"Move faster, galdarnit men! What are ya? Lily-livered Yanks? Well, the real Yank army is right behind ya, and they ain't a-shootin like they scared." Private John Lacks got a good look at General Marmaduke as he yelled from atop his horse. It was the first time he'd ever seen the General, but he knew who he was immediately. After crossing the river, John ran up the steep bluff to the hastily made Confederate breastworks, he could hear Marmaduke yelling behind him. If you've got a General yelling at you, you run that last hundred yards, even if you didn't think you could. That's what Marmaduke was counting on.
John fell into a trench atop the bluff. Taking a deep breath, he turned on his belly and looked back down across the river and into the field beyond. The Saint Francis river is the dividing line between Arkansas to the south and Missouri to the north. The dirt was becoming mud, and caking on John's clothes. It didn't matter to him, he was glad to be off his feet. After an hour of running, they were all glad to be still. John looked back at the General.
General Marmaduke sat steely-eyed on his brown horse as he himself finally made the trek across the river and up the bluff. The clank and clatter of men preparing for battle seemed to have no effect on either the horse or General. The brass buttons on the General's butternut coat glinted in the sunlight, his saber hung onto his left hip. The General's white mustache and goatee dripped sweat onto the ground as he dismounted to talk to his colonels. All around, men were running and yelling orders, carrying supplies here and there, pointing cannons north, preparing for the coming Yanks.
The General removed his grey, wide-brimmed hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, then slapped his horse to dash into the woods behind the bluff. Most of the men had already made their way across, so now it was just the matter of planning the defense.
Coming fifty yards across the shaky bridge, John had seen why they called the place Chalk Bluff. The dirt on the bluff was mixed with sand and clay so that it had a chalky white look. It rose about fifty feet above the river, a natural castle wall of protection. Once across the river, the men had to almost crawl to the top.
He had been in a dead run all the way from Four Mile Missouri in the Confederate retreat knowing only that Chalk Bluff was their destination. Spotting it two miles away made those last two miles all the more easy.
Still gasping for breath, John turned from watching the General and looked back out across the river. The makeshift bridge rocked back and forth, up and down, creating a great turbulence in the waters. It wasn't strong enough to carry the whole load, so horses were driven into the water to lengthen the life of the bridge. The Saint Francis' current was too strong for many of the horses. Some drowned in John's view, others still fought the current while being carried downstream. Men fought desperately attempting to help the horses across. The air was filled with splashes and curses, and the sounds of battle rolled across the field to the bluff. John didn't remember noticing any of this as he had crossed.
He saw the steady stream of soldiers trailing a mile and a half north across the open field of Missouri to a long east-west row of trees. A few trees spotted the Missouri bank just across from him, but for the most part it was one large open field. The trail of men looked like a colony of ants that disappeared into the woods.
John felt something kick his boot and then slam his back as suddenly the air was forced out of his lungs. Another private had fallen on him, but quickly rolled to John's left.
"Sorry about that," the voice said in short gasps. "I just plum give out." John turned to look at the man. The man had a long beaked nose, deep set brown eyes with a hint of red and thinning white hair that capped his slender, triangular face. He was very tall and thin. His chest moved in and out rapidly with his breath. His face was covered with sweat, and he wiped his beaked nose as he apologized to John.
"You all right? Name's Wiley. You?" Wiley rolled to his stomach to watch across the river with John.
"John Lacks," said John, looking to the river again. He wondered did he look as haggard as Wiley. John was much younger than Wiley, only thirty-eight, while Wiley must have been fifty or more. John still had thick brown hair that was combed back to just below his collar, and kept in place by his infantryman's cap. John's face was rounder, he had thick cheeks and soft green eyes. John was only five feet eight inches; Wiley was over six feet.
"You from around here, John?" said Wiley still breathing hard.
"No," replied John. "I'm from Virginia."
"Virginia? Why, I was born there myself. That was a long time ago, though. You're a long way from home, John. What'cha doing out here?" John shrugged.
"The war just brought me this way."
"Uh-huh! I live just a ways from here. Got me a farm. Lived in Illinois until Lincoln was elected. Then I had to get back to living around decent folks.
"Shame seeing all those horses go to waste," he said, looking back to the river. "I sure could use a couple of them on my farm, what with plowin� season coming up and all. What do you do, John?"
"I try to stay alive while fighting Yankees." John looked slowly at Wiley, then nodded his head in the direction of the field.
"Look out there," he said. Wiley looked, and they both saw the long line of Confederate soldiers had an end. They watched in silence as the line slowly filed across the river and fell into place on the south side of the river. After the last man had crossed, they heard the commanding colonel call out.
