on shaky legs.
"Ya all heard the Sergeant! Get your asses to moving 'cause your time is up. NOW!!" was the only response from Corporal Applegate as he stood with his hands on his hips and looked around at the small group of standing men.
Jeb slung his rifle over his left shoulder, adjusted his belt a bit, and started a slow walk down the puddle filled and wagon wheel rutted road. Taking a cold piece of moldy cornbread in his right hand he started to nibble on it slowly, remembering it was the last he had. To his left Frank walked as he held his shirttail held against his bleeding mouth, mumbling to himself as he stumbled along the road. Wilkes was behind Jeb, snickering at the corporal's actions against Wardlaw and the weakness he had observed in the filthy man from Alabama .
As he glanced around, Jeb noticed Johnson shivering severely from being pushed into the water filled grave by the Sergeant. Damn fine unit I am stuck with, he thought as one foot moved in front of the other in a mechanical fashion.
Throughout the wet day the tired and hungry unit walked slowly in the mud and the cold falling rain.
“We must be strung out fer miles un-end." Johnson commented as he continued to shiver and talk as they walked, as if the effort of communicating alone would warmed him up, "What I wouldn't give fer a nice warm room, belly full of beans, and a real honest to God bed to sleep in."
"What I want is a woman. A nice pretty red headed one with big tits." Wilkes said as he walked absentmindedly right down the middle of a water filled wagon rut, "One who would love me all night long."
What you're most likely to get is a Yankee bullet in your hide talkin' like that Wilkes." Corporal Applegate spoke as he slowly shook his head and continued, "Or a long piece of Yankee bayonet in your gut. God punishes people who think like you do 'bout women. It ain't right or Godly. Keep away from me in the coming battle, because I might get killed by accident, when they want you."
Jeb continued to nibble at the cold and moldy cornbread as he walked. He abruptly felt guilty, because he had been thinking about Nancy when Wilkes had started his conversation. If God punished men for talking or just thinkin' about making love, he would really be upset with Jeb. But, Jeb could not believe God would punish him for thinking about the woman he loved. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced in his life and he thought of it often. War may be horrible, but the love between a man and a woman was as close as a person could fine to true joy on earth.
"Y'all stop and take a break, for 'bout 10 minutes!" Sergeant commanded in a loud voice as he turned and faced the marching men, then he quickly added, "But, no fires because the Yanks are too close and they will either see or smell the smoke."
"About time, my feet are killin' me. " complained Old Man Fantroy as he plopped down on the grass beside the muddy road. At fifty-five years old he was the oldest man in the company.
"Fantroy, you should be in the quartermaster section or some soft job for old people, not in the infantry." Wilkes spoke slowly as he lighted his pipe. "You can bet your bottom dollar, if-un I was your age, I wouldn't be walking up this mud hole called a road just to get killed at the end of it."
"Wilkes, I am here ‘cause I want to be. The Yanks killed my boy at Shiloh and they will pay for what pain and suffering they caused me and mine."
"Well, there is a heap of Yanks out there, old man, so you just go kill ‘em all Fantroy. When you're done I can go back home to my farm."
"Wilkes, you just don't understand. See, I can kill all of the Yanks here abouts and the pain will never go away." Fantroy said softly as he removed his watch from his breast pocket and checked the time. Jeb noticed the old man's hands were shaking and his eyes had misted up. "Only nine fifteen . Feels much later than that don't it boys?"
"You in a hurry to get to hell Fantroy?" Jones asked with a loud laugh as he slapped his right knee with his hand.
"We're going to have to hurry, if we want to fight them Yanks while it's still daylight is all. Besides, I'm getting hungry too." Fantroy replaced his watch, ignored Jones's question, and then looked up at the sun. His head slowly lowered until he was looking in the mud at his feet.
"Alright people, y'all get up and let's get moving. We have an appointment the Devil and he's wearing Yankee blue." The sergeant said as he moved up and down the line of tired and dirty men. Jeb watched the sergeant spit a stream of brown tobacco juice on the roadway, hitting a mud puddle square center.
With groans and curses the men stood and then slowly began to move forward. At a snail's pace the line started to meander down the mud and water filled roadway toward the unknown. Jeb could still see his breath in the cool morning air and he realized it would soon become hot. Only the heat would not be from the rising sun, but from a battle he knew would start. He clearly understood he could die in the coming battle, but he no longer really cared. He felt to die was to escape and to escape was to be free. What he feared the most about a battle was to be maimed like so many others he had seen.
He could not return home with an arm or leg missing. What would Nancy or his family think if he returned crippled? He would be a man without the ability to make a living or to even take good care of her properly. He knew she would still love him regardless of any disability, but his pride said he would die before he returned home half a man. Hell fire, he knew he couldn't even live with himself if he was crippled, so death was prefered.
Little by little the day dragged on, though the minutes seems as if they were hours to the marching men. For miles and miles the men continued to walk in the cold falling rain. Most of the older and a few of the younger men dropped out by the side of the road, totally exhausted. The ankle deep mud made walking very difficult, while the rain sapped the strength from all but the strongest of them. Jeb, near dropping out a number of times, was just barely able to keep up. But, he was no longer walking in control of his body, he was just moving with the line. He fell asleep at one point and woke up only when he walked into the back of the man in front of him when the line had stopped. His deep hunger had been replaced with fatigue. He was near his limit when the colonel rode by and called for an end of the day.
