Chronicles of War

Chronicles of War

a historical novel by

Darin Michael Shaw

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Darin Michael Shaw

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Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Epilogue

About the Author

One

He dipped the end of a quill pen into the indigo. He took one last look out the window, toward his farm, before returning to dab the excess ink on the side of the inkstand. He drew in a deep breath and then ran his signature out onto the document. That was it. He was a member of the 26th Volunteer Infantry.

That look out the window was stirring. The view offered a single-paned perspective on everything that mattered to him in this world. He looked out over the community he loved, the homes of his neighbors and friends, and the church he’d helped build with his own hands. Down the road he could see the path to his farm, and even the old Turner family gristmill in the distance. He thought of his beloved wife Harriet. They had been married twenty years—more than half of his lifetime—and had spent it all right here in DeWitt. This would be the first time they would be apart. This would be the first time he’d be away. He thought of their oldest daughter Nancy-Ann. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, mature and helpful to her mother. He knew that she would be counted on even more now. Their son Lewis was a fine young man. Job recalled his fourteen year-olds’ confidence in telling him, I’ll be the man of the house while you’re away, Father. He believed in his son, too. He took comfort in knowing Lewis would be up to the task. Then there was Ryl. At seven years old he was too young to fully understand what was happening. But his innocence often provided the family moments of levity, and Job imagined that would be invaluable in helping the days of his absence pass. And baby Ellen. She was quite an attentive and inquisitive two-year old. You go chores, Father? she would ask each time she saw him pull his boots on. How would she process her father leaving on such a long errand? How would his family fare while he was away? How would he? Though he had firmly settled the matter, he still revisited the question, perhaps as a means of reassuring himself: Is this cause worth it?

*

Mr. Trites! a cry came from behind him in the trench. Looking back, Job saw Thomas writhing in pain. There appeared to be smoke rising from the young man’s chest. And blood—more blood than Job had ever seen or imagined. God! Thomas shouted. God, help me! Job dropped to his knees next to the boy and attempted to compress the wound. Where are the surgeons? Job wondered aloud, furiously looking back and forth in hopes of spotting someone who could help. Hang on, Thomas! he demanded. Help! Job himself began to cry out. Beneath his hands, Thomas’ chest rose and fell in awkward rhythms. The boy’s breathing labored, as he gurgled and gasped for air. Although it was only a matter of seconds, this seemed to Job to go on for hours. Job’s mind raced. What to do? Should he attempt to move him or keep him still? Should he go for help or was it too late? Almighty God! he pled. Thomas grabbed Job’s wrists and gasped, I’m going to die, Mr. Trites. All of a sudden it was as if the entire world went silent and still around them. No, son, you’re not going to die, Job insisted. Then their eyes met. Thomas’ struggling eased; a determined smile crossed his face as he said, Sure I am! Don’t you remember? We’re all going to die, Mr. Trites. Preacher said so. You agreed. Remember? I suppose I’ll see you there. Then he breathed his last.

The sounds and the realities of the scene rushed back. Shouts and screams encircled Job. As he scanned the area, barely a healthy body was seen. Members of his regiment littered the trench: men doubled over in agony here; dismembered and furiously working to tourniquet wounds before they bled to death there; everywhere reaching, pleading and begging for assistance. Job replayed Thomas’ words in his mind, We’re all going to die, Mr. Trites. That strange silence returned.

‘I’ll bet Lewis is working the plow right about now,’ his mind was playing tricks. Job was absolutely stunned that this tranquil thought crossed his mind at so terrible a moment. It was as if he had left the battlefield altogether in his head. ‘And Nancy-Ann—I’ll bet she’s hanging laundry for her mom.’ He even imagined that he could see them. The older children at their chores, Ryl was digging worms and Ellen was on the porch swing he made. It was as if he was there.

*

It had all happened so fast. There was growing concern locally about the effect the South’s secession would have on control of the Upper Mississippi River, rails and commerce. Water and rail were the only ways to move goods, and where those arteries were threatened, livelihoods were at stake and tensions ran high. When President Lincoln called for an additional 900 men from Iowa, there began a robust movement among the men in DeWitt to enlist. Job found himself compelled to join their number.

For Job it was as clear as right and wrong. He held his religious convictions deeply: Almighty God had created all men equally and Jesus Christ had died to set men free. He was also passionately patriotic. He had lived in the United States thirty of his thirty-nine years and couldn’t fathom that anyone could misconstrue the words of the founding fathers to mean anything less. Job loved his country. To hear Lincoln speak of preserving the Union, and the realization of what the secession of southern states would mean—the talk of the town was the importance of this cause. It resonated deeply with him.