"Simmons! Cut the mooring to that bridge! We'll make them damn Yankees swim across."
"I bet Yankees cain�t swim," cried another voice in response to the order.
"Then maybe we�ll just drown the lot of them," returned the colonel. Many of the men nearby laughed as a small dark-haired man scampered down the bluff with a knife in hand. He began to cut the bridge loose.
"That's Doctor Simmons from Oak Bluff," said Wiley. "I didn't know he was here. He was shot in the foot over at Pea Ridge. Figured he wouldn't run again. Looks fine to me though."
Simmons jumped back as he gave the final cut and the bridge slowly moved down with the stream, and began to break apart. Simmons scrambled back up the bluff.
"Okay, men, get with your units, get loaded and ready. The Yanks aren't far behind" John heard the colonel yell the commands. His gun was already loaded. He studied the hill across the field to the north.
After several long, quiet minutes, John saw several grey specks pop up in scattered places along the row of woods. Suddenly the open field between John and the ridge began to explode. The specks moved fast toward him.
"Yanks trying to catch the rear-guard running, huh John?" Wiley spoke to John as they both stared across the field.
"Poor souls. Ain't no bridge for them to cross no more. The Saint Francis is a tough one to try to swim, too. �Course, at least she ain�t no Mississippi!"
John watched the Confederate rear guard as they ran across the field. There was no organization to their retreat, it was a foot-race to safety. The field continued to explode as the Union artillery tried to hit what they could, shooting blindly from the other side.
John then saw, along the tree row again, more dark specks. Blue specks. These had organization and moved quickly. He could barely make out it was Union artillery. They stopped at the edge of the woods and began to unlimber the cannon. The rear-guard continued to run in his direction. Some had thrown down their weapons, canteens or anything else they thought might speed them in their flight from the Yankee army.
He saw the Union cannon spit smoke, and just after heard their boom. The shots fell too short, falling still on the field in front of the retreating confederates. He wondered why they hadn't answered the Yanks with their own cannon.
The ridge began to clutter with more blue specks, and John knew the Yankee infantry was forming to advance. The Union cannon spit again. This time one or two shots splashed into the river. He felt a stir behind the Confederate lines as he knew the rest of the Confederate army began to wonder why they still hadn't answered the cannon. He knew, as did most of the Confederate soldiers there, that they had ten heavy cannon, and one of those was a captured Union gun.
The Yankees had formed quickly. Already John could see their well-formed battle lines advancing out of the woods, headed for the river. The U.S. flag and their regimental colors flapping away in the wind.
John looked for his flag.
To his left, perched high atop the bluff, fluttered the Stars and Bars. The circle of white stars against the blue field in a box in the upper left corner beside the three bars, red-white-red, made John's heart swell. He was fighting for his freedom, the right to make his own choice, not to have his life determined by someone who lived thousands of miles away, and knew nothing of his life. This, he knew, is what the U.S. government wanted. This is what the Union had wanted when it called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to squash the "southern insurrection." They wanted to tell John how to live, yet they'd never seen a farm in Arkansas. John knew that George Washington, the Virginian, must have been turning over in his grave.
John looked back across the river, a renewed anger filled his body. Then the ground shook below him and he heard several thuds.
"Cannon balls are hitting the bluff. Those things are hitting pretty hard. Say John, you okay?" Wiley squinted his eyes and leaned close to John.
"Yeah, fine." Yells from the opposite riverbank grabbed their attention. The running Confederates were beginning to reach the river, and they could find no way to cross. In their desperation, some began to jump in to the river. Others, seeing those already in the river being carried downstream by the current, decided to run south along the riverbank, hoping for a better place to cross.
After they had come and gone, disappearing around a bend in the river, John looked back at the advancing Union army. The field from midway back to the woods was full of advancing Yankee lines. To John they looked like walls of men, wanting nothing more than to put a musket ball in him, or run him through with a bayonet.
As they got closer, John saw them stepping over the few scattered dead Confederates. The occasional Yankee stopped to get souvenirs off the dead bodies. Now, the bluff shook with the constant barrage of cannon balls. Some overshot the bluff, and John could hear them crackling as they tore through the trees behind him.
Suddenly the bluff roared to life. Their cannon finally fired on the Yankees. John watched as the first wall of Yankees, which had advanced to within about one hundred yards, fell. The Confederates had used canister. They had packed any kind of trash, broken glass, and such into the cannon before firing. The effects were usually devastating.
The next wall of Yankees advanced, filling up the space the fallen wall had taken. They advanced closer. John noticed the Yankee commander was out in front with his sword outstretched. His horse had fallen in the canister shot, but he had somehow survived.
