On Wings of Gentle Power is Here!

My book of poetry, On Wings of Gentle Power, is now out and available on Amazon.com. It is a collection of poems, with terrific black and white photography by Dr. Al Past, of the Distant Cousin novels fame.

Special thanks to Al, and to my publisher/editor, Mike Katz of Strider Nolan Media. He and his wife did an incredible job with the artwork and layouts.

I hope you will check it out.

Short Story Contest for Kids!

My IAG friend, Bobby Ozuna, is promoting a new contest. Here is his recent post to the IAG Group...

Hey gang, I could use some help promoting a new short-story contest for kids by the foundation READ3Zero. I co-founded this organization with author Melissa M. Williams of LongTale Publishing and we are presently taking short-story submissions by children in and between grades third through eighth. We are going to publish the best short-stories in an anthology entitled: "I Write: Short Stories By Kids, For Kids" in 2010. We could use your help in promoting this contest which will help spotlight the creative efforts of children. I am going to feature the winners of the contest on my show, The Indie Author Show next year. I created a short infomercial for READ3Zero and the I Write contest which you can view here:

http://bit.ly/5kkELQ

This is a great way to show your support for literacy and encouraging and possibly nurturing the next great American author....supporting the independent arts...~Bobby Ozuna

www.OzunaPub.com

If I Could Sing

Copyright 2009 by Barry Yelton


If I could sing a thousand years
in space of just a minute
I wouldn’t hesitate the least
but certain sure begin it.

To sing the hurt of all the young
with solemn stanzas borning
the tragedy of small hearts torn
the battered painful morning.

The tiny frame with stricken eyes
that plead for understanding
The fist and steel strike hard in place
of simple reprimanding.

How can the human heart possess
such evil and such coldness
to harm a child such brutal sway
such elemental boldness!

Beyond the ken of decent thought
this perfidy residing
rolls down the hall of all the years
with human soul abiding.

The pain of separation sore
Divorce and death and sadness
wreak havoc on the little ones
and trample all their gladness.

If I could sing a thousand years
from this very minute on
I would surely sing for children
happiness from dawn to dawn.

Sing sunny days with garland clouds
laughing hours and fishing streams
of Mother’s love and Daddy’s lap
cheerful morn’ and rainbow dreams.

Sing the love of their Creator
sing to heart of young and old
Sing the song that’s never ending
greatest Love that ‘er was told.

Light in the Far Distance

Copyright 2009


The Problem

the road stretches beyond my sight
out where lovely day replaces gloomy night
replaces day
replaces night
and yet that glimmer still lights up
the trusting soul
and hope won’t die

the road still rocky
still hard
both that within and that without
two roads to travel
the dual test that puts the soul
on trial
a daily court of accusation
with no defense
save one alone

and looking one to the other
the finger pointing barristers
their bony digits directed at me
and i retreat within and seek
the solace only one provides

the one maligned and scorned
in this post modern nightmare

The Second Problem

and from the columned halls
the white coated gurus utter their
foolish proclamations of the death of god
and the randomness of existence
and how it all came to be
by chance or accident or just because
is their doltish refrain
a homily of oafs
with egos outsized to ridiculous proportion

as if anything really happens by chance

randomness they proclaim
randomness
parroting while always massaging their collective
liege called science
the coterie ensconced in their quiet echo chambers
issue edict upon edict to the
benighted masses who work and who worship
facts! they cry
empirical evidence! they trumpet
their vision limited to the extent of their beaks
as they tinker with the building blocks
of the universe
like children at play
pitifully unaware
dangerously unaware
of the watchful parent
from afar

and yet always, yet always
the question still lingers
still imposes its weighty presence
in the consciousness of men
in the light of the sun, the drift of the rain
in the glow of moonlight, the purr of a cat
in the laughter of a child, the music of the spheres
in the fantastic spin of the atom, and subatomic particles
(of what do they consist, pray tell?)

in hope, in faith, in love
the question uttered by the ancients
still uttered and will be by the truly sentient
and that question is

Why?

The Resolution

a question for which science
has no answer
and will never
for it falls beyond the corporeal thrall
here
bound by finite minds
seeking infinite knowledge
as they tinker and expound with grave proclamation
as if claiming to their own
the essence of the material
their knowledge impressive!
their understanding rather paltry

the ultimate knowledge is
only to be obtained
in the realm of the spirit

though we seem to be peering through darkness
at the light beyond
steady and majestic there in the distance
brilliant
welcoming
eternal

it beckons to him who
would have eyes to see
and ears to hear

perhaps someday
at a microscope somewhere
the light will be found
that finally and irrevocably
on that day of endings
and of beginnings
at long last illuminates
the circumscribed mind of science

"On Wings of Gentle Power" is almost ready!

My publisher, Strider Nolan Media, informs me that my new poetry book, "On Wings of Gentle Power," will be ready within a couple of weeks. It is a compilation of poems written over several years, along with stunning black and white photographs by Al Past, author of the acclaimed "Distant Cousin" series of novels.

The release date will be announced here, hopefully within two weeks.

Review of Floyd Orr's "Timeline of America"

Posted to Amazon.com

Timeline of America is an engaging journey through America's history, as the subtitle states, in "sound bytes." In reading it I became aware of how much recent history, from the fifties, sixties, and seventies, I had forgotten. I recalled songs, movies, and books that at the time seemed timeless, but nonetheless were lost to memory.

Mr. Orr does a valuable service with this book in bringing back those memories that will be especially evocative to baby-boomers and of interest to younger generations who have perhaps heard some of the names, records, movies, etc. enumerated herein. Except for one or two minor lapses, such as putting one city in the wrong state, the book appears to be very accurate and quite comprehensive.

This is not a book to sit down and absorb, because it is mostly a categorization of facts, not a treatise on American culture. It is, instead, a book to ponder over, reminisce over, and re-visit from time to time to catch a glimpse of a bygone America and its triumphs and failures. It is a book to keep and one that will give pleasure and inform for a lifetime. I recommend the book to anyone interested in popular history, especially of the late twentieth century.

You can get the book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Timeline-America-Sound-Consumer-Culture/dp/0595400043/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257028820&sr=1-1

Review of E.L. Doctorow's "Homer and Langley"

Posted to Amazon.com...

This novel, based on the true story of the Collyer brothers, found dead in their Harlem brownstone amid tons of debris in 1947, is an exceptional achievement by one of the finest writers of our age. This story of two brothers from a prominent New York family, each dealing with his own profound impairment, is a not so subtle metaphor for human existence and its ultimate conclusions.

Doctorow changes the time frame of their lives, and fills in the sketchy story with his own elaborations. After the two experience profound tragedy early in life, the narrative takes them through most of the century with its wars, fads, and foibles. They meet and interact with a parade of characters, while leading an increasingly cloistered life in the inherited Fifth Avenue manse. The slow deterioration of the house roughly coincides with that of the brothers' physical and mental states. Each is increasingly closed in, both physically and psychologically.

The book is immensely engrossing and subtly moving. For lovers of good literature this is that rare breed of novel that is both literate and captivating. While moving the reader through the highs and lows of the brothers' lives, it takes one on an intellectual journey that is both edifying as well as frightening. The final paragraph is one of the most chilling I have ever read.

This relatively short novel is indeed well worth one's time.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Five

Loosed from their bonds
in a thousand southern corn fields
in grim and ragged array
these scarecrows looked dangerous.

The next morning we were up before dawn and started a fire to cook a bit of breakfast. Whit said he felt bad, like he was getting sick, so I cooked his breakfast for him and made sure he had plenty to eat. Whit’s a strange one and has his peculiar ways, but you look after your friends. Whit seemed to feel a bit better after breakfast as we marched off toward Petersburg, shouldering our rifles and our bedrolls. They said we all needed to be alert because we were approaching the battlefield. I didn’t relish the thought of shooting at the Yankees, or being shot at, but I confess I was finally getting used to the thought.

The next day we left camp at 5:30 in the morning and arrived in Petersburg about eight o’clock that night. We had walked almost seventy-five miles through the Virginia countryside in three days and were very much sore of foot. Whit and I were directed to the 18th North Carolina Regiment, of General Lane’s Brigade in General Wilcox’s Division in General A.P. Hill’s III Corps, Army of Northern Virginia. We were told it was important to remember all that. Seems now I can’t forget it.

When we got to the camp behind the entrenchments, our jaws dropped at what we saw. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. The men of the regiment, sitting around the “bombproofs” and in the trenches were the skinniest, dirtiest men I ever saw in my life. Many were the color of the dirt of the trenches. Some sat back in holes dug into the trench walls to protect themselves from the shells that fell from time to time. Some lounged around the huts. Others stood posts along the earth works, which wound on and on, as far as the eye could see, north and south. Their clothes were mostly rags, some had no shoes. They peered at us through haunted eyes, their cheeks hollow with a hunger that seemed to go to the bone. They indeed looked like scarecrows that someone had pulled out of every field in the south and put here in Petersburg as though an army of crows had to be kept away from a sea of corn. Whit leaned toward me, his eyes wide, and whispered, “Is this the Confederate Army?”

“I guess it is, and if this is what being a Confederate means, I expect that you and me are in for some hard times, old friend.”

