ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME

By Jo Anzalone

Chapter 29:

Jonathon was just getting ready to settle for the night on December 10th when Louis

Woodruff came into the tent, a concerned expression on his face. "Johnnie," he began,

"I was talkin' with one of the ambulance drivers just come back from Richmond. Says

he left Seth there on the 5th."

"Seth? The 5th? But isn't Seth up in Leesburg?"

"That's sure 'nuff where they took him when he left here, Johnnie, but now they decided

to send him down to Richmond. Seems like a powerful lot of travelin' about when you got

a fever."

It seemed like that to Jonathon, too, and he didn't like it at all. He went out to ask around

but no one knew anything more than that.

With battle looming so closely, the men were writing letters home tonight. Jonathon watched

as Louis bent his dark head over a piece of paper in his lap, saying things to his wife. William's

words came so clearly to his mind...don't write...she won't get it. He'd tried very hard not to

write, figuring William would simply destroy them, but tonight he needed at least to try.

My dearest Virginia,

I am in camp here near Fredericksburg and we will probably be going into battle tomorrow or

one day soon after.

There was so much he wanted to say to her, wanted to pour out his heart to her, but all he

could see was his letter in William's hands, with only William's eyes reading his words.

I want to thank you again for being so very good to me while I was staying at your house and

for all the care you gave me. Tell your father I turned his wagon and mules over to the army

in Winchester as he asked and that I am much obliged for the use of them so that Edward and

I might get safely there. The hospitality offered at Rion Hall was a credit to the state of

Virginia.

Damn! This wasn't how he wanted it to go! He wanted to write to her about the briar roses,

about the wind in her hair, the sound of her voice, how much the mere touch of her hand meant

to him. He couldn't do it, not with the thought of the letter in William's hands.

Seth took sick about a week after I got here and he is now in the hospital. I pray every day that

he will recover and hope that you will add your prayers to mine as that would mean a lot to me.

My arm and shoulder are improving steadily and I have practiced with my rife just enough

to determine that I can load and fire. I have not done so over and over and at a very rapid pace

but I guess I will be finding out about that before too long. Do not worry about me. I know I

will be all right. I am wearing the fine uniform you made for me and it has helped greatly in keeping me warmer than I ever was last winter.

No...no! This was so not what he wanted to say. Trying to write a letter under these circumstances was harder than not writing at all. But what if William didn't withhold all

her letters? She had probably been waiting for one from him. He had been waiting for one

from her, one that never came. She was a writer. She would write. He knew she would. It

was only that, as her father had said, her letters would never leave Charlestown. His fingers

curled on the page, beginning to crumple it, but he stopped, flattening it again as much as he

could. Just in case. Yes, just in case. He must.

I miss you more than I can say and think every day of the hours we spent together. It is my

dearest hope that more such hours will be ours.

You have my heart,

Jonathon

He didn't reread it. It was too painful to reread such a stunted letter. Quickly he folded it,

stuffed it into an envelope, which he addressed. Looking at Louis again, at how he was still

writing and writing, he knew the man had a wife who adored him, had several children, had

his own farm. There was so much Louis could write about. He could write about whatever he

wanted, could say whatever was on his heart. James Woodward was writing to somebody.

Jonathon had known James all his life.  He was probably writing to his girl. Judge was single, but he was writing too. Jonathon didn't know if his letter were to a girl he loved or to his parents. Parents. Yes, he should write them as well. He'd written them earlier to let them

know what had happened to him, giving only the briefest account of Sharpsburg, and stressing how well he'd been cared for afterwards. Now he wrote again, telling them all how much he loved and missed them, giving them the latest news on Seth to pass on to his folks, going into detail about the 'battle of the bands' and how moved he'd been by the bugler playing Home Sweet Home. Then he lay down, wrapping himself in the blanket Virginia had sent along with him, wearing the uniform she had made with her own hands, her Bible in his pocket. It was as close to her he could get...without William coming in between. He lay awake a long while,

unable to stop thinking about her.

