EXCERPT:

The Fifty-Fifth remained within a mile of the river, placed there to cover the flank of retreating skirmishers from the Seventy-Third. Jack Paced worriedly. “Are they going to fight the whole damned Rebel Army at the riverbank, Lieutenant?”
           Lieutenant Oliver Roberts seemed to share his concern, his face drawn in grim lines. “I hope not. As soon as the Pennsylvania boys move, First Platoon is going to be all alone. I intend for us to skedaddle out of here at the sight of Pennsylvania’s flag.”
            He glanced up at the night sky. “Something big is coming, Sergeant, I can feel it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t see Jackson himself, come morning.”
            Closer to the river, David sat on a large boulder sheltered by a thick birch. He felt troubled; not because he feared the skirmishers, or the inevitability of General Jackson’s army, but he felt like he’d failed. During the battle, he’d watched the artillery shot hit below the ridge where the Rebels were entrenched, to no effect. He had been able to see the brave assault of Milroy’s men in the distance. They’d never wavered in the face of the enemy and they’d given as much as they got. It had gone on for a long time, then the Rebels gained momentum and the Federals hastily retreated down the mountainside. David, far removed from the main action, felt ashamed. This was becoming personal. This was his army and these were his fellow soldiers.
            A twig snapped in the darkness behind him and David instantly shouldered his musket, the ordnance rattling as he brought it upward. A muffled voice penetrated the shadows. “Put down your musket, Pete, and take a breath.” It was Corporal McCurdle.
            “You scared the bejezzus out of me, Corp.”
            “I brought you a hot cup of Yankee Brew. Take comfort in the thought that it’s a damned sight closer to coffee than what the Johnnies drink. They can probably smell it across the creek.”
            “What’s happening?” By now he’d learned that there was always a reason for Happy Jack’s acts of benevolence.
            “I thought you might like to know that Private Taubman didn’t make it. In the withdrawal from the mountain, Zeke was crushed by an artillery caisson. A mortar exploded near the mules, they spooked and turned over the cannon. He was killed instantly under the wheels.”
            David felt an immediate sense of guilt. He remembered cursing Zeke for his good fortune. David couldn’t respond.
            Happy Jack waited for a minute before continuing. “I know he was your possum, Pete, but we all go sometime. The Rebel mortar just hurried him along. It was a fine way to go, the quicker the better. He never felt a thing—at least not longer than the few minutes while they pried him out from underneath the cannon. Well, maybe it was ten minutes.”
            Jack McCurdle’s voice was sobering. David sat unemotionally, not moving. He became aware of the rock he was perched on. It was cold and the bitter chill was creeping into his bones. He sorted out the cruel wisdom of Happy Jack. It filtered back to him as a new sensation. Although he wasn’t positive, he decided it might be revenge. Billy Coleman, Zeke Taubman—both gone so quickly, he wanted to kill the enemy, to wipe them off the face of the earth. He swore he’d never get close to another soldier. To him they all seemed doomed.
            At the first hint of light, Lieutenant Roberts barked out orders, “Fall back, men, time to make our way back to Franklin. The Seventy-Third has pulled back.” There was a sense of urgency in his voice.
            Robert’s nodded in First Sergeant Burke’s direction. “Send out twenty skirmishers to watch our flank.”
            Corporal McCurdle overheard and nodded at David. There was no need for Burke to repeat the order. Happy Jack and his skirmishers were out on the flank again. Twenty men strung out in a loose line to protect the regiment’s retreat. It was a lonely detail.
            As they walked through the brush, David kept his Springfield ready. Since the day he’d received it, he’d treated his musket with respect. He always wiped away beads of moisture that collected on the barrel. This time it was condensation brought on by the morning vapor misting up from the river. He could imagine the specter of Rebel cavalry blowing through the fog and riding toward them.
            Corporal McCurdle was unusually close to him as they walked along the edges of the turnpike. “What I wouldn’t do for a little tar water right now. What about you, Pete?”
            “I don’t drink, Corp.”
            “No, I supposen you don’t. I wish we could just light out of here like the big bugs do. They jump on their mules and ride away. All we see is the backend of the chicken guts on their shoulder, all gold and pompous. It’s up to us to beat these Rebs, Pete. You and me and the boys of Company C. Don’t that beat all, I’m a poet.”
            David mustered a smiled, he felt better. The long road ahead would be a little easier as long as Happy Jack was near.
            When they finally arrived at the camp, they found things were a mess. The regiment was very low on provisions. It seemed the generals had forgotten to bring along their wagon trains of food stuff.
            Compounding the misery of the situation, orders to move didn’t come again for two weeks. On Monday, May 26th they finally broke ranks and traveled back to Petersburg. The march was truly uncomfortable. Then they marched to Moorefield, and finally to Strasburg, a distance of ninety miles.
            They were exceedingly tired and hungry by then.