The fellows watched us as we came in, Whit and me and two other men, Lester Carpenter and Walter Gross, who were also assigned to the 18th. The veterans seemed to think we looked funny and there was a lot of jest about the new crop of dirt farmers come to be soldiers. Some sneered at the conscripted and coerced newcomers. There was plenty of good natured laughter and joking about us. As we walked by, a few called out, “Hey mister, here’s your mule!” I learned later it was a sort of joke based on an old farmer who lost a mule in a Confederate camp. One or two yelled out, “Keep yer head down, Billy’s got ye in his sights.” You could tell some of them had seen some hard fighting and hard living and needed to jest to keep their spirits up.

We got directions to Regimental headquarters and there we reported in and were sent to Sergeant Caswell Hutchins. The sergeant was from Rutherford County. I knew his family. They lived only a few miles from me. He was tall and angular, a huge man, maybe six four or five, with broad powerful shoulders. His hair was dark and he wore a full, thick mustache that mostly covered his mouth. The men called him Sergeant Cas and he didn’t seem to mind. He got us situated in a hut and told us about the duty routine. It was mostly spending time on watch and every third day on picket duty. Sometimes we drilled. The colonel liked to keep his men active. The army was just waiting for the Yankees to attack. By this time in the war, General Lee was not able to maneuver his army because the Yankees had come in such numbers that he was forced back into these entrenchments around Petersburg for the defense of Richmond, the capital of this here Confederacy. There really wasn’t much he could do when he was outnumbered by three or four to one, short of supplies and very much out-gunned. Some called him the Gray Fox. Now the fox was cornered and the hounds knew it.

The Southern politicians had counted on the North to give up the war, since so many Yankees had been killed or wounded; some said maybe three hundred thousand. The war was hard on the Yankees, but harder on the South. The Yankees had all the manufactories and shipyards and three or four times as many people and Mr. Abraham Lincoln just would not give up. You had to admire him for that, whether you liked him, or agreed with him or not. Old Abe had the bit in his teeth, and he was holdin’ on like grim death.

The Yankee papers said he wanted to preserve the Union. I never could argue with that idea. This is a great country, even if we were having a family quarrel. Our problem was the Yankees kept sending troops and guns, including huge artillery pieces and powerful mortars, a mile or so away, like nothing the Confederate Army ever had, guns that would throw 120 pound shells right into the Confederate entrenchments and into the city beyond. They never seemed to run out of ammunition. The more about this I learned, the more amazed I was that the Yankees hadn’t already won the war. Then they told me about the character of General Lee and how he refused to give up. The men vowed that they would fight for him until hell froze over and then fight on the ice.

In the course of our evening discussions in our hut, I learned that General Lee was the son of a great revolutionary war hero named General “Lighthorse” Harry Lee who was a trusted officer of General George Washington. General Lee had graduated at the top of his class at West Point and had finished with no demerits. He was a hero in the Mexican War and after South Carolina seceded, he was offered the position of Commander in Chief of the entire United States Army. Instead, he chose to fight with Virginia, since that was his home and his country and he could not raise his arm against it. He loved the United States of America and had served it honorably and well, but to fight against his family and his home, he could not do.

He and the renowned generals Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, James Longstreet, A.P. Hill and others had won many victories over the Yankees. The Federals had replaced their top general of the Army of the Potomac, which was the main Union army Lee faced, five or six times. Seemed they couldn’t best General Lee, even with more troops, better equipment and heavier artillery. The new general, Grant, had learned how to use his huge army to force the Confederates to maneuver backward toward Richmond. Lee had to move the army in order to cut off Grant’s intended line of march. Grant had forced General Lee to entrench around Petersburg, to protect the vital supply lines to Richmond. And that was where it stood when Whit and I arrived in Petersburg, that sunny September day.

Camp routine was monotonous. The food was pitiful; we got about a pint of meal and two spoons of sugar every day. We made sloosh, a kind of soppy cornpone. Sometimes there was meat, usually spoiled bacon, and once in a while we got some cornfield peas or dried beans. And there was always hardtack.

There was a lot of sickness in the camps, typhus, measles, dysentery and every other ailment known to mankind it seemed. We all dreaded getting sick, but the thing I learned to hate worse than anything was the lice. I had always taken pride in keeping myself clean as possible. I bathed more often than most and my dear wife kept the few clothes I had as clean as any farmer in the county. When Whit and I settled into our hut, the lice found us. It made me feel dirtier and lower than a snake’s belly. I hated the feeling of some little critter living on my skin. Whenever I could get lye soap, I scrubbed myself the very best I could. It was most distressing for anyone who was not used to living in filth. Lice were the scourge of the Army, though they were only one among many. It was a hard life in Petersburg.

There were over thirty miles of entrenchments manned by no more than 50,000 troops. The Yankees, it was said, had 100,000 around Petersburg alone. It was a wonder that they had not already overrun us. They had a huge supply port and depot on the James River at a place called City Point, just east of Petersburg. They brought in all the supplies an army could ever need, guns, ammunition, food, clothing and other equipage. They had a hospital there. They even had a bakery which produced fresh bread every day for the troops. We would have walked five miles on our knees to get a loaf of fresh bread.

The Yankees had all the advantages, except that they were on our soil. Still, I don’t know how General Lee held on. Some said Grant was just waiting to starve us out. From where I stood, it looked a lot like that just might happen.

We spent a lot of time watching the Yankees across the entrenchments. You had to keep your head down because there were sharpshooters, which we had as well, but mostly they left us alone, except for the shelling. Sometimes it came in volleys, sometimes just a single massive shell. You could hear them coming, screeching through the air. Sometimes we heard the boom of the big guns that fired them. Out of the blue they came, ripping the air, hurtling in an arc over our entrenchments and into our camps and the city, the rifled shells shrieking like hysterical birds.

Death came quick if an artillery shell found you. The uncertainty day to day wore on the nerves. Starvation and the ever present possibility of walking out of your hut and being blown to a thousand pieces kept your mind agitated and your body in distress. I often thought I would rather we just leave the entrenchments, march toward Grant’s boys and have at it. Win or lose, at least we would be doing something, not waiting to starve, or die of the typhus, or be blown apart by a random shell.

I have to say life in Petersburg was not all grimness, though. Sometimes things happened that were so funny or so strange; they made you forget that death lurked just around the corner. One day in late September, a bunch of us were watching a new detachment of Yankee troops set up camp no more than a mile away from our outermost fort. They had brand new uniforms and were all spit and polish. Theophilus Pate had some binoculars and was watching them, when he busted out laughing, threw his head back and almost fell over backwards. It turns out he could see their latrine sinks from our position and he said, “Look at what they’re wiping theirselves with!”

We took turns peeping through the binoculars and we could see that there was a big patch of poison ivy near the Yankees’ new latrine. The men would grab up a handful of leaves as they went to the sinks. I reckon these Yankees were mostly city boys or maybe new immigrants, had never seen poison ivy and they were using the leaves! Maybe they had run out of paper. If so, it must have been the only thing.

We all had a good laugh over that little episode. In fact we laughed so hard, men gathered around from the regiments on each side of us to learn what was going on. When they found out, half the Division was rolling around laughing. I’m sure the Yankees wondered what the Rebs were laughing so hard about. Quite a few of them found out within a day or so. In fact, for quite a few days after that, there were a lot of Yankee soldiers scratching themselves furiously about their private parts. Some of our pickets would call over to them and say “Hey Yank, scratch where it itches!” or “How do you like that Rebel paper?” We felt pretty safe from attack from that bunch since we knew they couldn’t scratch with one hand and fire with the other!

"On Wings of Gentle Power" Nearing Publication

My new book of poetry, "On Wings of Gentle Power," is in the final stages of publication and should be available with a couple of months. This is a collaboration with the acclaimed novelist and all around renaissance man, Al Past, who is providing some incredible photography to go along with the poems in the volume. Al is author if the acclaimed "Distant Cousin" series of novels.

From the introduction...

"This is a work of many years, an effort at communicating a personal perception of life and its continual mysteries. We explore childhood’s beginnings, concepts of universal origins, the charms of the high mountains, the tragedy of war, and the reality of life’s endings.

The compilation of such various poems is an effort to wrap life’s experiences into a relatively small package. If you read closely you will find embedded in the sometimes fanciful, sometimes serious verse what I believe to be fundamental truths about God, the natural world, and the human condition."

The book will of course be available at online booksellers such as Amazon.com. I will provide further information as the publication date draws near. I am excited about sharing some of my old and new poetry, and Al's marvelous black and white photography. Please stay tuned.

Only Good Movies Blog

I am pleased to say that the "Only Good Movies" blog has posted a link to this blog, because of the reviews of "Gettysburg" and its soundrack. The blog has a section of "75 War Movies to See Before You Die." You can find the site here - http://www.onlygoodmovies.com/blog/movie-megalists/75-war-movies-to-see-before-you-die/ .

Good info for students of history and those interested in movies about war.

The Movie "Gettysburg"

I wrote in an earlier post about the movie soundtrack to "Gettysburg" the epic movie made by Ted Turner's studios in the early nineties. When the movie came out, I was very excited that a realistic, feature length movie was being made about this epic battle.

I remember going to see the movie with my wife, who was not all that excited about sitting through a five hour Civil War film, but who gamefully came along. We settled in for the movie, and when the opening credits rolled, it was enough to take a Civil War buff's breath away. There on the screen appeared the pictures of the great generals and the actors who played them, behind which played the powerful opening theme. For a student of the war, it was a powerful moment.

The movie itself did not disappoint. It was well scripted, reasonably historically correct, and had a good mix of action and dialogue. Martin Sheen's portrayal of Robert E. Lee was surprisingly good. Sheen replaced the producer's first choice, Robert Duvall, who was unavailable for the role due to a conflict. Duvall subsequently portayed Lee in the less impressive "prequel," "Of God's and Generals."