The 17th and 21st Mississippi were spending the night on picket right down along the river.

At 2 AM the 13th and 15th regiments of Barksdale's brigade were awakened. Jonathon had fallen asleep somewhere around 1 and it took him a moment to rouse. Lee had chosen Barksdale's brigade because he liked their reputation for courage under fire and knew he

could count on them not to run from what he was now asking. Later, he said so quite plainly

in his report. He was sending 1500 men into Fredericksburg to hold off over 100,000 while he got his army fully positioned on the heights behind the town. Their orders were to 'hold the

town at all hazards'. Lee didn't expect they'd be able to hold it more than six hours, if that.

The Mississippians would hold it for him for nearly 16.

It was pitch black that Thursday morning as Jonathon stumbled into line to march the three miles to the city, and it was cold, frost covering every blade of grass in the clear night air.

Under cover of the darkness, the Union engineers were attempting to finish the pontoon

bridges across the Rappahannock. Burnside's long-awaited pontoons had arrived at last and

he intended to move his army into Fredericksburg on the 11th.

(A Civil War pontoon on its carrying platform.)

(When linked together, roadways were built atop them and they eventually looked like this. They were very necessary in wartime as

bridges were destroyed and armies would have no other way to cross rivers.)

(General Burnside, whose name was later transposed into the word sideburns, to describe male facial hair of a certain sort.)

The three miles to town was covered at the double quick and Jonathon found himself in such

a sweat after so long a run that he didn't feel the cold. The pickets along the river were picking

off the Federals who were connecting the pontoons and so the Union artillery on Stafford

Heights began firing into the town to provide cover for them. As Jonathon neared the edge

of Fredericksburg, his regiment was forced to go against the tide of townspeople who, at last,

knew they had to leave. Coming down the slopes from the heights he'd seen red balls filling

the air, dropping on the town like so many falling stars, houses bursting into flame as they

touched down. For those who had remained in their homes or who had returned after shivering

in the wet, cold woodlands, now there was no time for preparation, hardly time to think. They

ran for their lives, streaming frantically past as Jonathon marched across the wide field toward what they were fleeing from.

Children awakened from their sleep were wailing, their mothers crying, trying to hurry them along. Old, feeble folk were doing the best they could, often falling. His instinct was to turn

aside to help, but there was no time for that as his regiment ran into the town, all the way down to Caroline Street, which paralleled the river just one block in from from Sophia, which ran along the riverfront. It was evident from the amount of fire the Yankees were throwing into the town that their purpose was to destroy it. They had 146 pieces of heavy artillery atop Stafford Heights, and they were using it.

Jonathon's company disposed along Caroline Street, while others spread out one block further

in along Princess Anne, the goal being to command as many of the streets as possible that ran

at right angles down toward the river. (The house George Washington had spent much of his youth in was only one block past Princess Anne on Charles St. ) At first they were ordered to lie flat behind buildings

on the street. For a while the heat Jonathon had worked up on the run there did keep him

warm, but as time passed the cold began to seep up into him from the frozen ground and he

shivered terribly as dawn finally began to spread over the sky.

The bombing really began in earnest at 4 AM when the Mississippians down by the river drove

off the Union engineers completely for a time, killing or wounding many of them. They rushed

back toward the shore, trying to carry their wounded, and the sight of that seemed to madden

the cannoneers, who opened on the town with a massive bombardment.

In less than an hour the frame house behind which Jonathon lay was completely riddled through. Several buildings not far from him were afire and the fire was spreading rapidly. Yankee sharpshooters were positioned so they could pick off any Confederate who showed himself. Above the brick house behind him, a large Confederate flag waved and it seemed to Jonathon that it proclaimed to the Yanks 'shoot at me!' as so much fire was directed toward it.

