ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME
By Jo Anzalone
Chapter 49:
Billy stared at the bare interior walls of the guard house then shook his head violently,
realizing he'd disappeared into his own blank stare. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes,
trying to imagine a scene where he and Johnnie and Lewis were fishing on a summer
morning. He couldn't manage it, couldn't get the image to form. Wearily he dragged his
lids open, counting knotholes, not sure why he bothered. As many times as he'd counted
them, their number always stayed the same. Sometimes he made patterns out of them in
his mind, like constellations. Today they stayed simply knotholes and he shifted his gaze
from one to the other, hating each in turn.
The guardhouse was even more shantylike than the barracks, and had been erected at the
same time. Twenty by forty feet, a third of each end had been divided off by a plank partition.
It was at that partition Billy was staring when he heard Lieutenant Wagner complaining
from its other side, wondering why in hell he had to stay in such a cold guard room. The
following day Wagner would file a request: "Would respectfully recommend the completion
of the roof of the guardhouse."
Cooped up, Big Mike grew ever more quarrelsome, and he was not the only one. On February
23, 1864, Joseph Mullins was stabbed to death in the barracks by John Burt. Another soldier from Alabama was killed in an argument over who got to use the stove first. Brutish natures
became more brutish, though the more civilized among them did things like start debating
clubs. It wasn't just Mike who got Billy into trouble, it was how easy it was to commit an
infraction. Prison regulations prohibited loud noise, required silence, forbade crowds. None
of that had been defined, however, and interpretation was left up to individual guards. Billy
was where he was because he'd stopped to talk with two men he knew. The guard had
decided they were a crowd.
Sometimes the Confederates were encumbered with a 32 pound ball on a chain. Billy, like
most of the others who had found themselves wearing one, had rapidly discovered how to
pick the lock so he didn't have to have the thing on when he settled in his bunk. There were
work details and Billy didn't mind those so much because they got him moving and moving
got him at least a little warmer, kept his muscles in better shape than staring at knotholes.
Once in a while a prisoner would refuse to go on a work detail and end tied up high by their
wrists for four hours, their feet barely touching the ground. Clearing brush, pulling stumps,
digging ditches, anything was better than that.
On March 20th Jonathon went with Gray into the Baptist church in Dalton. The revival
that had begun in the Army of Northern Virginia earlier had now spread down to the Army
of Tennessee. Jonathon found it much like Fredericksburg. Members of all denominations
were gathering at the Baptist church like they had at St. George's Episcopal. This Sunday
Lee's Chief of Artillery, Brigadier General Pendleton, an Episcopalian, preached at the
Baptist church. Generals Johnston and Hardee were present and the service was very
crowded.
Gray explained how there were services somewhere every night and on Sundays, several
times a day. A lot of the soldiers went because there was nothing much else to do, but more
and more of them had gotten caught up in the revival and there were days when 40 to 60 of
them would be baptized in the creek.
It was too cold on the 20th, though, as the temperatures had been below zero for several days.
It had even been too cold to drill and the men spent what time they had to outside gathering
firewood then trying to keep warm. On Tuesday, March 22nd, the temperatures warmed
somewhat. During the night there had been three or four inches of snow and the flakes
continued falling all day, though more of a quiet sifting down, adding a couple more inches.
And on the 22nd, Jonathon went into battle for the first time since Gettysburg.
It began on a small scale. "Ahhh!" a soldier cried as an icy snowball thwacked against the
back of his neck. Another soldier in a distant part of the camp flung one at a messmate and
soon spontaneous fights had broken out throughout the camp.
Gray smiled, carefully placing ten snowballs in his haversack, hiding behind their hut. When
Jonathon came all unawares out the door, a snowball struck him square between his shoulder
blades and, startled, he turned, only to have another hit his shoulder. Gray whooped and
darted behind some trees.
Narrowing his eyes, Jonathon patted a scoop of snow into an icy round, stalking him. Gray,
though, was waiting for him, fully armed, and sent Jonathon's hat flying. Taking to his heels,
Gray tried to outrun Jonathon, who tackled him, sending him sprawling. Straddling his
friend, Jonathon stuffed some snow down the back of his collar. Gray rolled, sending Jonathon
over on his side, scrambled to his feet, and ducked down behind a scrubby slope. Sinking to
his knees, he pulled out two of his stockpiled white missiles, hitting Jonathon in the knee with
the first, missing him with the second.
Jonathon went around to the left where Gray couldn't see him and began to form several
snowballs. Without his haversack, he didn't have a portable place to store them, but he made
a little pile where he was crouched and kept silent, knowing Gray would come looking for him.
In just a moment Gray poked his head up where Jonathon could see him and was greeted by
a hard icy splatter on his cheek.
"OW!" he cried and, concerned, Jonathon dashed over to check on him. Gray had fallen
onto his back, his cheek bright red, and he lay with his eyes closed. Jonathon bent over him,
touching his cheek, really upset he'd hurt his friend. "Gray, I'm sorry. Are you...?" But Gray
burst out laughing, swooped his leg to the side so Jonathon fell over, and before Jonathon
could shut his startled mouth, had a big scoop of snow stuffed into it. Then Gray was gone,
bounding over the snow, giggling like a wild man.
Spluttering and spitting out snow, Jonathon chased after him, coming to an area where about
thirty young soldiers were rolling over in the snow in a great wriggling mass. Gray was
standing there, laughing as he watched them, so Jonathon tackled him again, pinning him
to the ground, scrubbing his face with snow.