Job took in the scene at the Meeting House. He was twice the age of most of the men there to volunteer. In fact, he knew most of their fathers. He looked down at the floor, never had he seen so much mud tracked in. Three solid days of rain—each day the Union officials were there to enlist volunteers—had made a swamp out of the courtyard, and the community’s young men in their zeal to enter and enlist had made quite a mess of the place. Job glanced down at his own boots. He, too, had unwittingly contributed.

Bates, Samuel J. the secretary called. The 18 year-old son of Job’s neighbor Asa Bates stepped over to the desk. Job eavesdropped on the back-and-forth.

Where are you from, Son? DeWitt Township, Sir. What do you do? I’m a blacksmith, Sir. I don’t know anything about being a soldier. You’ll be just fine, Son. Blacksmiths make the best soldiers.

Job smiled. Just a few minutes earlier that same Captain had assured him that farmers made the best soldiers.

Mr. Trites! a familiar voice called to Job. I didn’t know you were enlisting! Job turned to see Thomas Goad, a young man who failed miserably in attempts to hide his affection for Job’s teenage daughter Nancy-Ann. What Company did they assign you to? Thomas asked. I’m in ‘H’. Well it looks like we’re serving side by side, Thomas. I’m in company ‘H’ also.

I was kinda worried, Mr. Trites, I mean, I’m not a soldier. I’m a cooper, like my father and like my grandfather before him. But that Captain over there, young Thomas threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the officer enrolling the troops, he said that coopers wind up making the best soldiers. Did you know that? Again, Job smiled. Yes, Thomas. I believe I have heard that before.

Young Thomas looked the part of his pedigree—he possessed a big doughy stature, but with strong broad shoulders that gave way to muscular arms and rough hands; the kind that bend steel. He had a mop of hair that he captured under a cap, but as polite a young man as he was, he was always removing his hat upon entering a room or when addressing someone—liberated, that hair was forever falling over his eyes. Job would have liked to take the sheers to him. Thomas had a sweet disposition; he was kind and considerate of others. He hid sometimes behind a nervous giggle when he spoke. His familiarity with Job, and their being assigned to the same company, seemed to give the young man a measure of comfort. And for Job, too, the chance to embrace a fatherly role in this new and unknown setting, felt a fit.

Job and the others were ordered to assemble on the morning of August 25th. That gave him exactly three weeks to the day to settle his affairs and make provisions for his family.

*

So where is this Camp Kirkwood? Harriet was busy about the task of setting the utensils for supper. She was thrilled to have three more weeks with Job before he would be mustered in—for her own sake, not just for the kids. By all appearances she was a woman of tremendous strength and certitude, but he knew her like no one else. She was nervous. So was he.

Forty miles, he replied, near Clinton. Turning to see Lewis listening in over in the doorway, he motioned for the boy to join them, ’tis named after Governor Samuel Kirkwood. The Union abandoned an outpost in the west called Kirkwood, so they adopted the name back here.

Will you stay there, Father? Lewis sat down at the table. No, Son. I reckon we’ll be there a few weeks for training. I hear tell that the Iowans will be used as decoys along the river while the Armies of the Illinois and Ohio press the Rebels further south.

Job wasn’t exactly sure what the role of the 26th V.I. would be. His assumption had come from a conversation earlier in the day with his friend Jonas Sullivan, a West Point graduate who had been a classmate of many of the officers on both sides of the conflict. Sullivan, were he not rendered a cripple in a riding accident a few years earlier, would have likely led the Iowan regiment himself. William Tecumseh Sherman is the man who will be given charge of the Army of the Mississippi—that’s where they’ll fold in the Iowans. A good man, Sherman! But there’s talk of a politician making noise, and perhaps even having the ear of the President, seeing as how they worked together once when Lincoln was in Illinois. The thinking goes that he wants a command of significance. He’s not a military man. McClernand, I think his name is. Surely Lincoln has better sense. Whoever is in command, know that the Armies of the Illinois and Ohio are large, well trained and experienced. They will make any major assaults. The Army of the Mississippi will be support, or even decoys. They’ll have you marching a thousand miles in circles just so the Rebel scouts will go back and worry their officers with reports of heavy activity in the west, Sullivan surmised.

Decoys? Harriet stalled her activity. Isn’t the point of decoys to draw the enemy’s fire? I’ll be fine, Maw, Job smiled and then, feigning indignation he continued, but, I might just starve to death tonight. Good Lord, Woman! Must I smell that stew any longer before you serve me a bowl? All three of them chuckled.