Tom Berengers portrayal of General James Longstreet was equally good. He captured the essence of the powerful commander of Lee's First Corps, known as his "war horse." Other portayals, including Steven Lang as General George Pickett were also good. I thought Sam Elliott as Union Cavalry General Buford was a waste of Mr. Elliott's talent and persona. He would have been better used as a Confederate General with that western drawl of his.

The movie was probably overlong by about an hour. There were certain segments that could have been left out, but no major complaints. Jeff Daniels' portrayal of Union General Joshua Chamberlain was also impressive and believable. He did a remarkable job of depicting this exceptional officer's contribution to the battle, and reflected his outstanding personal character.

The battle scenes were realistic enough, though there was very little gore on display. On the one hand that was merciful in itself, but not completely true to life. During Pickett's Charge, when the Confederate troops were hit by Union grapeshot at point blank range, they only appeared to be thrown backwards. In life they would be be torn to pieces. Most people would understand that, and the reason for keeping the bloody parts to a minimum.

My major complaint with the film was that the Confederate re-enactors were almost all too fat. Real Confederates of the day were almost universally lean, from poor and insufficient rations and continual marching. None were grossly overweight as some of the re-neactors used were. I suppose budget constraints were the reason for using these guys, but it did not help the realism of the film.

All in all this was a very impressive movie and one which is a must see for any student of the Civil War. Just realize that even the best depictions of historical events fall woefully short of the real thing.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Four

The life of a Southern soldier
is such a life of ease;
the cold and the dark
are but a bad dream.

September 10, 1864 dawned a bit cooler than the past few days. Whit and I left Camp Vance early that morning with about seventy-five other men to serve as replacements in various units in Petersburg. We rode on an old box car made for cattle. They herded us aboard and we sat shoulder to shoulder on the rocking train as it rolled toward the battlefields of Virginia. The undulating hills, woods and fields rolled by with what became a dull sameness. Decay and neglect were evident in the countryside as we passed, the steel wheels clacking rhythmically beneath us. Whit stayed close to me the whole time. He had come to look to me to take care of him. I don’t know why since I was just as scared and lonesome as he was. In the afternoon of the 11th, it started to rain. The rain soaked us as it blew in through the slats in the car, and the wind that whipped us felt cold. It was a miserable ride toward a dreaded destination.

After riding all that day and most of the next, we got off somewhere in Virginia and marched the rest of the way to Petersburg. Sections of track in the area were torn up by Federal Cavalry and the trains that were able to get through in Southern Virginia were needed for more important cargo I suppose. We stopped for the night about forty five miles west of Petersburg at about seven o’clock. A light rain fell as we made camp.

I checked my Pa’s pocket watch to be sure it was dry. He had left it to me when he went on to be with the Lord. He must have saved up his money for years to buy that watch. It came all the way from Switzerland and was made of silver with some fancy carving on it. He only got to use it two years before he passed on. I remember that day well. It was a dark stain on the pages of my life. My Pa sat down in his rocking chair one night, after supper, and closed his eyes and in a little while, he was gone. We never knew why. He had been having some pains in his chest and arms and some folks said it was neuralgia, but nobody really knew for sure. His passing hit me hard. I had to take care of that watch. It was what I had to remember him by. I kept it wrapped tight in a little oil cloth to keep it clean and dry.

We cooked up a little fat back and eggs for supper then soaked some hardtack in the grease for a dessert. It wasn’t half bad considering where we were and how we were living at the time. The sergeant placed pickets at a hundred to two hundred yards out because of the possibility there was Yankee cavalry roaming about. The night was warm and the rain had stopped, so we put out the fire early. I strolled out from the camp a ways and lay down in a little clearing and began to search the sky. The clouds had blown off. The stars were bright pinpoints on the coal black canvas of night.

As I lay there, looking up, I began to wonder if I would ever see my family again, or plow old Moses, or even see my farm again. I couldn’t help it; my eyes began to grow moist. I love my wife and my children and I knew how badly they needed me at home. I knew Harriett would try to plow the mule and keep things running, but she’s a woman and was not built for that kind of work. My girls could not be of much help with the heavy work, though I was sure they would try.

I thought about the war, about why I was here and the thoughts ran into a dead end. I lay there under the stars, looking up at God’s heaven. It surely was beautiful here in Virginia, a lot like home. I also thought about how good the weather was, good for working the fields, for cutting firewood for the winter, for just enjoying God’s nature. A farmer always keeps a weather eye out. You have to work the fields when you can, because the times are many when the weather won’t let you, when it’s too wet to plow or too cold and the ground’s hard. The house needs some work too. I needed to split some new shingles for the roof. Then I thought, Lord, that roof’s going to leak this winter just as sure as I’m laying here. What will Harriett do? She’ll probably get a bunch of pots and buckets and catch the water as best she can. She’s like that, doesn’t complain, and just does what needs to be done. Lord, I miss that woman, the light of my life.

About the time I started thinking about Harriett and was kind of losing myself in the thought, along came Whit with a dreadful hacking. He let go a stream of tobacco juice with well practiced ease and said, “Better come on and get in the sack, Francis, long day tomorr’, startin’ before sunup.”

“I’ll be on in a bit,” I said.

Of course that didn’t satisfy Whit. He settled himself down on the ground beside me and reclined with an exaggerated groan, following my gaze upward. Then he asked, “What you lookin’ at, Francis?”

I replied without looking at him, “Just the sky.”

He cocked his head and asked, “Why you lookin’ at the sky? Worried about the weather? You don’t have to plow tomorr’.”

“I’m just lookin’ and thinkin’.”

He wrinkled his brow, “I know what you mean. Say, I been thinkin’ for some time about somethin’.”

“What’s that,” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer because Whit’s mind is a garden of the trivial.

He said “I was wonderin’ why your maw and paw named you Francis. Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

I sighed and smiled to myself at the familiar question. “It is a girl’s name if it’s spelled with a ‘E.’ My name’s spelled with a ‘I.’”

He grunted. “You mean one little letter is the difference between yore name and a girl’s?”

“That’s right.”

Then he asked with some agitation, “Well why didn’t they name you John, or Robert or William or something that couldn’t be confused with a girl?”

Again I smiled to myself and said, “My folks named me for the great general of the Revolution, Francis Marion. He was called the ‘Swamp Fox’ because he outfoxed the Brits and the Tories. He would attack them and then fade into the swamps down in the South Carolina low country; he just disappeared in those dismal haunts like a ghost.

“My Paw was real impressed with the stories about the Swamp Fox, so he named me after him. My grandpa, James Yelton, fought in the Revolution. He was a die hard Patriot. He lived to be ninety-three years old. My Pa was so proud of my Grandpa and his fightin’ the Tories and the British in the Revolution. He wanted me to carry on a famous revolutionary hero’s name. So that’s how I came to have the name ‘Francis.’”

Whit was silent for several minutes. Then he looked at me with this sort of amazed grin and said, “Well, I’ll be the son of Red Coat!” He shook his head a couple of times and said, “I’ll be, I’ll be.”

I think for once I answered one of Whit’s questions without him having to ask fifty more questions about “why.” “I guess we better turn in,” I said, and we walked back to camp where the other men were already sawing logs. I lay there for a long time before I went to sleep, wondering about the future. Will I make it home? Will I be crippled by a Yankee bullet? Will I see my family again? It all rolled over and over in my head until I finally fell asleep.

Comment

Thanks to O.M. Dalessandro for the comment on my Gettysburg post. I have seen the Burns documentary of course and heard the music, but it did not strike me like the Gettysburg score did. That may be partially because I bought the CD and have listed to it so many times. In any case, I have a hard time imagining a more powerful expression in music of the War and specifically of the Battle of Gettysburg.

Thoughts on the Gettysburg Movie Soundtrack

I have recently been listening again to the soundtrack from "Gettysburg," and I am struck all over again by what a profoundly moving collection of songs this is. As a relatively new student of the Civil War in 1992, I remember it was as though the air was pulled out of the room when the main theme began, and the pictures of the protagonists began to appear majestically on the screen. Beginning with a photograph of General Lee, then one of Martin Sheen, who played the role, on through Longstreet, Chamberlain, Pickett, Meade, and the rest, along with the respective actors. For anyone with an appreciation of the great war, it was a powerful moment. If music sets the mood, this soundtrack struck exactly the right cord for the depiction of this pivotal event.

The songs on the soundtrack range from powerful orchestral pieces to quiet reproductions of period music. I have never heard a soundtrack for any movie before or since Gettysburg that even approached its power and beauty. It is stirring in a way I have never known music to be before.

It captures the essence of the valor, heroism, struggle, and suffering not only of the epic battle of Gettysburg, but of the Civil War in general. Randy Edelman, the composer, whose credits include the score for The Last of the Mohicans, among others, gets it. He created a unique and monumental score for a very powerful movie. If you are a music aficionado or a Civil War buff, this soundtrack will move you. I almost guarantee it. It is truly exceptional.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Three

Here is the third Chapter of Scarecrow in Gray for your reading enjoyment:

Chapter Three

On the long winding road
to Gehenna
I paused to look at the stars,
sparkling with the cold eye of death.