And then it got organized. Officers joined in, even some of the generals, and before long
brigades were attacking brigades. Lucius Polk's men attacked Govan's brigade, Arkansan
against Arkansan. Their Division Commander, General Patrick Cleburne joined in, helping
Polk. The air was filled with hundreds and hundreds of snowballs and Govan's brigade
counterattacked, their Rebel yell splitting the cold air. Cleburne was captured but released
on parole. It was going badly again for Polk's brigade and Cleburne came back to help, but
was captured again. This time a mock trial was held for the general because he had broken
parole. The court was very solemn, trying to think of a proper punishment. Should he be
court martialed...perhaps dunked in the pond...maybe made to carry a fence rail, a common
punishment for soldiers at the time. As this was the first time the general had ever been known
to break his word, he was granted a second parole. He smiled and ordered a ration of whiskey
for his troops, which was consumed around enormous bonfires as his men yelled and sang at
the top of their lungs.
All through the vast camp thousands of Confederate soldiers engaged in the day's battle.
Plans were carefully laid, skirmishers sent out, lines of battle formed, speeches made. Red banners announced the advancement of troops, camps overrun and claimed by 'enemy'
soldiers. Jonathon and Gray, along with some friends, had captured a color guard. The
enemy had taken control of their section of pine shacks. An exchange was agreed upon, the
color guard for the shacks.
The cavalry got involved, charging the infantry. Gray lobbed a snowball that sent one
cavalryman flipping off his horse. He and Jonathon watched, though, making sure the man
got to his feet all right. During the day several arms got broken, many eyes blackened, but
at the end of it all the soldiers' morale was soaring. Though there were many other snowball
fights during the war, this one would go down as 'The Great Confederate Snowball Fight.'
And Jonathon, unlike the one he'd simply stood off to the side and watched in Fredericksburg,
was right in the thick of it.
That night, though, he was really sore and lay in his blanket, his muscles loudly complaining.
He smiled, however, and wouldn't for anything have taken the day back. The next day he
could barely move and, though it snowed again and there was another snowball fight on a
somewhat lesser scale, he didn't participate. It snowed and rained alternately from the 22nd
through the end of March, and every time it snowed, the white missiles flew.
In late February John Bell Hood had arrived in Dalton to take over command of what had
been Breckinridge's Corps. It had been thought that Cleburne would be promoted to the
position but Bragg disliked the Irishman and the post had gone to Hood. A lot of politics
had been involved, often very complicated. Jonathon was very aware of Hood, who had
been with the Army of Northern Virginia, had been part of Longstreet's countermarch,
and had lost the use of his left arm at Gettysburg. He hadn't thought much about the general
after that. Having gotten sick on the march south after Gettysburg and then going home for
so long, he hadn't been present at Chickamauga when Hood had been injured again, his
right leg amputated a mere four inches below his hip. But Hood had been recovering in
Richmond and was now back with the army. He was a large man, his hair light brown, his
full beard golden with flecks of gray. He somewhat resembled a Saxon chieftain. And
whereas the Irish Cleburne was a quiet man, self-effacing, and had often even been mistaken
for a private, Hood was flamboyant and not at all above self-promotion when it was to his
advantage.
Hood....................................and......Cleburne (both of whom will play major roles in Jonathon's upcoming war experiences)
Jonathon watched one day as Hood's staff helped him into the saddle. With no real stump
on his right leg, he had to be strapped to it to hold him on. His left arm was in a sling and
when he wore one of his artificial legs, it tended to stick straight out. Often his crutches
were attached to his saddle and so he was something to look at as he rode by. Not sure just
why, something in Jonathon's stomach clutched at the sight of that leg sticking out. You had
to give the man credit. He was a born warrior, right out of the olden days, but still... that awkward leg just didn't seem...right.
April brought the hope that spring was coming. On the 7th there was another sham battle,
only this one was done with blank cartridges rather than snowballs and was Cleburne and
Bate against Cheatham and Walker (the 5th was with Walker at this time). From the sounds, it was
very much a real battle. Infantry shot wads at charging cavalry, and just that wounded one
or two. People came out from Dalton to watch, among them many ladies.
Sunday the 10th there was a general inspection of arms and quarters, then church at 10,
again in the evening at 8, when Brigadier General Lowery, also a Baptist minister, spoke.
That week there was a printers strike in Atlanta and, therefore, no newspapers in camp.
On the 19th Boots and Saddles sounded through the big camp at 8 in the morning. General
Johnston had ordered a review of the entire army. For a while the campsite hummed with
activity as 40,000 men got ready for the grand parade. The men, formed in two long lines,
waited as Johnston, followed by his staff, slowly rode down their length. The wind gusted
strongly, snapping the flags and banners, as well as the bell-like skirts of the hundreds of
watching ladies. When Johnston had finished his ride and joined the spectators, the divisions
of the army marched pass in review. Jonathon, in the midst of the grandeur of it all, thought
that those who only witnessed such military events as this might well believe that this was the
essence of war. But he had been on Caroline Street and he knew better. And less than twenty
miles away, William T. Sherman's army, twice their size, only awaited the fullness of spring
to begin their push toward Atlanta. He could envision it, almost a dark thunderhead just
over the horizon, a storm that would arise with the coming of warmth and he wondered if
Atlanta had a Caroline Street.
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