ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME

By Jo Anzalone

Chapter 39:

It had been dark when he'd found Judge and James after the battle and they'd been in the act

of settling down on their blankets. Now in the morning light, Jonathon noticed a red stain on

Judge's left sleeve.  His friend had said nothing to him about being hurt and Jonathon got on

his hands and knees, trying to look more closely at Judge's arm. As he was doing so, Judge

opened his eyes.

"It's nothin', Johnnie, nothin' to worry about."

"Last night you said you were all right."

"I am all right."

"Then what's this red stuff stainin' your sleeve?"

"Bullet went right through. Didn't hit the bone. I tied a neckerchief around it. Figure if I just

let it be, it'll be all right."

"You didn't go...."

"No. Docs were plenty busy enough with men who really needed 'em."

"Let me see."

"Oh, Johnnie, don't go an' bother your head about this. I'll be...."

"Let me see."

Judge reluctantly sat up and as he slid his arm from his sleeve, screwed up his face with the

pain the act caused. Jonathon noticed and pressed his lips together as he untied the neckerchief

that was stiff with dried blood. 

"It's not far to the field hospital, Judge. Let me help you there."

Judge shook his head 'no'.  Jonathon sat back on his heels, regarding his friend.  "I'll go see

if I can get some bandagin'," he sighed. "This scrap here isn't goin' to do you any good now.

You lie back. I'll hurry."

He headed off through the trees at a brisk walk, ignoring his own shoulder which was protesting

loudly this morning after his constant use of his gun the evening before.  Asking a lieutenant

he came across for the route to the nearest medical unit, he went on a way, coming out into a

small clearing with a tent and a large cluster of men moving around it. The surgeon was still

at work and Jonathon averted his eyes from a pile of arms and legs, going up to an assistant

and asking for enough bandaging for an upper arm wound. 

"Ain't got much o' that to spare, Private."

"Just what you can. I'd be mighty obliged for anythin' you can give me."

He left with a small roll of bandaging and a square of cloth to clean the wound.  When he got back to his friends, James was sitting up talking with Judge, who lay with his eyes closed.

"Got it!" Jonathon announced, going to his knees again.  He poured some water from his

canteen on the cloth and began wiping the dried blood from Judge's arm.

"You ever think of takin' up nursin', Johnnie," Judge said, managing a small grin.

"All the time, Judge, all the time," Jonathon smiled back.  Actually he was thinking of how

Seth had tended his wounds from Sharpsburg and then...Virginia.  He'd been able to lie in bed

and heal. Judge would have to be on his feet, marching, as soon as the army headed out of

Pennsylvania. Today's events would decide the manner of that.

James set about fixing a little something to eat while Jonathon wrapped Judge's arm in the

white strips of bandaging. "There," Jonathon said, "much better."

"Thanks, Johnnie," Judge replied. "Even hurts less."

Some of their regiment were posted on picket along Seminary Ridge on July 3rd, but not the three of them. The day was clear and hot and they moved further back into the trees. Word

came that Barksdale's body had fallen into enemy hands.

"He was somethin' yesterday, wasn't he?" James remarked. "Looked like one of them warriors

outta some legend or somethin', that white hair of his all flyin' in the wind an' him roarin' out

his orders. I'm sorry he didn't make it."

"He's been with us since the beginnin'," Jonathon said, remembering he'd thought something very similar about Barksdale as the battle began. "It'll be strange somehow not to have him around any more."

They watched as General Pickett's men moved up into position just inside the woods lining the

crest of Seminary Ridge, and they listened to the ear-shattering artillery duel as two great

armies took aim at one another across a wide field. From time to time Longstreet would pass

by, a grim look plastered on his face.

"Man ain't happy," James observed. "Man ain't happy a'tall."

"Pickett looks happy, though," Judge added. "Man likes a good fight. Looks almost eager

today."

Jonathon had gone forward to where he had a better view up the wide fields to his left.  It was

obvious what Lee had planned. He was going for the Union center.  A shudder went through

him and he turned away, going back to his friends. 