We started out early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham and some of the finest biscuits I ever ate. When we finished breakfast, Mr. Samuels saddled his horse and tied the deserter to a rope, pulling him along behind. The deserter never spoke a word the whole way to Morganton. We said good-bye to Mr. Samuels in town as he pointed us toward Camp Vance. We arrived at the camp about seven in the evening, footsore and hungry. The camp wasn’t much. There were a couple of rows of burned out buildings and a few dozen tents to the side. It looked like they were building a couple of new structures, but hadn’t gotten very far. The frames rose up like wooden skeletons from the muddy ground. Overall, it had a depressing look, like a place that tried hard but was still all loose ends and shabby ones at that.

We found a group of soldiers having supper near a large tent. We asked a sergeant where we could sleep. He said there were no tents left for recruits, but that we could bed down near the creek and pointed to a small stream about two hundred yards to the west. He also said that we might find a biscuit or two over by the mess tent. We walked over and asked the corporal if there was any food left. He went in the tent and brought out four small biscuits and some bacon. We went on over to the stream, which was about five feet across and maybe a foot deep as it rushed over the smooth stones. Poplars and river birches lined the banks. We found a relatively level clearing and laid out our bedrolls, then started a little fire. We boiled some water, made some coffee, and ate our biscuits and some chicken Mrs. Samuels had sent with us.

We reclined against a tall poplar tree and listened to the murmur of the stream in the dark. Everything got quiet in the camp, but I stayed awake for a long time. Too much had happened, leaving home, and tangling with the deserters. I turned it all over in my mind for what seemed like several hours. I finally went to sleep, but I kept awakening from a dream in which I was fighting off a wolf that was trying to get at a calf. I hit at the wolf with a stick, but it kept coming back, biting at me, biting my arms and my legs. I could feel the wolf’s fangs tearing at me. I would knock it down, but it kept coming back. About five o’clock, after I had awakened from the dream for the third or fourth time, I got up and walked over to the creek. I stripped to my skivvies and sat down in the cold water to bathe as well as I could. I tried to wash the blood out of my shirt.

I didn’t bother to shave. I figured that living in an army camp and maybe marching about, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to shave, so I began to let the beard grow. My Pa had a full beard and I always figured I would resemble him even more if I let mine grow. It would come out brown, with some reddish tint to it. A lot of the men had beards and it seemed like the thing to do. I got out of the creek and went back to build a fire to dry off. I patted down with my blanket and sat close to the fire. When I was reasonably dry, I got dressed.

By that time old Whit was awake and I told him to hurry, that we had to report to the headquarters. He growled, “I don’t care what that old sergeant said about bein’ at headquarters at six thirty. All my conscript orders said was to be here by 25 August. That’s today and we’re here. That’s all that counts!”

“Just the same,” I said, “we ought to try to get off to a good start.”

He whined, like only Whit can. “Francis, you is the durndest man I ever seen to try to go out of his way to do what somebody else thinks you ort to do, even contrary to what’s fer yer own good. These fellers don’t care about us bein’ on time, all they want is more fodder for the Yankee cannons.”

I said, “Maybe so, but this fodder ain’t gonna start out a shirker from the git go. I didn’t want to come, but now that I’m here, I’m gonna do my duty if it kills me.”

“Prob’ly will,” Whit muttered as he rolled out of the blankets and on to his feet.
He sauntered toward the creek to do his business. I looked out over the camp, which was beginning to stir. Men started fires, put on coffee, and some were gathering at the mess tent. Daylight was coming; the sky was a deep blue. It looked like a clear day, no clouds in sight. I thought about home.

As I stood there, I felt as if I were suffocating under a huge weight. I don’t know what it was. I’m a simple man, a farmer and a worker, but I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders that morning. Our country was torn asunder; the grim reaper stalked the land cutting down men in their prime by the thousands. The death and destruction were overwhelming. I wondered if we would even have homes to come back to. I worried for my wife and my little ones. The future looked as bleak as a stony tomb in the wilderness.

My thoughts were interrupted by Whit returning from the creek. “Whooee, that crik water’s cold! What say let’s git some breakfast.” We walked to the mess tent where there were some tables set up outside and men walked through a serving line. The food was all right, some eggs and a little fatback, but the portions were small. There always seemed to be a shortage of some kind or another these days, not enough of anything to go around. Talk around the camp was that things were going from bad to worse. Richmond and Petersburg, where Lee’s army was entrenched, were cities under siege. Food and supplies, war materials, and anything else needful for surviving this holocaust were in dreadfully short supply.

By the time we finished our meal it was almost six thirty, so we grabbed our belongings and headed over to the headquarters building, which looked like it had just been finished. It was a little one story wooden building with a small porch and a window on either side of the door. The wood looked and smelled new, but the floor was already mud-stained. We walked in and reported to a young lieutenant who was seated behind a little oaken desk, which was maybe two feet by three feet. He had a real neat stack of papers on each side of the desk and he was writing on a sheet in the middle. He had a candle placed perfectly in the middle at the front. On one side was an ink well; on the other was an ivory handled pen knife.

We handed him the papers they gave us and he studied them with a scowl on his face. Then he looked us both up and down like we were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his boot. He looked no more than eighteen. He had a skimpy blond mustache which drooped to either side of his mouth, no chin whiskers. His hair was slicked to the side and curled up about his ears. Fair skinned, he did not appear to be a man who had spent much time out of doors. He was all decked out in what they call a “butternut” uniform. The lieutenant was resplendent with shiny boots and the uniform didn’t have a speck on it. I wondered how much fighting he had done, and decided probably not much if any at all.

He said (with a sort of sideways sneer on his face), “Report to Sergeant Washburn over at Company C,” and he looked back down at the papers on his desk. I asked him how we would find Sergeant Washburn and he yelled, “Look for the flag with the big ‘C’ on it, or can’t you sod busters read?” I looked at Whit and he sort of raised his eyebrows, and we turned and walked out the door.

“There it is,” Whit said, almost as soon as we walked out the door. Whit could read a little and he took every opportunity to show off his somewhat limited ability. At least he knew what a “C” looked like. Sure enough, about a hundred yards over to the left was a group of tents with a flagpole and a flag with a big “C” on it. Whit bit off a plug and then offered me some, which I gladly took, and we walked over to the tent nearest the flagpole. “We’re here to see Sergeant Washburn,” Whit announced as we walked up.

A couple of soldiers looked up from a card game and said, “In there,” nodding toward the big tent near the flagpole.

We walked on in and there sat the sergeant behind the same kind of tiny little desk the lieutenant had. It held an inkwell, a quill pen and knife, and a stack of papers. The floor in the tent was wooden and had been swept clean. He was writing something as we came in. A stout man, he stood about five feet eight and was about forty years of age. He had a shovel beard and a head full of unruly hair and just about the bushiest eyebrows I ever saw on a man. As he looked up I noticed he had a big scar which ran along his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, right at the line of his beard. He studied us critically for a minute, an intense scowl on his face, his hard gray eyes narrowed.

Whit seemed nervous and kept shifting from one foot to the other. I nodded at the sergeant. We handed him the papers and he looked at them like they were written in Greek. He sighed and looked up. “A conscript and a volunteer,” he said to no one in particular with a tone he might have used after stepping into a cow pile. He shook his head and then he looked at us appraisingly. “Let me see you grin.”

Whit looked at me, and I said, “Beg your pardon?”

He sighed. “Grin at me, show me your teeth and then bite like your bitin’ off a chaw.” We did as we were told, though somewhat bemused by the whole thing. When Whit opened his mouth, his chaw fell out and splattered on the floor. The sergeant shook his head again. He growled, “Clean it up.” Whit bent down and scooped up the chaw as best he could. He looked around for a place to dispose of it and finding none, he ceremoniously placed it in his pants pocket. The sergeant groaned a little. Whit grinned, pulled out another plug, and bit if off dramatically. The sergeant closed his eyes and, speaking slowly, explained, “In order to serve in the army, you have to have two teeth that meet in the front, for bitin’ open cartridges. I suppose you’ll both do.”
He looked us over and said, “You fellers ain’t old and you ain’t young. How come you ain’t been in the army all along?”

Whit pursed his lips and said solemnly, “Well, Sergeant, I been busy a takin’ care of my family. I ain’t rightly had time to sign up what with farmin’ and loggin’ and a runnin’ the sawmill.”

The sergeant looked at Whit disgustedly and said, “All of us has things to do. But duty comes first, which you’ll soon find out.” Then he turned to me and said, “What’s your excuse?” I told him that I had served in the militia and that I was a farmer with a family to feed and that I had supplied corn and sorghum and felt like I was doing my duty. Besides which, I really had no quarrel with the Yanks and I have always been happy to be an American and live in a free land and wasn’t even sure about all the whys and wherefores of this war anyway. I told him I came because I did not want to be seen as a dodger.

The sergeant got this real disgusted look and shook his head slowly once again. He looked down, then back up again, and took a deep breath. He began to methodically spit out the words. “Let me tell you something farmer.” He said the word “farmer” like it tasted bad in his mouth. “If men like you don’t come forward and fight, the blue-bellies will be marchin’ right through the middle of this country, burnin’ your crops, stealin’ your women and shootin’ you down like dogs and no hometown militia is gonna stop ‘em. Hellfire, they’re already doin’ it! Look at Kirk. (He meant a certain Colonel Kirk who led a band of Yankee and turncoat cavalry raiding in Western North Carolina and Tennessee). They came stormin’ through here and burned this camp not two months ago. Not to mention the gangs of deserters tearin’ up jack. The Yankees and the lawbreakers will take over.