It was, hour after hour after hour, like being in the middle of a tornado. The air was literally

filled with debris flying from exploding buildings, and he was surrounded by whirling pieces

of clapboard, weatherboard, huge splinters of wood, whole bricks, broken bricks, sections of

railings, of wrought iron balconies, of picket fences, of glass from shattered windows. Grape

and canister shot flew down the cross streets, but they stayed, not a man among them running

away. The 17th and 21st were still at it, picking off whomever they could as the bridges seemed

to grow out from the opposite bank no matter what. They fired from behind bales of cotton,

from behind barrels and stacked crates that were often exploded by incoming cannonfire.

Louis Woodruff shouted a warning to him about a falling chimney and he rolled aside just

in time to avoid being crushed. He turned to holler thanks to his friend just as Louis' head

exploded. Oh, God...oh, God! Louis, with his wife waiting for him at home, his children.

Jonathon felt sick.  All around him men he knew from Louisville were dying, being horribly

wounded. Every single man was cut by flying splinters and glass. He had several gashes himself,

and the right sleeve of his new uniform was torn open, though the thick wool kept his arm from

more than a deep scratch. A piece of shell wounded the young teacher, Judge Cornwell, in the

head but he called out to Jonathon that he wasn't hurt bad. James Woodward, one of Jonathon's

farmer friends, clutched his hand, screaming, struck by a large piece of shell. In minutes all

three of Jonathon's tentmates had been killed or wounded.

The color bearer and a few more had their skulls shattered all at once and Joe Harris, only

19, took the colors up despite being struck in the back of his neck by a brick from a chimney.

Captain Quinn was hit in the shoulder by a piece of plank, cutting through his coat and shirt,

but he remained at his post. Jonathon saw a cannonball hit a nearby structure, shatter it yet

bounce back across the street, rolling across Henry Rowland's legs. Will Patty, from a farm

neighboring Jonathon's, was wounded severely in both arms, his chest and his head. It never

stopped. All day it went on...and on. Once during the course of the day, Lee sent in another

regiment to help, but as those men got closer to town and saw that it was literally exploding

around the Mississippians, to a man they turned and ran back to the heights. 

At 2 PM the Yankees made an effort to cross the pontoons, but the Mississippians repulsed

them...with the result that the artillery on Stafford Heights unleashed hell. It was an unbroken

clash of sound, with no distinction between the firings. It came into Fredericksburg...solid...

and the ground under Jonathon quaked with it. For an hour it continued like that and there

was no way the Confederates could rise and fire their rifles at the advancing Union soldiers.

At 3 Jonathon heard loud cheering coming from a block away at the riverbank and knew that

could only mean the first of  the Yankees had made it across.

Instantly Quinn ordered them to form a line in the street. Skirmishers were thrown out and

the Mississippians determined to dispute every inch of the town into which the entire Union

army was now pouring. It was different now because the Federal cannonade stopped, otherwise

they would be hitting their own men coming into the town. Now it became street fighting, urban

warfare, with the Confederates holding as long as they could in one place, then backing off,

ducking behind walls, barrels, climbing up onto balconies, firing from behind trees.

They were ridiculously outnumbered and the Union soldiers poured into the town like a

veritable blue tide of men.  They would back off around a corner, forming a line across the

street, waiting for the Yankees to come.

When they were overwhelmed by sheer strength of numbers, they found positions where they

could lie down atop terraced walls, anything to slow down the enemy advance.

Jonathon flung himself down just outside the picket fence of a small yard high above the

street below. He fired, then scrambled away, nearly losing his footing on the small, steep

piece of ground where he'd been. Dry leaves slipped under his shoes, and he barely avoided

tumbling straight down into a Federal column.

He saw William Davis, whom he considered to be the best letter writer in the company due

to the length of his frequent missives, go down, struck in his shoulder by a bomb fragment.

"How bad?" Jonathon panted, trying to get him back on his feet.

"Hurts like hell," Will grimaced, "but I'm not dead."  His entire arm went completely numb,

though, and he could no longer fire his rifle, but he stayed in town with the rest of the men.