They had come closer now, so that John could make out some of their faces. They were dirty and grim-faced. Sweat stained their shirts and glistened on their faces.
"Get ready to fire men!" John recognized his captain's voice. John brought his gun to his cheek and looked down the barrel. He again examined the Yankee faces. This was going to be a turkey shoot: All those yankees standing in a neat line just over 50 yards away. Any Confederate worth his chickens could take out one Yankee with each shot. The Yankees, however, were just shooting wild. The Confederate were well concealed up on their bluff.
"Shoot the colors!" said Wiley beside him. John turned suddenly to Wiley.
"What do you mean 'shoot the colors?'" John answered what he thought was a ludicrous suggestion. He looked at Wiley with a furrowed brow, trying to decide what he meant.
"Yeah, I know you're not supposed to, but who's going to know? Don't you hate that flag?" Wiley leaned closer to John. "Do it anyway."
Turning from Wiley to the field again, John looked at the color bearer, the one who carried the flag.
"Fire!" The bluff opened again with fire, this time from the infantry. Pieces of the wall of Yankees fell. The smell of powder filled John's nostrils. He looked at the Yankee carrying the flag. He was still alive.
The confederate cannon fired again. This time only segments of the first wall and some of the second fell. John realized the bluff was so high, that the Yankees had gotten close enough so that the cannon was ineffective. They couldn't aim the cannon down. It was up to the infantry now.
John got to his knees and began to reload his gun. Wiley was beside him and had already started to reload his weapon.
"Don't sit up so straight, John. Those Yanks will aim for you fer sure. Keep low," Wiley said then plopped his gun back down to take aim. John finished loading his gun and readied himself again.
"You missed 'im," Wiley said after John steadied himself. "You can hit a deer from this far can't you? Surely you can hit a man." John was agitated with Wiley. He knew he shouldn't. The man had no rifle, only the flag. But the thought of degrading the U.S. Flag, of having it fall to the ground and stomped on pleased John.
He aimed his gun, and waited for the signal. He thought he saw the color bearer point his way. The Yankee line steadied their guns and fired. Smoke came from the guns and the trees crackled and popped behind him. He realized then that the bluff had been shaking below him regularly.
"Fire!" John fired again with the Confederate infantry. Again he looked at the colors. They were still flying, but many of the Yankee soldiers fell to the ground, or leaned on their fellow soldiers. John saw the color bearer leaning against another soldier. The other soldier was helping to steady their flag. He stood up to see where he had been hit, and if maybe he had indeed hit him.
Something hit John just below his right collarbone. It knocked him back and to the ground.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Dr. Simmons and his captain staring into his face. The captain shook his head no and both walked away, leaving Wiley.
"How 'bout that John. You're the first one hit by a minnie ball today." Wiley laughed as he spoke. Cannons and gunfire still sounded. John raised his head to look around and saw that he had been pulled about one hundred yards behind the bluff. A small boy stood near the captain and Dr. Simmons, holding the reins to a mule and small cart. John saw feet protruding from the back of the cart. Wiley saw John looking at the cart.
"Sorry John," he said, "we got no field hospital. The Doc says you're gonna have to ride in this cart back to Oak Bluff." Wiley slapped John on the left shoulder with a smile. It still sent hints of pain through his right.
"That musket ball really tore a hole in you. Doc said it lodged, and tore up some pretty major blood lines. Something like that.
"Don't worry. We're tearing the Yanks to shreds," said Wiley. "I'll shoot one or two more for you." John saw the captain jog back to the bluff, leaving the Doctor to other Confederates laying on the ground.
John saw Wiley and the boy placing another Confederate into the cart. He sat completely up and started to stand. Wiley rushed to his side and helped him.
"You ready to ride, John?" Wiley placed his arm around John and helped him move.
"I reckon so." John groaned in pain with each movement. The ball was still in his shoulder and it hurt him to breathe. He had to take short, quick breaths.
He leaned against the back of the cart, and looked at the other Confederates. The sideboards were only about a foot high on either side. There was no board on the front or back. John looked back to Wiley who was dragging another body to the cart. The boy helped Wiley as he neared the cart. They lifted the body and rolled it into the cart.
"That's about as full as we can get 'er with you riding, John." Wiley smiled as he spoke. John looked at the cart. It only had one seat.
"Wait-a-minute," said John, looking into the back of the cart. "You don't expect me to ride..."
"Aww, c'mon John. They ain't gonna mind. They won't even know you're there. Abe�s artillery made sure of that." Wiley laughed. "Now go on, get in. It's a long ride." John hesitantly sat on the side of the cart. He looked beyond the bodies in the cart. The boy climbed on and grabbed the reins. He held the cart tightly with his left hand. He really didn't want to get into the cart.