“But that ain’t nothin’; look at what Sherman’s doin’ in Georgia and what any number of Yankee vermin has done up in the Shenandoah.” He paused long enough to glare at both of us some more. “I been on the front lines at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, not to mention a hundred dustups of one kind or another. I watched them carry Stonewall from the field after our own men opened fire on him by accident; my own outfit, the old 18th North Carolina! I saw the men fall down and cry like babies when they learned what happened.

“I got this (he pointed to the scar) when a Yankee cavalryman tried to take my head off with his saber! I been shot, stabbed with the bayonet, and damn near froze to death a dozen times. I’ve seen men blown to pieces by Yankee artillery, and they was the lucky ones. I’ve seen men come back from battle missing an arm or a leg or an eye or private parts, or with holes in them you could stick your fist in and them still walkin’. You may have no quarrel with the blue-bellies now, but that’s because you ain’t seen ‘em up close and personal like I have.

“Now I’m here to make soldiers out of you dirt farmers and that I intend to do, in about two weeks time. You just plan right now on doin’ what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and you might just get to come back to your little farms in the piney woods” He said this with a particular bit of disdain in his voice, wrinkling his face when he said “piney woods.” He took a deep breath and said, “Now you men go see Corporal Hamrick about some equipage and report back here in one hour for drill.” With that, he looked back down at his papers and we knew we were dismissed. The sergeant must have given that speech a hundred times because he sure gave it well.

We got our equipage from the quartermaster and reported back to Company C for drill. We talked with a few of the men gathered on the parade ground. They were mostly scared and depressed about the situation we found ourselves in. We had all heard the stories about the war, like the one Sergeant Washburn told. We also all knew that more men were deserting than were being killed by Yankee bullets. We knew that while we were marching to Petersburg, there would be thousands of men walking back toward the hills of North Carolina and Tennessee because they were tired of the fighting, the sickness and the starving. They were tired of getting letters from home telling of loved ones near starvation, of wives and sweethearts trying to work like men, and children dying from illness and lack of decent food.

Most of the men were not cowards in the least; they were just tired of the war. They were tired of freezing in the open when rumor had it there were blankets rotting in warehouses in Georgia. They were tired of marching on bloody bare feet when there were shoes by the thousands sitting in musty buildings near Richmond. They were tired of starving when canned food filled warehouses to overflowing in Salisbury. It is one thing to fight an enemy with the full support of your government behind you, but it’s quite another thing to fight when that government is too ill-equipped or ill-managed to provide for your basic needs.

Even the most ignorant private in the ranks somehow knew that the Confederate government was woefully bad. Poor old Jeff Davis tried mightily to do his best, but he was surrounded by a lot of selfish pocket-liners and sycophants who undercut him at every turn. The Yankees had some of the same problems, but their sources of supply were far more plentiful. They had all the manufactories and the shipyards and many more able bodied men. The south with its little farms and plantations had very few manufactories. So when the Confederate government messed up, it hurt plenty. The men knew this, so they were leaving faster than people like us could fill the ranks. Knowing all this made the thought of marching into what looked like a disaster all the worse. We all tried to put on a brave face, but we were scared and homesick to a man and we wondered how we could be such fools.

The sergeant came out to the parade ground and we drilled until almost sundown, with the sergeant yelling and waving his arms in the air most of the day. Our instruction at Camp Vance was brief but very intense and very thorough. We learned the manual of arms, to load our weapons in nine times and four times and at will. Over the two weeks we learned firings, direct, oblique, by file and by rank. We learned to fire and load, standing, kneeling and lying. We had bayonet exercises. We also learned how to march, a concept which amused me to no end at first. I had always thought anyone could march. I was ill-informed. We learned how to march in union of eight or twelve men, the direct march, the oblique march and all the different steps. We learned to march by the flank, and the principles of wheeling and change in direction. We learned long marches in double quick time, and the run, with arms and knapsacks, and on and on.
Whit looked confused much of the time as, I must say, did most of us. We didn’t look much like soldiers and we often felt foolish, but it slowly came to us thanks to the sergeant’s persistent and rather vocal efforts.

They gave me an 1861 Springfield rifled musket, .58 caliber, probably captured from the Yankees. I told them I couldn’t carry two muskets, so they said they would pay me ten Confederate dollars for my musket and give it to the home guards. I knew then my old musket was gone for good. I might as well have given it to them. Ten Confederate dollars wouldn’t buy you supper in Petersburg. The rifle they gave me fired a large round, about the size of the last joint of a man’s little finger. They called it a minie ball, named for some Frenchman. If the heavy lead round struck a bone, it splintered and the splinters tore up the muscle and flesh and the limb had to be amputated. It was not a pleasant fate. If the ball struck you in the chest or head, you would soon be saying hello to your Maker.

For two weeks we drilled and marched and practiced shooting, then we drilled some more. The sergeant said all this would be most useful when thousands of Yankees were charging your position. Most of the men could shoot, but none of us knew anything about military tactics and such. They told us we had to learn fast because the Yankees were threatening Richmond, where Lee’s Army was entrenched along a line about thirty miles long from south of Petersburg to north of the capital.

The day before we left for Petersburg, we learned that Whit and I would be joining the 18th North Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment in General A.P. Hill’s corps as replacements for those who had died or deserted. Sergeant Washburn told us it was his old regiment (he had mentioned as much in his speech), the very same regiment that had accidentally shot Stonewall Jackson in the dark at Chancellorsville. The general was riding back from the direction of the enemy with some others, including General Hill, and the North Carolina boys thought the riders were Yankee cavalry. He died a few days later from his wounds. It is said that the loss of 10,000 ordinary men would not equal the loss of Stonewall. He had been a brilliant field commander, defeating every enemy he encountered, often with odds against him of two or three to one. His name was spoken with fear and respect in the North and with reverenced and adoration in the South.

He was Lee’s ablest lieutenant and some said the best general on either side. And to think boys from his own Army were responsible for his death. It goes to show a battlefield can be a most confusing and heartbreaking place.

Turns out the 18th had lost its colors twice in battle. A regimental flag was a real point of honor and pride in the Confederate Army and to lose one was almost disgraceful. But to lose two was just about too much to bear. It seemed to Whit and me that maybe we were joining up with a real hard-luck outfit and it didn’t exactly make us feel any better about things. The sergeant made it clear to us though that any regiment that had lost its colors in battle had clearly been in the thick of the fight. They weren’t guarding the wagon trains and they weren’t quick to retreat. Whit and I went back to our little camp by the creek to spend the last night before marching off to Petersburg.

Whit grumbled as we walked back to our camp. “Well Francis, looks like you and me got ourselves into a real fine outfit. They cain’t keep their battle flag, and they shoot their own generals. Do you think they know which end of a rifle is which?”

I shook my head. “Don’t be so hard on ‘em, Whit. War is rough business, which we’re about to learn first hand. I just hope I can remember which end of a rifle is which when the time comes to use it and the Yanks are coming at us in hordes, like the sergeant said.”

Whit laughed loudly and said, “Well, Francis, just watch me! I’ll show you how shoot Bluebellies, because I don’t aim to be captured by them Yankee hordes. I heard the food in them prison camps is so bad the buzzards won’t eat it!”

The Passing of a Friend

My friend, Bud Wilson, has been gone now for over three months. I don't believe he thought he was near death. I believe it came upon him as it does many of us, as a "thief in the night." His sister, who found him, said he was sitting in his favorite chair as if comfortably watching television. The set was still on and he was sitting with his hands folded across his chest and a blanket pulled up to his waist.

He most likely sat down to watch a favorite show and passed away quietly from a massive coronary. Apparently a hiatal hernia caused a build up of gas which cut off the blood flow to the heart.

Like many men, he hated to go to the doctor, and though he was suffering from chest discomfort and shortness of breath, he did not get examined.

I suppose there is a lesson in there for us all. Being macho or overly self-assured about our health, is not necessarily the wise attitude to take. We all need to tend more toward the hypochondriac and less toward the rugged individual when dealing with health issues.

It is literally a matter of life or death.

I for one miss my friend very much. We hiked together, did business together, and helped build the NFA together. He was a brilliant thinker and a true friend. He is gone much too soon. If you care about your friends and family, take care of yourself. Don't fail to go to the doctor when you know something is wrong. Do the right thing and get checked out. Your family and friends will thank you for it.

Godspeed.

A Brighter Day

Copyright 2009

if you waken in the morning
you can be glad.
some percentage of the human population
did not.

the earth turns
seasons come and go
a great cosmic clock.
life persists
with an astounding doggedness
and along the way
come unexpected joys
salted within the sorrow.
so breathe the intoxicating
air of hope
and live as if tomorrow is not a given
and life clings precariously
to each passing moment.

we are but the passing fancy
of universal fate
though
that does not diminish
what we
as species homo erectus
bring to our small corner
of the infinite.

finiteness of itself brings
a certain peace
focus
on our small world
where children laugh
amid the falling leaves
and lovers abandon all other
reality
except their own.

breathe deep of it all.
grab hold of the cheer that lies
within reach.

forget regret.

joy pleads to be held
close to your bosom
the light of hope begs to illuminate
the pathways of your mind.

let it.

Night and the Solar Wind

Copyright 2009

Across the night sky,
along ancient, spectral avenues
blow magnetic winds
charged with electric particles
and along those roads travel
all mankind’s fondest aspirations
with the flow of matter
stark, eternal
yet as ethereal as
a sigh.