Friday, December 6, 1940

Holy cats and kittens, Gramps, It’s really late. Mom’s going to kill me.”
            “Hold your horses, Pete. I phoned her awhile back, when you were in the kitchen helping yourself to a sandwich. She told me to keep you until Sunday. I also told her I thought you’d be ripe as old cheese by then. She said to tell you to take a bath and she’ll drive the Chevy down tomorrow with a change of clothes. I have an extra nightshirt for you.”
            “Thanks, Gramps. I wouldn’t want her to chew me out for walking home at midnight, particularly in this neighborhood. No offense, Gramps.”
            “No offense taken, tomorrow’s Saturday, my regular chore day. How about you stick around and help me shovel some coal from the cellar into the furnace?”
            “I’ll take care of it myself, if you’ll finish telling about the Civil War and your time in the army.”
            “Talking has gotten easier as I grow older. Working my jaw is about all I can handle these days. There’s still a lot to tell, so we might not get it finished by Sunday.”
            “Is there anything else you need me to do, or to fix while I’m here? I’m pretty handy with a hammer and nails.” “I’ll think on it. Let me get you something to wear tonight.”
            David Werner smiled as he rummaged around in an old chest for clean nightclothes for Edmund. His great-grandson’s curiosity had opened a floodgate of emotions and memories, most of them pleasurable. He conjured up thoughts of long walks and sunny days spent reviewing the events of his service. For years he’d been a regular at the library on South Ann Street. Besides the main branch downtown, Branch Number Nineteen had the best Civil War collection in Baltimore.
            In his younger days, Sarah would whisk him out of the house with a kiss and tell him to read until she had done her work. He’d made the walk to South Ann most Saturday’s, stopping on the way home for a beer at Bohchinski’s on hot days. On cool days he’d stop at Piedigrotta for coffee and some pistachio biscotti, chatting for a while with Bruna about her children. He ‘d usually bring home a warm loaf of Italian bread for Sarah.
            David would regularly arrive at the library doors at 10 AM. After he’d find his spot, he’d systematically comb the dusty shelves for information.
            A through Z, he’d thumb through the books, making his choices based on his interest of the day. When he’d found the right one he would sit in a cozy chair in the reading room.
            He’d repeated this action for book after book, after book, going through all the volumes he could find about the Civil War. Once he’d found some new source he’d hunker in, relaxed by the daylight streaming through the massive windows. It was there in the dancing shower of dust motes he’d illuminated his past. For the most part he’d sat silently, basking in the memories of places and times he’d lived through.
            As the months, then years, passed, he uncovered a lot of information about the Civil War. He’d become more educated and had gained some understanding of the events he’d lived, even learning to put aside most of his old hostilities. Studying the Rebel side had given him a new perspective, although he would never agree with their position. Time and wisdom had softened him. Through a clearer magnifying lens of time, he began to see a bigger picture. In the 1860’s, he’d been too close, less tolerant. The persistence of righteousness had made it difficult for him to really understand.