10

o n the first day of 1862, soon to become the most battle - torn year of the war in

virginia, the morning unfolded beneath pewter clouds and a temperature mild for winter. it

wasn’t a bad day for nine thousand men to set off from winchester, headed west across eight

mountain ranges toward romney, virginia.

with ma’s oilcloth cast about my shoulders to ward against drizzle, the softness of the

weather set me to daydreaming. my body was light as a turkey feather. a wagon bore my

knapsack and blanket, leaving only my gun and ammunition for my back, and my feet

automatically followed those of the man in front of me. jim blue and sam walked to my left

and, from time to time, sang a scrap of hymn or a verse from “the girl i left behind me.” they

demonstrated that they knew all the words to “lorena,” unconcerned that neither could carry a

tune. several of the men drowned them out by boisterously singing to the tune of “dixie”:

“old missus marry will de weaver

williams was a gay deceiver—

look away, look away, look away, dixieland!

but when he puts his arm around ’er

he smiles as fierce as a forty-pounder,

look away, look away, look away,

dixieland!”

friendly shoves and jabs were shared between the two choirs, each trying to silence the other.

such nonsense leavened the drudgery of one foot endlessly planted in front of the other.

by late afternoon, needles of sleet pelted our faces. we had reached a higher altitude where

the roaring wind tore at my collar and scarf. shortly, my pants were soaked clear through and

froze into planks of wool that rubbed my shins raw. my feet skated in the frozen ponds of my

shoes. every step forward was exhausting, lifting one foot above the drifting snow to repeat that

movement with the other. by dusk it must have been close to zero degrees, and even shoving my

ice-encrusted gloves into my coat armpits didn’t warm them. ice hung in daggers from visored

caps, slicked men’s cloaks in ragged sheets, and frosted brows and beards. jim blue and sam’s

beet-red faces reflected silvery dust in the lantern light. with my free hand, i clung to my

blanket under the oilcloth and shoved the edges around my eyes to meet the now- greasy

skullcap knitted by aunt ellen. i could barely see but had little choice but to keep going

forward. sleet still dove beneath my upturned overcoat collar, and it crusted there. my blanket

would have wet patches that night.

finally, the howling died away. we lumbered along, trailed by hundreds of food and artillery

wagons, until the horses’ hooves began to skid out of control. whinnies of fright pierced the

snowy silence that had muffled our voices and footsteps. falling men broke ribs, some broke

legs, some broke arms. when the wagons finally halted that night, sam, jim blue, and the rest of

our mess tore up fence posts and railings with our numb hands and laid them as a barrier

between the frozen ground and our thin blankets. everything rested on thorny brush. tents

would keep snow from mounding on our heads, although by morning their sides would be slabs

of ice. dispirited, we fell into a troubled slumber on the side of mount stevens.

fights broke out the next morning, even between comrades, for a spot alongside the wagons.

no one wanted to suffer the fates of those who had slipped the day before. elbowing others

aside, zeke grabbed the side rail of a wagon and clung to it for hours as the horse-drawn vehicle

led his lanky body forward. with rags bound around his boots for traction, he thought he was

prepared for the steep, icy road. he was absently humming a tune when he felt the wheels start

to spin. in an instant, he threw himself clear of the wagon and scrambled up a wide ledge above

the road. the wagons ahead began to slide backward and sideways. screams and curses rent the

air. heavily loaded with gun caskets, the vehicles swayed and then fell like dominoes, plunging

over fallen horses and soldiers, crushing whatever lay in their path. they finally exploded

against the cliff walls, casting their contents onto blood-streaked snow. zeke had saved himself

by quick reflexes and a sharp intuition. i had stayed out of the morning’s melee and had kept

pace ahead of the wagons, steadied by my own efforts to remain standing. now i was on a

higher part of the road and, sickened, observed the disaster from above.

everything halted while animals were shot and dragged aside, wounded and dead men were

gathered up, and splintered wagons were cleared away. from my vantage, the impasse of

tumbled conveyances and boxes trailed down the slope as far as eyes could see. there was no

way to gin up any body warmth through movement, and stamping my feet only sent needles of

agony through my stiffened toes.

we huddled together the second night with only a blanket and oilcloth. tents and supplies

were trapped miles behind. forms spooned together, sharing two blankets for extra thickness as

the falling snow gathered on our heads and shoulders and filled the hollows in between. i’d

never imagined that jim blue’s warm breath on the back of my neck would be so welcome.