May you blow hope in the heart of the hopeless
may you blow peace in a warring land
may you blow calm in a troubled mind
may you blow redemption for the piteous lost one

May you blow the love of God to the hearts of
the callous
the distant
the arrogant
the powerful
who stand as a law to themselves
crowned with their carefully crafted ignorance
cloaked in cold self interest,
estranged from their brothers
dreadfully lost in their own exaggerated egos.

May it be, strange wind,
as you course darkly through space
and wrap the earth in freshening power,
that the blackest night
of the human soul
is illuminated somehow
by you,
slightest breath of the great I Am.

In Memoriam

I lost a dear friend on Saturday. My hiking buddy, close friend, and business associate, Bud Wilson, passed away at the age of 65 of an apparent heart attack.

I seem to be losing people with a distressing frequency. My mother passed away in February of 2008; my Uncle passed away in July of that year; and now Bud is gone, long before his time. Each one has hit me in a different way, but each was a body blow. They all hurt.

Bud was the very picture of health. He was a strict vegetarian, did not smoke, and usually hiked five or six miles daily. He could literally walk me into the ground on the backpacking trips we made in the past few years up in the mountains of western North Carolina. That is just part of what makes his death such a shock. I thought that Bud would long outlive any of his peers, including me. Life and fate operate in unknowable ways.

Bud was a high energy guy, enthusiastic about many things including the National Funding Association, which he co-founded and headed, as well as hiking, photography, genealogy, and music. Bud was something of a renaissance man, with interests as diverse as stock market investing and single-action firearms.

On our forays into the wilderness, he proved to be knowledgeable about woodcraft, camping techniques, and nature. Bud took all the backpacking pictures you see here on the blog. I often called on him as a sounding board about business, politics, and life in general.

On Thursday, March 12, we will bury our friend. I have been asked to serve as pallbearer. When I am past the shock and deepest grief, I shall compose a poem for Bud. It is the very least I can do for such a good man.

Meantime, all I can think to say is good-bye, old friend.

The Sunset of Valor

Copyright 2009

Sheets of yellow flame issue
from a thousand rifled muskets
as the blue ranks pour fire through the trees.
The vines and low limbs jerk and twist
under the hail of lead.
The ragged, butternut line shivers and recoils like a single being,
and then recovers and blazes back in furious answer.

In this wilderness battle
the winners and the losers
are one and the same
as death grins darkly
from the shadows
with the fall of each farm boy
face down to the damp earth

as if striving for that final resting place
seeking the comfort of cool soil
solace from this hell on earth
where smoke and flame
consume the body
consume the hope

A boy of sixteen loads his musket
face black from powder
hands shaking
stomach clenching with hunger
and the feasting of lice completes his orgy of suffering
in a dank tangle of rotting forest
where death makes himself at home
and the blue and the gray
mourn their lives
and cleave to death
where to live is to suffer
and to hope presages
the most piteous despair.

The dark presence welcomes each one
his arms open wide
the unexpected friend.

Occupo Dies Quod Capto Deus

Copyright 2009

The chattering box pours out the bad news
recession
depression?
stock market compression
relentlessly, day by day, like some insane preacher of doom
“the end is near”

as it has been since the dawn

We have ever lived on the brink of disaster,
this human family, this myriad, majestic, maddening tribe
living on an orb of rock and water
with a core of liquid fire
swirling through a vast, eternal night
a vacuum
airless, hopeless

Wobbling profoundly round a seething, roaring cauldron
of exquisite, unimaginable heat and light

Accompanied in space by ten thousand random stones the size of mountains
each able to wreak terminal devastation
should it come rumbling down to earth
ripping apart the air
heaving up the waters
with superheated energy which
traveling round the globe
wipes away the life
like so many bacteria
from a table top
until breath ceases
photosynthesis is extinguished
and the teaming planet
becomes as lifeless as dust.

And still but a tiny speck
in an insignificant solar system
looping around an ordinary star
in a vast but unremarkable galaxy
which races away into infinity
leaving its own kind
a wandering family of planets and stars
and black holes
fleeing into the beyond


While a few thousand light years away
a star threatens to go supernova
and spew gamma waves which travel
at the speed of light to earth
and kill every living thing.

And we fret about the decline in our savings

There come childhood remembrances of looking up at night
marveling at the light from the Milky Way
a view to the edge of the galaxy
as it spilled down the
the cobalt dome, pale and remote
now gone from our view

thank you smokestacks
gracias tree burners
danke automobiles

Man can die a thousand ways
life can be whisked away
like a wind blown leaf
its sweetness swallowed up in an instant
and everything loved or owned or hated or feared
is gone, evaporated like steam from a kettle
and those left behind to wonder
about the other side
whence did that essence depart?
the question indeed

And answers come slowly
come quickly
come seldom
come late
but they come

And the Word breathed Truth
with beauty and brilliance
and in the end
His children abide in
Halls of Light
where reign peace and joy
and resides that Balm in Gilead.

Visions, Volume 1

I am pleased to tell you that I just had a short story, "Black Mountain," published in an anthology of horror and speculative fiction tales. The anthology, Visions, Volume 1, is published by Visionary Comics and Strider Nolan Media.

My friend, Dianne Salerni, also has a story in the book, The Necromancer, which is dynamite.

The book is available through Amazon and other booksellers. The url for the Amazon page is http://www.amazon.com/Visions-1-Bernd-Struben/dp/1932045198/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_4.

I wrote Black Mountain partially because of my love of hiking and backpacking. If you have ever been alone on a soaring mountain in the middle of a wilderness at night, you can appreciate that noises in the woods might take on a special kind of terror. If you like spooky stories, this book just might be for you. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Four

Greetings, gentle reader. Herewith is the fourth chapter of the book, Scarecrow in Gray.

The life of a Southern soldier
is such a life of ease;
the cold and the dark
are but a bad dream.

September 10, 1864 dawned a bit cooler than the past few days. Whit and I left Camp Vance early that morning with about seventy-five other men to serve as replacements in various units in Petersburg. We rode on an old box car made for cattle. They herded us aboard and we sat shoulder to shoulder on the rocking train as it rolled toward the battlefields of Virginia. The undulating hills, woods and fields rolled by with what became a dull sameness. Decay and neglect were evident in the countryside as we passed, the steel wheels clacking rhythmically beneath us. Whit stayed close to me the whole time. He had come to look to me to take care of him. I don’t know why since I was just as scared and lonesome as he was. In the afternoon of the 11th, it started to rain. The rain soaked us as it blew in through the slats in the car, and the wind that whipped us felt cold. It was a miserable ride toward a dreaded destination.

After riding all that day and most of the next, we got off somewhere in Virginia and marched the rest of the way to Petersburg. Sections of track in the area were torn up by Federal Cavalry and the trains that were able to get through in Southern Virginia were needed for more important cargo I suppose. We stopped for the night about forty five miles west of Petersburg at about seven o’clock. A light rain fell as we made camp.

I checked my Pa’s pocket watch to be sure it was dry. He had left it to me when he went on to be with the Lord. He must have saved up his money for years to buy that watch. It came all the way from Switzerland and was made of silver with some fancy carving on it. He only got to use it two years before he passed on. I remember that day well. It was a dark stain on the pages of my life. My Pa sat down in his rocking chair one night, after supper, and closed his eyes and in a little while, he was gone. We never knew why. He had been having some pains in his chest and arms and some folks said it was neuralgia, but nobody really knew for sure. His passing hit me hard. I had to take care of that watch. It was what I had to remember him by. I kept it wrapped tight in a little oil cloth to keep it clean and dry.

We cooked up a little fat back and eggs for supper then soaked some hardtack in the grease for a dessert. It wasn’t half bad considering where we were and how we were living at the time. The sergeant placed pickets at a hundred to two hundred yards out because of the possibility there was Yankee cavalry roaming about. The night was warm and the rain had stopped, so we put out the fire early. I strolled out from the camp a ways and lay down in a little clearing and began to search the sky. The clouds had blown off. The stars were bright pinpoints on the coal black canvas of night.

As I lay there, looking up, I began to wonder if I would ever see my family again, or plow old Moses, or even see my farm again. I couldn’t help it; my eyes began to grow moist. I love my wife and my children and I knew how badly they needed me at home. I knew Harriett would try to plow the mule and keep things running, but she’s a woman and was not built for that kind of work. My girls could not be of much help with the heavy work, though I was sure they would try.
I thought about the war, about why I was here and the thoughts ran into a dead end. I lay there under the stars, looking up at God’s heaven. It surely was beautiful here in Virginia, a lot like home. I also thought about how good the weather was, good for working the fields, for cutting firewood for the winter, for just enjoying God’s nature. A farmer always keeps a weather eye out. You have to work the fields when you can, because the times are many when the weather won’t let you, when it’s too wet to plow or too cold and the ground’s hard. The house needs some work too. I needed to split some new shingles for the roof. Then I thought, Lord, that roof’s going to leak this winter just as sure as I’m laying here. What will Harriett do? She’ll probably get a bunch of pots and buckets and catch the water as best she can. She’s like that, doesn’t complain, and just does what needs to be done. Lord, I miss that woman, the light of my life.

About the time I started thinking about Harriett and was kind of losing myself in the thought, along came Whit with a dreadful hacking. He let go a stream of tobacco juice with well practiced ease and said, “Better come on and get in the sack, Francis, long day tomorr’, startin’ before sunup.”

“I’ll be on in a bit,” I said.

Of course that didn’t satisfy Whit. He settled himself down on the ground beside me and reclined with an exaggerated groan, following my gaze upward. Then he asked, “What you lookin’ at, Francis?”