"You ain't watchin'?" James asked.

"Saw enough men dyin' yesterday," Jonathon sighed, settling back and closing his eyes. Once

in a while some soldier they knew would stop by, telling what he knew of who had been

killed at the Sherfy or Trostle farms. If a man couldn't make it back across the fields, he'd

fallen into enemy hands, and many, many of them had.  They would be cared for and if they

lived, shipped off to a Union prison.  He tried to remember the battle, to be aware of who had

gone down when, but the hours of it had merged into a blur of gunsmoke, screams, and exhaustion.  He simply could not separate it into distinct moments...except for one. That was

when his bayonet had gone into the flesh of the Union soldier.  Shooting at someone contained

in its essence a certain detachment.  You were distant from your target and your bullet traveled away from you, was not connected to you as it entered a man's flesh, and in the end, the bullet

might have come from any number of sources other than yours. Bayonets were different. A bayonet you had in your hand as an extension of your rifle and when its blade sliced into a

man, the feel of it went up your arms and there was no doubt that you were the one who had

done it. He had never even seen the man's face and yet it was the most personal moment he'd

ever experienced in combat.  He'd had to rise up to pull his bayonet free and in the midst of

all the great and roiling sounds of battle, it had made a little wet noise that he could still hear.

The cannonading stopped and now the sounds of drums drifted through the woods, and the

bands were playing.  He closed his eyes. His army was heading out across the field. That's

what that meant and one sight of Longstreet's face was enough to let him know this might not

be the best idea.  His knees were bent and he rested his elbows atop them, folding his hands

over the top of his head, hating the war.  He was a farmer. He wanted to walk his land, watch

his crops grow, take care of his animals. Home. That's what he wanted. He wanted home.

As time passed, it turned out going for the Union center hadn't been the best idea. The field

was littered with Confederate dead.  Without even walking to the edge of the woods to look,

he knew how that broad field must now appear.  He didn't want to see it.

Saturday the 4th dawned sunny and bright again, but the clouds began moving steadily in.

They left camp at four in the afternoon, marching southwest in the direction of Fairfield and

by then it was raining heavily.  It was only six miles but each of them were miserable, wet

miles, and they camped there, waiting for the main body of the army to come up.  A. P. Hill's

corps was in the advance, followed by Longstreet's, then Ewell's in the rear. Most of the

wounded who couldn't walk had been left in field hospitals with soldiers as nurses to attend

them.  Captures of  Confederates were happening all around, the men left as nurses also

ending in prison.

The following day it rained almost every hour. They left camp at 4 AM, passing through Fairfield, and crossing the Blue Ridge Mountains at Fountain Dale Gap. They marched all

day, all night. The Yankees pursued them a short distance in the morning, but Ewell's

rearguard handled them so effectively they gave up the chase. Finally, at 4 AM they stopped

at Monterey Springs atop the South Mountain ridge. After cooking breakfast in the misting rain, they were marching again by 6 AM, passing through Ridgefield and Leitersburg, arriving at Hagerstown just as night was falling. They were allowed to stop there for several hours

before going on to camp a mile and a half south of town. The cavalry of both armies had a

rather severe fight at Hagerstown, the Confederates winning.

On the 7th, another showery day, the brigade was ordered on picket duty at Downsville, five

miles from Hagerstown near the Potomac River. Enemy cavalry had been reported there in

large force.  Standing picket in the morning rain, Jonathon could hear heavy cannonading

coming from the mountains.  He was worried about Judge, who'd been sagging a bit more

every day since July 2nd.  The long, wet marches and little rest hadn't been doing him any

good. By the 8th, Jonathon almost forcibly unwrapped the bandaging, finding the wound

infected. 

"That's it," Jonathon pronounced, making Judge go with him to the medical tent. The next

morning Judge was on his way to Richmond, where on the 12th he'd be admitted to Camp

Winder. 

Jonathon's route is the red line on the south of the map, going over South Mountain towards Hagerstown then on to Martinsburg.