"Margo, call the dogs…I am tired to the bone." Moreland moaned as he collapsed on the muddy roadway, not bothering to avoid a large mud hole. "I am at my very end."
"Well, I have decided to join the horse soldiers just as soon as I can steal a horse." Jeb said as he moved off to the side of the road to sit on the almost dry grass.
No one was listening to him as Jeb leaned back on his pack, and rattled on and on, more or less to himself, "I have had enough. I mean, we ain't gettin' no food, no clothes, and this weather is killin' us. Hell, half of us ain't even got no shoes! I ain't no Goddamned coward, y'all know that, but I need a few things to fight with. When is the colonel gonna see we ain't fit to fight no Yankees?"
Finally, after a few more minutes, Jeb quit talking and looked around. He noticed they had stopped by a small clearing surrounded by some large oak trees. While the wind was light, the drizzling rain continued as if it would never stop. The sky was still overcast with low light gray clouds almost close enough to touch overhead. The temperature must have warmed up a little because the ice he had noticed earlier in the day was gone. Mud and water was everywhere and Jeb knew it would be another miserable wet night for him and the boys. His hunger suddenly became alive as he heard his stomach growl.
Jeb was used to hunger. Growing up, his father and mother had worked their old Missouri dirt farm hard, but it never seemed to produce enough. As a result, he had eaten his share of fatback and greens, or beans and corn bread. He knew he was lucky, some folks never had enough of anything to eat, but he at least had something most of the time. He felt an itch on his left leg near his balls and dropping his pants he looked down.
The tick was large, about the size of the tip of his little finger, and was on his left leg, near his crotch. It was full of blood and had a dark purple body. As he looked himself over he noticed many others on his legs and lower stomach. He quickly started pulling them off, and the first to go was the blood filled one on his leg. After he removed them, he could still feel an itch. He had known men to die from ticks, though it was rare. His best friend in school had pulled a tick off his right underarm one day and was dead of a fever within a week. As he pulled the ticks off, he noticed other men checking themselves as well.
“We must have passed through a mess of 'em ‘cause ticks are on everybody.” He said to Wardlaw who was standing nearby.
Suddenly shot filled the air and a man near him screamed, fell to the ground, and begin to thrash violently. The right side of the man's head was missing and he was dead as far as Jeb was concerned. The injured man continued to scream as bright red blood spurted from his head. Jeb ran to his side and when he kneeled to check the man's injury, he could see the pulsing brain inside of the shattered skull. The man was dying, that was for sure, but his kicking and screaming was getting on everyone's nerves. After a few years of war, they all preferred people to die in silence and without much blood, but rarely did a man die quietly. It was the screaming and noise of the dying that bother most of the men, not the act of death itself.
"Sharpshooter!" someone yelled from off to his left and Jeb quickly ducked behind a nearby boulder.
The sergeant ran up, upholstered his pistol, and calmly shot the injured man between the eyes. The fallen man quivered once, his bowels voided, and then he was still. "Damn them Yanks." the old sergeant said as he placed his still smoking pistol back in his hostler. "They never fight like a man should."
The sergeant slowly turned in a complete circle as he looked around for the sharpshooter. After a few minutes the top sergeant knew the shooter was long gone, so he turned and walked over toward the colonel and his aids.
"He didn't have to fuckin' kill 'em." Wilkes complained in a weak and trembling voice. "He might have lived."
"Sure, as a damned vegetable." Jones said and then he asked, "Who the wants to live like that? Who wants to spend the rest of their life drooling and slobbering down the front of their shirts? You want to spend the rest of your life living like that Wilkes?"
"Wilkes, you are an Idiot! That man was a good friend of mine and nobody should be allowed to suffer fer days with that kind of pain! The sarge did ‘em a big favor as far as I'm concerned!" Jones suddenly yelled as he stood and quickly moved toward Wilkes. It was only after a few steps that he stopped, slowly shook his head, and went back to where he had been sitting.
"Listen Wilkes,” Corporal Applegate said in an attempt to defuse the situation before someone kicked the man's teech in, “you are a complete dumb ass as far as I am concerned. Like Jones jes' said, the sarge did the guy a favor. Just forget it, he would have died anyway, the sarge merely stopped the pain."
"Well, I guess so, corporal, but I didn't like him shooting him like that. He deserved a better way to go than a bullet between the eyes. That's the way you'd kill a horse, not a man. It just don't seem right is all"
"For God sakes man, half his damned head was missing! Let it go Wilkes! The guy was dead already, only he just didn't know it yet." Jones said, as he turned and started to fix a meal of parched corn and moldy salt pork.
Jeb should have been shocked at what he had seen and heard, but he really wasn't. Many times during the war he had seen mercy killings. Not that he liked them, he didn't, but it was better to die quickly than to suffer in deep pain for hours or days. He only hoped and prayed that some one would do that for him if he were hurt with no chance of recovery. The war had made him face many things he did not want to face, because there was no choice. Taking his blue soiled and damp blanket Jeb rolled up in it and leaned back against the boulder. Soon, he was thinking of his family and how much he loved them. He also wondered what Nancy was doing right then.