"See you soon, John," said Wiley as the boy flicked the reins. The cart started with a jerk and John fell backward into the cart. He felt the unmoving bodies under him. They were still slightly warm, but had already begun to cool.
He lay there for some time, afraid to move, afraid to look at the bodies, only staring at the sky and passing trees. His hands rested together on his stomach. He didn't want to move them, afraid of what they might feel.
"Mister?" The boy said from above him. John turned his head up so he could see the boy. He felt the nose of one of the soldiers at the side of his head.
The boy was looking at John. When they made eye contact, the boy turned back around. A chill went down John's spine. His shoulder hurt terribly. The kerchief that the captain had stuck to his wound was wet with John's blood. It ran down slowly over his shoulder, and dripped onto the man under him.
"What do you want?" he asked, still looking at the kid. The boy turned back to look at John, then quickly faced the road again.
"Nothing," he said. "I just was seeing."
John knew why the boy called him. Any minute John kept expecting to hear one of them tell him to get off, that he was too heavy. He knew the boy thought something similar. He reached into the front pocket of his britches and pulled out his handkerchief.
"Here boy," he said holding his hand up to the boy. "Take this. It's a lucky gold piece my great-grandfather brought with him from Europe. Hang onto it for now, I'll get it back when we get to Oak Bluff." The boy took the handkerchief from John and he saw the boy smile. The boy turned back around quickly, but John thought he saw the boy's eyes flash, like a reflection from a campfire.
John closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything except getting some rest.
John awoke with a stabbing pain in this wound. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn't moving, the cart had stopped. He heard crickets, frogs, and an owl nearby. He opened his eyes and was looking into unseeing blue eyes. John pulled his head and shoulders back instinctively to get away, and the pain in his shoulder came again. He had somehow shifted to his right side while he slept and had put all the pressure on his shoulder. He looked again at the face. Blood ran down its cheek and into the mouth. Two flies moved around the eyes. John noticed the body had begun to bloat from the summer's heat.
Then it hit him. They weren't moving and it was dark. He sat up quickly, the pain in his shoulder caused his eyes to see bright lights.
When the lights disappeared, he saw the boy was no where in sight. The cart had stopped in a narrow lane. Trees lined the trail and met above, blocking the view of the sky. The place was near pitch black. Only hints of moonlight shone through the trees and onto the ground sporadically.
Remembering the dead bodies, John quickly slid off the cart, accidentally knocking one of the bodies off. It sounded to John like an orange hitting the dirt. John left the body there. His right arm was numb. He knew he needed a doctor fast to save his arm.
"Boy!" he called.
No answer.
"Boy!" he yelled louder. He looked in the cart at the dead bodies. He then noticed they had begun to smell. He swallowed hard. Still there was no answer.
"Boy! This isn't funny. Get out here now!" John was getting mad. His eyes had adjusted somewhat and he could now make out the trail for a ways. He noticed a clearing in the direction the cart had been headed. He couldn't walk that far, he would never make it.
He started to try to get in the seat when he remembered the body he had knocked out. His shoulder throbbed with pain. The smell made his eyes water, the smell of hot, dead, bloated flesh. He walked to the body. The body had blown up so much that the buttons bulged on the man's shirt. The pants looked as if they were about to burst the seams. The man's face was swollen so that his eyes were shut, his cheeks puffy and his tongue stuck out of his open mouth.
John grabbed the man's ankles with his left hand. He brought the feet up to his chest and pressed them tight against him. He dragged the man to the back of the art. He slowly managed to drag the body into the cart on top of the other bodies.
He painfully climbed into the seat, grabbed the reins, and encouraged the mule onward. The rough trail jolted John so much that it was a continual fight against blacking out. The mule trod slowly.
When he reached the clearing, John saw it was just a bald spot on a hill. The trail continued on down the hill, going into the trees again about fifty yards away. To the right of the trail sat an old wooden chapel. Steps led to the one large front door. A small bell was in the steeple just above the door. Four large milky windows were on the side that faced John.
To the left of the trail was a graveyard. John noticed two freshly dug graves. He looked back at the bodies. He wondered where the boy had gone, why had he left. A chill went down John's spine and he shuddered. He coaxed the mule in the direction of the church, and stopped at the door. He tied the reins, and started to step out when the blackness hit him again. He fell and hit the ground hard.
Sight came slowly back to John.. He was facing the cart, with his back propped up against the side of the church. His shoulder hurt so much that only pressure applied by his left hand helped at all.