"I'm not goin'. As long as you're here, I'm here."

As he got up into the higher street, he was shocked to see a man driving a wagon. He'd thought

by now all the townspeople would've been gone. But the man was whipping his horses, heading

frantically for the edge of town, his wagon loaded with household items. Jonathon wondered

if he might be a looter but his attention was distracted by a sudden wailing sound to his left.

He turned to see a small black child sitting in the street, her hands pressed to her face. He

jerked his head back around toward the wagon just as a shell landed in the bed of it, exploding

it completely and sending its driver flying up into the air.

Now driverless, the two horses, frightened out of their wits, charged forward, dragging the

remaining bit of the front of the wagon. The child was directly in their path and Jonathon

dropped his rifle, running as fast as he could go across the road.

He literally dove in front of the horses, grabbed up the child and rolled with her, missing

being trampled by a hair's breadth. His left shoulder slammed into the base of a hitching

post and he lay there, his eyes closed, breathing hard, his arms still wrapped about the child.

Will hurried up, fearing Jonathon had been killed, and crouched beside him.

"Johnnie! Johnnie!" he called, unable to touch him because he had to keep his own arm

cradled in the other.

Jonathon gasped and opened his eyes, his face covered in dirt. "Is...is she...did I...?" He wasn't

even quite aware he had the little girl in his arms. She squalled loudly and he blinked, looking

at her.

"She's all right, Johnnie. I never saw anybody run so fast in all my life."

The little girl's mother ran out of a doorway, gathering her up. Without a word, she hurried

down the street and disappeared around a corner.

Jonathon sat up, leaning against the post, rubbing his shoulder. "You hurt?" Will asked.

"Just from Sharpsburg. Hit the damn post right where the bayonet came out."  He managed

to get to his feet and crossed the road, picking up his rifle. He'd barely got it in his hands

again when he heard men gathering in the street just behind him. A batch of Confederates

were taking position as a large group of Yankees appeared down the street.

"Will! Get behind us!" Jonathon shouted as he reloaded, running to take his place in the line.

A Yankee officer called out, "Charge the Rebs!" and, as one, the Confederates shouted back,

"Come on!"

They fired a volley then turned a ran back to the next corner to form again. All day each of

them had considered themselves dead men and the ones still alive were continually surprised

by the mere fact of that.

Longstreet, watching from the heights, would later write:

From our position on the heights, we saw the batteries hurling an avalanche upon the town whose only offense was that near its edge Confederate hornets were stinging the Army of the Potomac into a frenzy. It was terrific, the pandemonium which that little squad of Confederates had provoked. The town caught fire in several places, shells crashed and burst, and solid shot rained like hail. In the midst of the successive crashes could be heard the shouts and yells of those engaged in the struggle, while the smoke rose from the burning city and the flames leaped about, making a scene which can never be effaced from the memory of those who saw it. But in the midst of all this fury, the little brigade of Mississippians clung to their work. At last, when I had everything in readiness, I sent a peremptory order to Barksdale to withdraw, which he did, fighting as he retired before the Federals, who

had by that time succeeded in landing their troops.

It was dark now and the enemy invisible. All the Confederates could do was fire at the lights

of Yankee guns. At last they were at the edge of town and relieved by General Cobb. Strained

in every nerve by the continual tension of the day, the Mississippians walked the three miles

back to their camp, the night close and cold around them.

Jonathon entered his tent alone. Louis was dead, had been left back in the town, James and

Judge were off getting medical attention. He paused a moment just inside, Seth's absence

washing over him, the thought of all Louis had left behind in Mississippi almost too much to

bear. His shoulder hurt with a loud, protesting pain, and he was covered with dirt, with smoke

and ash, had scratches and cuts and bruises all over himself, had not had anything to eat since too long to remember. He'd done this whole day's work on one hour's sleep and that was what overwhelmed him...pure exhaustion. He fell face forward down on his blanket, remaining inert until dawn.

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