On Saturday the 11th, the brigade had moved two miles north toward Hagerstown and were

engaged in throwing up fortifications.  It involved a lot of shoveling and Jonathon was finding

that his left shoulder was simply not able to endure long sessions of that as well as he once had.

Their pickets were skirmishing in the area as the others worked, and that continued all day

Sunday. Sunday evening's rain turned into a downpour on Monday and as the Confederate

wagon trains began crossing the Potomac at Williamsport that morning, the river was running

really high and swift. During the crossing several ambulances, wagons, teams, and men were

lost.

Jonathon's brigade left the area they'd been fortifying late in the evening, marching to Falling

Waters, camping briefly, then crossing the Potomac on the pontoon bridges there. There was

some fierce skirmishing at Falling Waters but Jonathon mostly marched all day, camping three

miles from Martinsburg. The next day was clear and came with a damp heat. They broke camp at sunrise, marching 14 miles, passing through Martinsburg and camping near Bunker Hill,

where they rested all day on the 16th.

Jonathon walked slowly to the edge of the camp where he'd noticed a broken down rail fence.

What attracted him to it was the fact it was covered in briar roses...eglantine...and they were

in full bloom. He stood close to the fence, closing his eyes, letting the scent fill the heavy air.

Slowly opening his lids, he stared a long time toward the eastern ridge. Charlestown was just

over that and not far beyond lay Rion Hall. Virginia's eglantine would also be in bloom. Had

she taken her husband there to see it?  His hand had gone out, touching a long shoot of the

large tangle of roses, and the recurved thorns had embedded almost immediately in his flesh.

It took some painful working, but he managed to free himself, sucking at the large drops of

red blood welling up.  Leaving her was very like that. She was embedded in his flesh and it

was only by the shedding of blood that she could be loosened. A single thorn had broken off

the stem and lay still in the pad of his thumb. He studied it a long while, knowing that a similar

larger one was lodged in his heart.  Being this close to her once more did nothing but hurt. He wanted to be on his way further south, hoped he would never have to pass by so near to her home again. Twice now he'd done that. After Gettysburg, though, he doubted Lee would be invading the north again. 

It rained slowly all day on Friday while they remained still in camp. The grey, low-hanging

cloud cover matched his mood.  For the last several days his joints had been aching in the

night, sometimes enough to keep him awake.  Too much marching in the rain would probably

do that to a man.  That's what he tried to dismiss it as.

After moving camp four miles south on the Berryville Road on Saturday...still much too close

to Charlestown to suit him...he decided to attend the preaching in camp Sunday.  He found

himself sitting there missing Fredericksburg.  The Virginia town had been sort of a crucible

for him and after so much marching and then Gettysburg, he was finding it harder to hold

onto the feelings he'd found there, especially at the canal.  Virginia was near. That had to be

it.  The scent of briar roses was often in the air, bringing her to his mind so completely clearly.

He was disappointed in himself that it bothered him she had married Colonel Foster so

quickly.  Foster? Had he lived through Gettysburg?  He was a Virginian and the men who had

charged with Pickett had been nearly all Virginians.  When that thought hit him he was

instantly shamed by the thinking of it.  It was a dishonorable, an unworthy thought, and he

bowed his head in prayer, asking to be forgiven for being base enough to think it.  Yes, he

needed to leave this state altogether.  That was the moment it came to him for the first time...

exchange. A couple of men he knew had just filed exchange requests, each giving as their reason

that they wanted to be with their brother. Billy. Billy was in the 5th Mississippi. It might work.

He'd give it some serious thought. Billy had fought for two years now and hadn't once come

close to the state of Virginia.  Opening his eyes, he looked at the ridge separating him from

Rion Hall. It wasn't enough. He felt the pull of it right where he sat.  "Stop," he murmured

under his breath. "Just please...please...stop."

