12

g eneral lee decided after jackson’s siege of romney that war shouldn’t be waged

in the winter. and not until after late spring, either. spring rains melted dirt roads into ribbons of

soupy mud that stuck supply wagons and cannon caissons to their surface like fly paper. the

civil war would become a seasonal thing. but by may 1862, we began a charge through hell

that didn’t slow down until that december. we fought more major battles that year than any

other year of the war, twelve of them including antietam. sometimes they were only a week

apart without time for either horses or men to rest.

i dreaded sleep just as desperately as i needed it. every night, headless ghosts in blue

uniforms chased me through cornfields, a retreat was blocked by leaping flames, or i watched

helplessly as a union soldier drew a bead on sam. days were just as bad. when i raised my rifle

to take aim, a voice repeated the sixth commandment, the one forbidding murder. it caused my

rifle to waver. another voice would rise against it, telling me that killing yankees was my duty.

daily, my conscience was split in a deadly contest. war was winning, erasing the rules i had

spent my brief lifetime learning.

then there was theft—or confiscation, which was it? at toms brook in may, we captured

northern wagons loaded with grain for the horses, flour, rye, coffee, dried meat, medicinal

opium, and quinine. we had no choice; we were at the mercy of the confederate army’s lack of

experience providing for its soldiers. the horses had scarcely eaten in two weeks, and some

boys had been living on lard candles gathered from nearby houses. protruding ribs and hollowed

cheeks marked man and beast.

were we thieves after port republic under the early june sun, when we plucked guns,

federal-issue oilskin raincoats, knapsacks, ammunition, shoes, and pants from dead or fatally

wounded yanks so we could go back into battle? the most unnerving sight was men bent over

the fallen, hands busy with shoelaces, buckles, coat buttons, in pockets, and in their haversacks.

i, too, made that necessary, ghoulish search, competing with hordes of other men for something

less raggedy, less caked with mud and body fluids than the poor excuse for clothing on my back.

was this disrespect for the dead? it seemed as great a sin to leave these useful items lying on the

ground for years, fabric flapping loose around blood-filled shoes and desiccated flesh.

as i lay in my bedroll in his clothes, i couldn’t shake the image of their redheaded former

owner with his frozen expression and half-closed eyes. they had seemed to follow my hands as

i rifled his pockets. in his haversack, i’d found a rabbit’s foot just as worn as the one i rubbed

for luck. now that he was removed from battle, would this boy have understood my need and

forgiven me?

the next morning, sam noticed that i didn’t join the others for breakfast but stayed inside my

tent. he stuck his head through the tent flap. “what’s ailing you?”

“nothing. leave me alone for a little while.”

he sat down next to me. “not on your life. something’s bothering you. what is it?”

sam’s open, accepting expression made it easier to tell him the reasons for my sleepless

night. he became solemn. “i’ve been troubled too. but if you ever want to get home again,

you’ve got to develop animal instincts. don’t think about anything but food and shelter, nothing

else.”

“i guess you’re right.”

“i know i’m right.”

i grudgingly agreed, but to me, it was pure theft when our lieutenant mcdonald had a soldier

lead to the back of the line his elegant, prancing jack, sleek with a still healthy coat, because he

worried he might lose his father’s fine mount in the coming battle near gaines mill. he then

covetously eyed a confederate farmer’s heavy-boned draft animal. our company was marching

alongside a pasture in late june when he spied the horse calmly feeding in the field. our group

of foot soldiers drew up behind mcdonald when he abruptly halted by the fence and

dismounted. he was in such a hurry to reach the sturdy animal that he swept right by me,

knocking me off my feet. grimacing, i stood up, wiggled each foot to check that it still worked,

and brushed myself off.

“here, boy. come here, boy,” the lieutenant teased, hand extended. the liquid-eyed stallion

trotted toward him, innocent of its fate. mcdonald stroked its velvet nose while whispering

softly. the horse nudged him on the shoulder and gave a friendly whinny. the creature

reminded me of pa’s wilbur, who had carried us to staunton so swiftly. heartsick, i wondered if

he’d been taken too, and how pa would put in crops, haul wood, or get to town without him. if

that were the case, my family would have to struggle against starvation and freezing weather for

the length of the war.

deftly slipping a bridle over its head, the lieutenant coaxed the horse out of the farm gate

and uprooted it from its safe pasture and the family for whom it was necessary. worry about my

own family cast a deep shadow across one more day.

i saw the stallion cut down five days later as a bullet pierced mcdonald’s saddle a finger’s

width from his thigh. it bored like a drill into the horse’s muscled flesh. with a shriek, the

animal hurtled to the ground and tossed the lieutenant over his neck like an acrobat. exhilarated

by his escape from harm, mcdonald guffawed as he brushed twigs from his uniform. he then

leaped astride a comrade’s mount, and the two men cantered off. i heard the rattle of the stolen

draft horse’s last breaths in the tall field grass.

around this time, we stopped calling the war what it really was. a man would say as he

dropped a blackened greasy rag after cleaning his rifle, “well, now i’m ready to see the

elephant.” or we’d say about a fellow who had fallen on the field that he’d “heard the hooty

owl.” we couldn’t use words too close to the truth of the thing, so we kept it to animals or the

weather. all these years i’ve done my best to avoid recollecting the cruelest particulars of the

circus of war and the whisper of death’s wing.