lying out there on those icy rocks, i recalled how blue and i once shared something else

when we were lads—our mutual disdain for new jerusalem sunday school. we plotted our

mutual expulsion, to be achieved by mimicking the teacher’s pompous orations behind his back

but where all the class could see. the teacher’s face washed purple with rage as students giggled

and pointed. but no one wanted to be guilty of expelling the grandson of a former minister,

reverend winthrop blue. he founded our neighborhood presbyterian church near the start of

the century and was just as renowned for marrying the last person in our area to be kidnapped by

indians and then rescued. jim blue would wrinkle his slightly turned-up nose and then launch

into tales of family ties to indians, generally irking everyone within earshot.

in the dark that night, a voice softly asked, “do you ever wonder why anyone believed this

was worth doing? were we crazy? why did we leave home for this?” it was otis mccorkle,

who had joined us only a month before this march to western virginia. his deep sigh enfolded

us. we’d noted by the first day’s end that mccorkle was cursed with a melancholic streak. to

make matters worse, he was sorely missing his wife and baby. he was dark inside and out: thick

black hair framed his plump face, one rarely brightened by a smile. bushy brows were often

drawn together in morbid contemplation. we steered clear of him when we could because he too

often reminded us of things we didn’t want to consider. mccorkle and zeke had been the last

members to join our mess. they had walked into camp together from rockbridge county in late

november and were immediately assigned to our group. that’s about all they had in common.

zeke thought about things at least as seriously as beards, but he never let anything get him

down. he always had a twinkle in his eyes and a ready laugh. mccorkle floundered in his

unhappiness so often that he couldn’t notice what lay outside of it.

a few feet away i heard beards reciting, “a man has to live by his decisions and then drive

himself forward, one step at a time. one step at a time.” he uttered it as a sacrament, as if to

convert a resistant part of himself. the rest of us, who might have agreed with mccorkle’s view

and beards’ resolution, made no comment. we couldn’t afford to acknowledge either of them. i

fell asleep with the rabbit’s foot in my grip, its raggedy fur a reminder of home.

on the morning of the third day, severe hunger pangs radiated from my stomach to my legs

and hobbled every step. i stumbled along, oblivious to the vague rumbling and low cacophony

of voices coming closer. when it could no longer be ignored, i saw over my shoulder that the

increasing commotion heralded the arrival of the food wagons. you never heard such jubilant

cheering as when the first one wobbled over the hill. the brittle, tasteless hardtack was as

welcome as ma’s fresh-baked lemon cake.

about fourteen miles along, the acrid odor of wood smoke stung our noses, and swirls of

gray floated above low hills. zeke was ahead of us and reached the break in the trees first.

“my god, what happened there?” he pointed his thin arm in the direction of the valley

below. “get up here and take a look!”

we sped up the path and stopped next to him. our dark line of soldiers threaded from the

hilltop toward a small town in ruins below. we gawked, then set off in its direction. brick

chimneys slumped over charred foundations, and the residents had clearly fled the flames and

perhaps something else they feared just as much. slaughtered cattle and pigs dotted the fields.

a sober hush fell upon the lines ahead of company d as we crossed the town’s perimeter.

steps faltered, and a pall fell over the group even as the officers loudly berated fellows to keep

moving.

i asked sam, “what’s slowed things down in front?” he was several men ahead of me.

“damned if i can tell.” he craned his neck. “i can’t spy anything yet.” a dozen strides along,

i saw some of the fellows in front of us avert their faces and heard others gag. an unnatural odor

of burning fat assaulted my nose. then we saw it.

a man’s corpse, intentionally laid out face up and hands crossed, was smoldering in still

glowing embers within his incinerated home. white teeth sparkled in his coal-black skull. the

remnants of house, body, and the murky circle of watery soil around the foundation were the

only melted parts of the frozen yard. his slain cattle and pigs were heaped by the side of the

road, their throats circled by icy collars of gore. i assumed that the man had been suspected of

spying for the confederates.

“jeeezus! this stinks just like pork left too long on the spit.” sam stared for a second with his

scarf pulled across his nostrils and then turned abruptly from the scene.

meat. that’s all this man was now—flesh flaking from bone and fat sizzling in the flames. no

history, no dignity, no name—only a sign, a warning.

later that night, there was dispirited conversation. mccorkle said, “i don’t know about the

rest of you, but this past week has set me against this entire business.” all of us but zeke looked

away.

his eyes darkened above his sharp cheekbones. “i’m there with you, mccorkle. we are in

this hell of a fix because of a bunch of fat cats who are looking out for their investments. and

now some of them command this army and control our lives. which are nothing to these sons-

of-a-bitches.” he spat into the campfire.

“you’re damned right,” i admitted. i didn’t add that reverend mcintyre’s comments in the

parlor the previous spring about the evil of one human owning another had begun to gnaw at

me. my questions ran deeper than zeke’s, but i blocked them whenever i could.