I replied without looking at him, “Just the sky.”

He cocked his head and asked, “Why you lookin’ at the sky? Worried about the weather? You don’t have to plow tomorr’.”

“I’m just lookin’ and thinkin’.”

He wrinkled his brow, “I know what you mean. Say, I been thinkin’ for some time about somethin’.”

“What’s that,” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer because Whit’s mind is a garden of the trivial.

He said “I was wonderin’ why your maw and paw named you Francis. Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

I sighed and smiled to myself at the familiar question. “It is a girl’s name if it’s spelled with a ‘E.’ My name’s spelled with a ‘I.’”

He grunted. “You mean one little letter is the difference between yore name and a girl’s?”

“That’s right.”

Then he asked with some agitation, “Well why didn’t they name you John, or Robert or William or something that couldn’t be confused with a girl?”

Again I smiled to myself and said, “My folks named me for the great general of the Revolution, Francis Marion. He was called the ‘Swamp Fox’ because he outfoxed the Brits and the Tories. He would attack them and then fade into the swamps down in the South Carolina low country; he just disappeared in those dismal haunts like a ghost.

“My Paw was real impressed with the stories about the Swamp Fox, so he named me after him. My grandpa, James Yelton, fought in the Revolution. He was a die hard Patriot. He lived to be ninety-three years old. My Pa was so proud of my Grandpa and his fightin’ the Tories and the British in the Revolution. He wanted me to carry on a famous revolutionary hero’s name. So that’s how I came to have the name ‘Francis.’”

Whit was silent for several minutes. Then he looked at me with this sort of amazed grin and said, “Well, I’ll be the son of Red Coat!” He shook his head a couple of times and said, “I’ll be, I’ll be.”

I think for once I answered one of Whit’s questions without him having to ask fifty more questions about “why.” “I guess we better turn in,” I said, and we walked back to camp where the other men were already sawing logs. I lay there for a long time before I went to sleep, wondering about the future. Will I make it home? Will I be crippled by a Yankee bullet? Will I see my family again? It all rolled over and over in my head until I finally fell asleep.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Three

Copyright 2005, 2006

On the long winding road
to Gehenna
I paused to look at the stars,
sparkling with the cold eye of death.

We started out early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham and some of the finest biscuits I ever ate. When we finished breakfast, Mr. Samuels saddled his horse and tied the deserter to a rope, pulling him along behind. The deserter never spoke a word the whole way to Morganton. We said good-bye to Mr. Samuels in town as he pointed us toward Camp Vance. We arrived at the camp about seven in the evening, footsore and hungry. The camp wasn’t much. There were a couple of rows of burned out buildings and a few dozen tents to the side. It looked like they were building a couple of new structures, but hadn’t gotten very far. The frames rose up like wooden skeletons from the muddy ground. Overall, it had a depressing look, like a place that tried hard but was still all loose ends and shabby ones at that.

We found a group of soldiers having supper near a large tent. We asked a sergeant where we could sleep. He said there were no tents left for recruits, but that we could bed down near the creek and pointed to a small stream about two hundred yards to the west. He also said that we might find a biscuit or two over by the mess tent. We walked over and asked the corporal if there was any food left. He went in the tent and brought out four small biscuits and some bacon. We went on over to the stream, which was about five feet across and maybe a foot deep as it rushed over the smooth stones. Poplars and river birches lined the banks. We found a relatively level clearing and laid out our bedrolls, then started a little fire. We boiled some water, made some coffee, and ate our biscuits and some chicken Mrs. Samuels had sent with us.

We reclined against a tall poplar tree and listened to the murmur of the stream in the dark. Everything got quiet in the camp, but I stayed awake for a long time. Too much had happened, leaving home, and tangling with the deserters. I turned it all over in my mind for what seemed like several hours. I finally went to sleep, but I kept awakening from a dream in which I was fighting off a wolf that was trying to get at a calf. I hit at the wolf with a stick, but it kept coming back, biting at me, biting my arms and my legs. I could feel the wolf’s fangs tearing at me. I would knock it down, but it kept coming back. About five o’clock, after I had awakened from the dream for the third or fourth time, I got up and walked over to the creek. I stripped to my skivvies and sat down in the cold water to bathe as well as I could. I tried to wash the blood out of my shirt.

I didn’t bother to shave. I figured that living in an army camp and maybe marching about, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to shave, so I began to let the beard grow. My Pa had a full beard and I always figured I would resemble him even more if I let mine grow. It would come out brown, with some reddish tint to it. A lot of the men had beards and it seemed like the thing to do. I got out of the creek and went back to build a fire to dry off. I patted down with my blanket and sat close to the fire. When I was reasonably dry, I got dressed.

By that time old Whit was awake and I told him to hurry, that we had to report to the headquarters. He growled, “I don’t care what that old sergeant said about bein’ at headquarters at six thirty. All my conscript orders said was to be here by 25 August. That’s today and we’re here. That’s all that counts!”

“Just the same,” I said, “we ought to try to get off to a good start.”

He whined, like only Whit can. “Francis, you is the durndest man I ever seen to try to go out of his way to do what somebody else thinks you ort to do, even contrary to what’s fer yer own good. These fellers don’t care about us bein’ on time, all they want is more fodder for the Yankee cannons.”

I said, “Maybe so, but this fodder ain’t gonna start out a shirker from the git go. I didn’t want to come, but now that I’m here, I’m gonna do my duty if it kills me.”

“Prob’ly will,” Whit muttered as he rolled out of the blankets and on to his feet.

He sauntered toward the creek to do his business. I looked out over the camp, which was beginning to stir. Men started fires, put on coffee, and some were gathering at the mess tent. Daylight was coming; the sky was a deep blue. It looked like a clear day, no clouds in sight. I thought about home.

As I stood there, I felt as if I were suffocating under a huge weight. I don’t know what it was. I’m a simple man, a farmer and a worker, but I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders that morning. Our country was torn asunder; the grim reaper stalked the land cutting down men in their prime by the thousands. The death and destruction were overwhelming. I wondered if we would even have homes to come back to. I worried for my wife and my little ones. The future looked as bleak as a stony tomb in the wilderness.

My thoughts were interrupted by Whit returning from the creek. “Whooee, that crik water’s cold! What say let’s git some breakfast.” We walked to the mess tent where there were some tables set up outside and men walked through a serving line. The food was all right, some eggs and a little fatback, but the portions were small. There always seemed to be a shortage of some kind or another these days, not enough of anything to go around. Talk around the camp was that things were going from bad to worse. Richmond and Petersburg, where Lee’s army was entrenched, were cities under siege. Food and supplies, war materials, and anything else needful for surviving this holocaust were in dreadfully short supply.

By the time we finished our meal it was almost six thirty, so we grabbed our belongings and headed over to the headquarters building, which looked like it had just been finished. It was a little one story wooden building with a small porch and a window on either side of the door. The wood looked and smelled new, but the floor was already mud-stained. We walked in and reported to a young lieutenant who was seated behind a little oaken desk, which was maybe two feet by three feet. He had a real neat stack of papers on each side of the desk and he was writing on a sheet in the middle. He had a candle placed perfectly in the middle at the front. On one side was an ink well; on the other was an ivory handled pen knife.

We handed him the papers they gave us and he studied them with a scowl on his face. Then he looked us both up and down like we were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his boot. He looked no more than eighteen. He had a skimpy blond mustache which drooped to either side of his mouth, no chin whiskers. His hair was slicked to the side and curled up about his ears. Fair skinned, he did not appear to be a man who had spent much time out of doors. He was all decked out in what they call a “butternut” uniform. The lieutenant was resplendent with shiny boots and the uniform didn’t have a speck on it. I wondered how much fighting he had done, and decided probably not much if any at all.

He said (with a sort of sideways sneer on his face), “Report to Sergeant Washburn over at Company C,” and he looked back down at the papers on his desk. I asked him how we would find Sergeant Washburn and he yelled, “Look for the flag with the big ‘C’ on it, or can’t you sod busters read?” I looked at Whit and he sort of raised his eyebrows, and we turned and walked out the door.

“There it is,” Whit said, almost as soon as we walked out the door. Whit could read a little and he took every opportunity to show off his somewhat limited ability. At least he knew what a “C” looked like. Sure enough, about a hundred yards over to the left was a group of tents with a flagpole and a flag with a big “C” on it. Whit bit off a plug and then offered me some, which I gladly took, and we walked over to the tent nearest the flagpole. “We’re here to see Sergeant Washburn,” Whit announced as we walked up.

A couple of soldiers looked up from a card game and said, “In there,” nodding toward the big tent near the flagpole.

We walked on in and there sat the sergeant behind the same kind of tiny little desk the lieutenant had. It held an inkwell, a quill pen and knife, and a stack of papers. The floor in the tent was wooden and had been swept clean. He was writing something as we came in. A stout man, he stood about five feet eight and was about forty years of age. He had a shovel beard and a head full of unruly hair and just about the bushiest eyebrows I ever saw on a man. As he looked up I noticed he had a big scar which ran along his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, right at the line of his beard. He studied us critically for a minute, an intense scowl on his face, his hard gray eyes narrowed.

Whit seemed nervous and kept shifting from one foot to the other. I nodded at the sergeant. We handed him the papers and he looked at them like they were written in Greek. He sighed and looked up. “A conscript and a volunteer,” he said to no one in particular with a tone he might have used after stepping into a cow pile. He shook his head and then he looked at us appraisingly. “Let me see you grin.”

Whit looked at me, and I said, “Beg your pardon?”