Later that night, as he did every night, Job knelt down to pray. This night, however, was different. It seemed like tonight he bore the heaviest burden he had ever known upon his heart as he went to prayer: Lord, God Almighty; Lord of hosts; have mercy on my soul…

*

Fall back to the river! Shouts wrestled Job back into the moment. Fall back to the river! Move! The voice belonged to First Lieutenant James Patterson. With his reputation as a man of great courage for his part in the Utah Blackhawk Indian War, to hear Patterson sounding a call for retreat left Job certain that the assault on Arkansas Post had been a complete and utter failure. Bending down over young Thomas’ lifeless body, Job offered a prayer, Father, into Thy hands I commend young Thomas. Dust to dust; ashes to ashes. Father, have mercy on his soul.

Move, Trites! another voice called, and with that someone snatched Job under an arm and began to drag him forward into a dead-run. We’ve got to clear that tree-line! this man yelled as the two ran. As they cleared the tree-line, they stumbled headlong into the marsh and swampland that occupied the last hundred or so yards to the river’s edge—the same muck that had taken H Company a full hour to negotiate inland from the landing. From this vantage point the men could see Admiral Porter’s fleet repeatedly firing their 32 pound smooth barrels at the Post. They trudged on through thigh and waist deep mud and mire, all the while in the teeth of freezing winds. Utterly exhausted, but thankful to be alive, Job and the rest of the men regrouped at the landing. This was their first chance to take an inventory of the missing. Twenty-six men from Iowa’s 26th were no more.

You Private Trites? Patterson’s voice startled Job. Yes. Trites, I’m giving you a field promotion to 1st Corporal.

Job nodded but couldn’t speak. The notion seemed ridiculous to him. A promotion? For what? For making it through the marsh not once, but twice? For having carried himself slightly lower than young Thomas did at the moment a Rebel ball ripped through his rib cage? He revisited the scene in his mind. When they made their way to the left flank of the Post, where were all the finely uniformed officers? Privates, Corporals and Sergeants were everywhere, their uniforms torn and tattered—as a lot they appeared anything but uniform. Where were the West Point grads when the pickets came under heavy fire? And they were really only supposed to have a look. Had anyone anticipated this?

Job spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening mulling it over, and struggling to get warm. There simply weren’t enough blankets that had come ashore to cut the chill. He decided to put his energy into scratching out a note to his beloved bride, hoping that his mind could become otherwise occupied. Pulling one more scrap of paper from his sack, he grabbed his lead and began, ‘My Dearest Heart’…

Meanwhile, the men of the Third Brigade—and thereby the men of Iowa’s 26th V.I.— were being penciled in by commanders to take the lead in an early morning assault on the Post. Many lives would be lost on the morrow, and no unit would pay a heavier price than the 26th.

‘10 January 1863 ~ My Dearest Heart: We’ve landed below Arkansas Post, and have spent the better part of the day under heavy fire. Brave and valiant men have lost their lives this day, including young Thomas the cooper who succumbed to a Rebel ball in the late afternoon. I am fearful for the first time in this endeavor, my dear, that I may be lost to you and the children, forever. We are sore under-prepared for this assignment, having had only one day of drills and maneuvers out of harm’s way up to this encounter. Now we are facing artillery and rifles from Rebel fortifications with no more than our picket line. My God, Woman, they’ve spent more time teaching us how to set up our tents than the art of warfare. And our tents? They are on the transport, so this night we will weather the cruel elements with a blanket and no more. The terrain is more formidable a foe than they planned. The Rebel positions appear as impregnable as nature could make them. To even secure footing for an assault leaves us vulnerable to their rife-pits and blockades. From the landing, swamp gives way to a steep climb, underbrush and trail alike are blanketed with vines and the overhanging limbs draped with Spanish moss. And cold! The temperature has been a most menacing ally to the Rebels in their fortress. They enjoy embers, no doubt. We cannot even light a fire to warm ourselves this night for fear of artillery strikes. I’ve thoughts just now of …’

Job lifted his lead from the paper, and raised his eyes to the heavens. The sky was absolutely clear. That, he recognized, was the reason for the plunging temperatures. As Job looked into the heavens, he was momentarily transported back to a scene from his childhood.

At the height of a difficult season, his father, William, had taken work with the North American Railroad, hoping to earn enough money to move the family to America. He announced that he would have to spend many months away from their homestead. Job had very few tender memories with his father, but the night before he left was one of them. William took his son outside. It was a very clear starry night in New Brunswick. He took time to point out the different constellations to Job. Job, he said, Whenever you look up into the sky, you can be comforted by the fact that the very stars above you are also above me, wherever I am. We share the space under the good Lord’s canopy. When you look up at them, know that I’m thinking of you. When I look up at them, I’ll know you’re thinking of me. That was as close to an affirmation of love as he ever heard from his father. That