He looked around. He remembered falling out of the cart onto his face, but he didn't remember getting up.
Then he heard a sound. A steady digging noise. It came from across the trail, from the graveyard.
"Boy!" he yelled. "Is that you?" No answer. He bent his head down trying to look under the cart, but the cart was too low to the ground.
"Answer me boy! What are you doing?" He yelled even louder this time. The digging stopped. He craned his head forward trying to hear any sounds.
He heard a slow walking across the trail. He bent his head to look under the cart again. This time he saw booted feet slowly moving in his direction. He looked up again and saw what appeared to be a flag. A gentle breeze blew and slowly unfurled the flag. It was the Bonnie Blue.
No. John got a closer look at the flag. It wasn't the Confederate flag at all. It was the United States flag. A Yankee had found him! The Yankee got closer as John tried to think of any way to escape.
"What's yer problem, Reb? You trying to wake these fellas here?" The Yankee was close enough John could see him point to the cart. John was speechless. The Yankee slowly walked up to John and squatted just in front of him. He held the flag in his right hand. The Yankee looked somewhat familiar to John He wondered if maybe he was a commanding officer. Then, he decided not. The Yankee smelled as bad as the dead bodies in the back of the cart. He looked nearly as bad. The Yankee's body was bloated, mud and blood caked his body.
"Can't you talk, Reb?" The Yankee said as he stood again. The Yankee extended his left hand to John.
"Let me help you up, Reb." John looked at the Yankee's hand. The smallest two fingers were missing at the palm, and the blood oozed slowly out. John looked into the unseeing eyes of the familiar Yankee and took his hand.
John stood with the Yankee's help, and walked to the other side of the cart. Once there, the Yankee let him lean against the cart and started to walk back to the graveyard.
"What are you doing?" asked John. The Yankee stopped at the edge of the graveyard, which was about thirty yards away from John.
"There's a gun in the cart, Reb. Take it." John looked in the cart. The bodies had been removed, and there was a rifle instead. John leaned and took the gun.
"Now," said the Yankee, "I'll give you one more shot at me. Then it's my turn." Then John placed the face. It was the Yankee color bearer at Chalk Bluff. He realized too, that he had shot the Yankee. The Yankee stood still, holding the flag close to his side.
"You better take your shot now, Reb, because I sure won't miss you this close." The Yankee stood still.
John quickly pulled the gun to his left shoulder. He had never had to fire left handed before, but the Yankee was only thirty yards away. He couldn't afford to miss.
The Yankee held his pose as John leveled his gun as best he could. He sighted the Yankee, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
The Yankee dropped the flag and sailed back, hitting his head on a tombstone. John shouted and threw the gun down. He heard clapping. It sounded like applause. Turning, he saw the men from the cart--the ones who had been dead, clapping for him.
Then he saw the Yankee move again. The Yankee slowly pulled himself to his feet. John stared in disbelief. He could see the spot on the Yankee where he had hit him. Blood stained the Yankee's chest, and ran freely.
The Yankee began to walk toward John. Dragging one foot now, he had a blank stare in his dead eyes.
"Okay Reb, you've had your shot. Now it's my turn," said the Yankee as he stopped to pick up the fallen flag. When he raised again, John saw the familiar starry cross of the Rebel flag. He continued to the spot of the fallen gun, stopped, tossed the flag to John, and picked up the gun.
John started to move away, as the Yankee brought the gun to his cheek.
"Don't run Reb. I held still for you."
"Why'd you give me this flag?" asked John.
"A flag is all I had when you killed me, that's all you'll have when I kill you! Besides, it's an honor to carry the colors, especially to die with them."
John looked around searching for somewhere to run. The Yankee fired. The shot tore a hole in the flag and proceeded to splinter wood on the church behind him. John painfully worked his way around the cart. The Yankee was nearing, causing John to circle the cart to keep the distance between them.
The Yankee fired again. It hit John's hand holding the flag. He dropped the flag and cradled his hand. He started to run for the graveyard. He looked over his shoulder to see the Yankee take aim and fire again.
The shot hit him between his shoulder blades, and he fell to the ground. His breath was hard to catch as he crawled to a nearby tombstone. He turned to see the Yankee fire again from about ten feet, and all went blank.
*
John opened his eyes to see Wiley staring down at him. His eyes glowed red, and the hair on either side of his head came up almost to a point. John couldn't move his arms or legs, and when he looked down he could see they were covered with dirt, dirt that partially covered a U.S. flag that was draped over him.
"Don't you know you're not supposed to pay the boy until you get to the other side?" said Wiley as he smiled and tossed a shovel of dirt on John.
copyright 1997 Roland Mann