He sighed. “Grin at me, show me your teeth and then bite like your bitin’ off a chaw.” We did as we were told, though somewhat bemused by the whole thing. When Whit opened his mouth, his chaw fell out and splattered on the floor. The sergeant shook his head again. He growled, “Clean it up.” Whit bent down and scooped up the chaw as best he could. He looked around for a place to dispose of it and finding none, he ceremoniously placed it in his pants pocket. The sergeant groaned a little. Whit grinned, pulled out another plug, and bit if off dramatically. The sergeant closed his eyes and, speaking slowly, explained, “In order to serve in the army, you have to have two teeth that meet in the front, for bitin’ open cartridges. I suppose you’ll both do.”

He looked us over and said, “You fellers ain’t old and you ain’t young. How come you ain’t been in the army all along?”

Whit pursed his lips and said solemnly, “Well, Sergeant, I been busy a takin’ care of my family. I ain’t rightly had time to sign up what with farmin’ and loggin’ and a runnin’ the sawmill.”

The sergeant looked at Whit disgustedly and said, “All of us has things to do. But duty comes first, which you’ll soon find out.” Then he turned to me and said, “What’s your excuse?” I told him that I had served in the militia and that I was a farmer with a family to feed and that I had supplied corn and sorghum and felt like I was doing my duty. Besides which, I really had no quarrel with the Yanks and I have always been happy to be an American and live in a free land and wasn’t even sure about all the whys and wherefores of this war anyway. I told him I came because I did not want to be seen as a dodger.

The sergeant got this real disgusted look and shook his head slowly once again. He looked down, then back up again, and took a deep breath. He began to methodically spit out the words. “Let me tell you something farmer.” He said the word “farmer” like it tasted bad in his mouth. “If men like you don’t come forward and fight, the blue-bellies will be marchin’ right through the middle of this country, burnin’ your crops, stealin’ your women and shootin’ you down like dogs and no hometown militia is gonna stop ‘em. Hellfire, they’re already doin’ it! Look at Kirk. (He meant a certain Colonel Kirk who led a band of Yankee and turncoat cavalry raiding in Western North Carolina and Tennessee). They came stormin’ through here and burned this camp not two months ago. Not to mention the gangs of deserters tearin’ up jack. The Yankees and the lawbreakers will take over.

“But that ain’t nothin’; look at what Sherman’s doin’ in Georgia and what any number of Yankee vermin has done up in the Shenandoah.” He paused long enough to glare at both of us some more. “I been on the front lines at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, not to mention a hundred dustups of one kind or another. I watched them carry Stonewall from the field after our own men opened fire on him by accident; my own outfit, the old 18th North Carolina! I saw the men fall down and cry like babies when they learned what happened.

“I got this (he pointed to the scar) when a Yankee cavalryman tried to take my head off with his saber! I been shot, stabbed with the bayonet, and damn near froze to death a dozen times. I’ve seen men blown to pieces by Yankee artillery, and they was the lucky ones. I’ve seen men come back from battle missing an arm or a leg or an eye or private parts, or with holes in them you could stick your fist in and them still walkin’. You may have no quarrel with the blue-bellies now, but that’s because you ain’t seen ‘em up close and personal like I have.

“Now I’m here to make soldiers out of you dirt farmers and that I intend to do, in about two weeks time. You just plan right now on doin’ what I tell you to do; when I tell you to do it and you might just get to come back to your little farms in the piney woods” He said this with a particular bit of disdain in his voice, wrinkling his face when he said “piney woods.” He took a deep breath and said, “Now you men go see Corporal Hamrick about some equipage and report back here in one hour for drill.” With that, he looked back down at his papers and we knew we were dismissed. The sergeant must have given that speech a hundred times because he sure gave it well.

We got our equipage from the quartermaster and reported back to Company C for drill. We talked with a few of the men gathered on the parade ground. They were mostly scared and depressed about the situation we found ourselves in. We had all heard the stories about the war, like the one Sergeant Washburn told. We also all knew that more men were deserting than were being killed by Yankee bullets. We knew that while we were marching to Petersburg, there would be thousands of men walking back toward the hills of North Carolina and Tennessee because they were tired of the fighting, the sickness and the starving. They were tired of getting letters from home telling of loved ones near starvation, of wives and sweethearts trying to work like men, and children dying from illness and lack of decent food.

Most of the men were not cowards in the least; they were just tired of the war. They were tired of freezing in the open when rumor had it there were blankets rotting in warehouses in Georgia. They were tired of marching on bloody bare feet when there were shoes by the thousands sitting in musty buildings near Richmond. They were tired of starving when canned food filled warehouses to overflowing in Salisbury. It is one thing to fight an enemy with the full support of your government behind you, but it’s quite another thing to fight when that government is too ill-equipped or ill-managed to provide for your basic needs.

Even the most ignorant private in the ranks somehow knew that the Confederate government was woefully bad. Poor old Jeff Davis tried mightily to do his best, but he was surrounded by a lot of selfish pocket-liners and sycophants who undercut him at every turn. The Yankees had some of the same problems, but their sources of supply were far more plentiful. They had all the manufactories and the shipyards and many more able bodied men. The south with its little farms and plantations had very few manufactories. So when the Confederate government messed up, it hurt plenty. The men knew this, so they were leaving faster than people like us could fill the ranks. Knowing all this made the thought of marching into what looked like a disaster all the worse. We all tried to put on a brave face, but we were scared and homesick to a man and we wondered how we could be such fools.

The sergeant came out to the parade ground and we drilled until almost sundown, with the sergeant yelling and waving his arms in the air most of the day. Our instruction at Camp Vance was brief but very intense and very thorough. We learned the manual of arms, to load our weapons in nine times and four times and at will. Over the two weeks we learned firings, direct, oblique, by file and by rank. We learned to fire and load, standing, kneeling and lying. We had bayonet exercises. We also learned how to march, a concept which amused me to no end at first. I had always thought anyone could march. I was ill-informed. We learned how to march in union of eight or twelve men, the direct march, the oblique march and all the different steps. We learned to march by the flank, and the principles of wheeling and change in direction. We learned long marches in double quick time, and the run, with arms and knapsacks, and on and on.

Whit looked confused much of the time as, I must say, did most of us. We didn’t look much like soldiers and we often felt foolish, but it slowly came to us thanks to the sergeant’s persistent and rather vocal efforts.

They gave me an 1861 Springfield rifled musket, .58 caliber, probably captured from the Yankees. I told them I couldn’t carry two muskets, so they said they would pay me ten Confederate dollars for my musket and give it to the home guards. I knew then my old musket was gone for good. I might as well have given it to them. Ten Confederate dollars wouldn’t buy you supper in Petersburg. The rifle they gave me fired a large round, about the size of the last joint of a man’s little finger. They called it a minie ball, named for some Frenchman. If the heavy lead round struck a bone, it splintered and the splinters tore up the muscle and flesh and the limb had to be amputated. It was not a pleasant fate. If the ball struck you in the chest or head, you would soon be saying hello to your Maker.

For two weeks we drilled and marched and practiced shooting, then we drilled some more. The sergeant said all this would be most useful when thousands of Yankees were charging your position. Most of the men could shoot, but none of us knew anything about military tactics and such. They told us we had to learn fast because the Yankees were threatening Richmond, where Lee’s Army was entrenched along a line about thirty miles long from south of Petersburg to north of the capital.

The day before we left for Petersburg, we learned that Whit and I would be joining the 18th North Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment in General A.P. Hill’s corps as replacements for those who had died or deserted. Sergeant Washburn told us it was his old regiment (he had mentioned as much in his speech), the very same regiment that had accidentally shot Stonewall Jackson in the dark at Chancellorsville. The general was riding back from the direction of the enemy with some others, including General Hill, and the North Carolina boys thought the riders were Yankee cavalry. He died a few days later from his wounds. It is said that the loss of 10,000 ordinary men would not equal the loss of Stonewall. He had been a brilliant field commander, defeating every enemy he encountered, often with odds against him of two or three to one. His name was spoken with fear and respect in the North and with reverenced and adoration in the South.

He was Lee’s ablest lieutenant and some said the best general on either side. And to think boys from his own Army were responsible for his death. It goes to show a battlefield can be a most confusing and heartbreaking place.

Turns out the 18th had lost its colors twice in battle. A regimental flag was a real point of honor and pride in the Confederate Army and to lose one was almost disgraceful. But to lose two was just about too much to bear. It seemed to Whit and me that maybe we were joining up with a real hard-luck outfit and it didn’t exactly make us feel any better about things. The sergeant made it clear to us though that any regiment that had lost its colors in battle had clearly been in the thick of the fight. They weren’t guarding the wagon trains and they weren’t quick to retreat. Whit and I went back to our little camp by the creek to spend the last night before marching off to Petersburg.

Whit grumbled as we walked back to our camp. “Well Francis, looks like you and me got ourselves into a real fine outfit. They cain’t keep their battle flag, and they shoot their own generals. Do you think they know which end of a rifle is which?”

I shook my head. “Don’t be so hard on ‘em, Whit. War is rough business, which we’re about to learn first hand. I just hope I can remember which end of a rifle is which when the time comes to use it and the Yanks are coming at us in hordes, like the sergeant said.”

Whit laughed loudly and said, “Well, Francis, just watch me! I’ll show you how shoot Bluebellies, because I don’t aim to be captured by them Yankee hordes. I heard the food in them prison camps is so bad the buzzards won’t eat it!”