The Apostle Paul had a thorn in his side and no matter how often he asked, God never removed

it.  Was that it? Was Virginia to be the thorn he'd carry forever in his heart?  God evidently

thought Paul needed his thorn. Why? Why would anybody need a thorn?  He became aware

of the little Bible in his breast pocket and took it out, flipping through to the story of Paul. Ah,

yes, Paul had come to thank God for the thorn.  Was that the foundation of everything? When

you could sincerely thank God for your personal thorn, did it get removed? Did it stop hurting?

It came to him then as he waited in silence that it was the true gratitude that made the removal

of the thorn unnecessary.  He wasn't there yet. He still wanted it gone.  Closing his eyes tightly,

he searched inside himself, quite quickly locating the thorn. It was large, firmly embedded in

the chambers of his heart, and not knowing what else to do, he prayed for the grace of thanksgiving.

Monday camp was struck at dawn and they began an 18 mile march through Brucetown,

camping at Millwood. This would be the pattern of late July, leaving camp early in the

morning and walking most of the day. Each day was taking him further south and he liked

that, though it came with a price of joint pains every night.  He seemed to be developing a

vague sense of overall weakness. He was worn down. Of course he was worn down. Tuesday

he marched 12 more miles, going up the Shenandoah River to Front Royal where the army

crossed the river on pontoons at the junction of the north and south forks. Wednesday he

crossed the Blue Ridge at Chester Gap where a small force of dismounted Yankee cavalry

attacked but were driven back.  What was it, 16 miles he walked that day? Hood's division

was crossing the mountains at Manassas Gap, encountering enemy who pulled back before

them. Hood was not currently with his division, having been wounded on the second day at

Gettysburg and lost the use of his left arm.

On Thursday the 23rd they were ordered to cook three day's rations and they took the road

to Culpepper at noon. Culpepper...again. By three in the afternoon he had crossed the north

fork of the Rappahannock and was setting up camp at six. It rained...heavily...in the night and

they left camp at dawn, marching through Culpepper Court House, camping on the side of

Pony Mountain after a 14 mile trek. Here they would remain for several days. Word came

that Judge had been sent home on a 45-day wounded furlough.  Jonathon knew that Judge

would visit his family while he was there.  That was good.  He'd return with first-hand accounts

of how things were really going. Word also came that John Bradley, whom Jonathon always

thought fondly of as his first captain, had died back in Williamsport, where he'd been left

during the retreat from Gettysburg.

On the 30th, in the rain, his regiment went in the evening to stand picket near Stevensburg.

That was how July ended, still standing picket.

August came in clear...and hot.  Two brigades of Yankee cavalry appeared a mere two miles

from Culpepper Court House but part of A. P. Hill's corps met them and drove them off. By

the 3rd Jonathon had crossed the Rapidan at Summerville Ford and by the 5th was camped

in Orange County near Zion Church. Here a new doctor, John Clopton, was assigned to the

13th Mississippi. Their camp was in a beautiful grove about 21 miles from Fredericksburg

and Jonathon didn't mind staying there for several days.  However, because they weren't

marching all day, they were drilled. At least it was quiet, with no skirmishing. Lee and

Longstreet had set up their headquarters at Orange Court House.  Jonathon would stay in

this camp from the 5th till he went on picket duty the morning of July 20th.

Friday the 21st was another day set aside for fasting and prayer.  Fasting wasn't hard. He'd

had no appetite for a while and had lost some more weight. For the last few days he'd been

trying to ignore a fever and a sore throat, accompanied by headaches and a stiff neck. It was

on Sunday, though, when he noticed a developing rash on his palms and the soles of his feet

that he sought out Dr. Clopton.  It was just as he'd feared. Sophia Street had come back to

haunt him and before the day was out, he found himself on a wagon heading for Richmond,

where on Monday, August 24th, he'd be in Wayside Hospital.

NEWLY ADDED IN MAY OF 2011...A SET OF PHOTO ALBUMS FOLLOWING JONATHON'S PATH IN THE TIME

BETWEEN MANASSAS AND GETTYSBURG...CONFEDERATE FOOTSTEPS  These cover Jonathon up until this point in the story.

ON TO CHAPTER 40

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