ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME

By Jo Anzalone

Chapter 7:

The next several days after Barksdale's restoration, the weather stayed clear and pleasant.

Jonathon, driving a wagon into Leesburg, hoped that might be a portent of better days to

come. He was getting used to Leesburg now from coming into it so often with deliveries and

pick-ups. It sat in the middle of rich, fertile country and he forded many small creeks on his

way. Nestled in beautiful hills about two miles from the Potomac, it was the county seat

of Loudoun County, Virginia. It seemed to him its 3 or 4 thousand citizens must be fairly

well-to-do because the houses were mostly neat, pleasant-looking places and their inhabitants almost invariably kind to the soldiers now in their midst or nearby.

On Tuesday, September 10th he pulled up beside the hospital to deliver some more sick

men, helping the litter bearers with Wiley, a 24-year old farmer from Webster he'd come to

know and like. Wiley Shaw was one of the few married men in his company and it always worried Jonathon when one of them took sick, knowing they might likely leave some young widow, maybe some little kids behind. He was glad he wasn't married yet, hadn't had to

leave behind some wife he might never see again. Of course, that meant he didn't get letters

from one, either, and that would've been right nice. Been nice to have one to write to, he

guessed. That would come after the war and maybe once the Yanks got themselves up to

cross the Potomac, it would be over and he could go home and set about the business of

finding him one. If he was still whole. There was always that.  Women wouldn't want half

a man. That sent his thoughts back to John Pool, the first man he knew personally who'd

endured amputation. Well, besides old Mr. McCutcheon who somehow got himself trapped

in the mill wheel and lost both legs as a result. But he'd been 68 and a grandfather, so the

thing was a different matter. Still not good, of course, but not the same as for a young,

unmarried man. Old McCutcheon had lived minus his legs, lived a good long while. John

had died.

He put a palm over his lower face. The smells in the hospital always kind of got to him, being

more intense, sharper somehow than the ones in camp. When he was sure Wiley was settled,

he walked quickly back outside, got himself a good block away, and inhaled a deep, long

breath.

The dry weather broke with a pounding rain Wednesday night that cleared by morning. The

word was the enemy was gathering in large numbers across the river and the Confederate

and Union pickets were firing at one another every chance they got, leading to more men

in the hospital with actual bullet wounds, something that up until now had been rarer.

Friday came with the news that the quartermaster had gotten the pay for the regiment for

the first time since the men had joined up. Looked like they might actually be paid by

Sunday. Jonathon had been sending his letters home without stamps, letting his father pay

for them, as what small amount of money he had went for paper and envelopes to write

them with.  He'd be glad not to have to do it that way any more.

After a non-rainy Saturday, some of the regiment did get paid on Sunday the 15th. Privates made eleven dollars a month.

At the hospital again on Sunday afternoon, he found that John Leatherwood had succumbed

to measles. John was only 21, and a farmer from near Coopwood. Jonathon liked him a lot.

He'd been born in South Carolina and Jonathon liked to ask him questions about the state

since his own parents had both been born there.

The next ten days were pretty much the same, only on the 25th Barksdale took companies

F and G on a scouting trip down Goose Creek to the Potomac...while Jonathon stood by

Wiley Shaw's bed and watched him die from typhoid.

Thursday the 26th had been clear but on Jonathon's return trip to camp in the afternoon,

a severe thunderstorm broke, hurricane-like winds driving torrents of rain sideways against

him as he tried to see the road ahead. He called back something to Seth, who was driving

the wagon behind him, but his voice was carried in shreds over the treetops. They were

close enough that he wanted to push on and, besides, there was no shelter at all where they

they were. When they finally pulled into camp and were getting the horses unhitched, he

called over to Seth, "Did you see the tents as we came in?"

Many of them had blown down, tumbling sideways then picked up and carried along,

slamming into other tents. Shouting soldiers were running about, grabbing at them with

little effect. Blankets and gear that had been inside tents were drenched, knapsacks lay

sodden in muddy puddles.  Hurrying, the two men ran side by side for their tent. Jimmie

was outside, hanging desperately onto a tent rope as the canvas belled up then flapped

down violently. Seth and Jonathon grabbed onto it, holding on for dear life.  Finally the

wind died somewhat but sheets of rain had blown in through the tent flaps and everything

they had was wet. It rained the next day, a steady, straight-down drumming rain, all day.

By Saturday it was clear, but so cool Seth remarked, "Bet there'll be frost in the mornin'."

Charles Bevill, who was 18 and the son of one of the wealthier farmers in their area, was

discharged from the army for disability and started the long trip home. Barksdale had not

been completely forgiven. Some soldier cut the tail off his horse in the night.

September was coming to a close, its last two days clear and cold. The Yankees were

stirring, making demonstrations like they had plans to cross the river.

October came in with a nice day as well. Jonathon and Seth continued driving wagons

while Jimmie found himself often on picket duty. On Sunday the 6th, all three of went to

hear the chaplain preach in camp. They'd been going when duty permitted. More and

more of the men seemed to be doing that as the numbers of sick mounted. There was all

too little comfort to be found elsewhere. That afternoon orders came down to prepare to

move to Fairfax Court House and be placed under the command of General Charles

Clarke, but hard rain came again with the Sunday sunset and continued all night.

Monday was cold and the orders to move were countermanded. The next couple of days

were cloudy, miserable, and cold, with cannonading sounding all day from the direction

of Fairfax Court House. Saturday night the 12th another heavy thunderstorm came and

blew many of the tents down again.  In the morning, still wet, they went to hear Harvey

Williams, a member of the regimental band, preach in camp.

As they sat huddled together for a bit of warmth, Jimmie couldn't seem to stop coughing.

Jonathon pressed the back of his fingers to his cheek. "You're warm, Jimmie. Maybe I

should...."

"I'm fine, Johnnie!" Jimmie almost snapped, then licked his lips and said more softly,

"Really, Johnnie, nothin' to worry 'bout. Just got me a little cold is all. I'll be fine."

Jonathon's lips formed a tight line and he looked over Jimmie's bowed head, meeting

Seth's eyes, finding his own concern mirrored in them.

"You need a good rest, brother, that's what you need, that and a bit of dryin' off."

"I got picket duty tonight," Jimmie shrugged.

Several clear nights in a row were accompanied by a dawn frost and Jimmie would

creep back into their tent, his limbs cold as ice while the rest of him seemed to radiate

more and more heat. 

On Tuesday after another frosty night, Barksdale received orders to march the regiment

 the next morning as either Harper's Ferry or Fairfax Court House seemed the most likely places that the Federals would move. The men were told to get ready to move with no

luggage but their blankets and two days rations. They left at 7 the morning of the 16th,

marching until 10. Jimmie was sagging, finding it harder and harder to put one foot in

front of the other.  Seth marched on one side of him, Jonathon on the other, trying to give

what support they could yet maintain marching order. They halted, waiting, as conflicting reports kept circulating. Finally at 9 PM a courier from General Beauregard arrived,

bringing orders they were to hold themselves in the ready to march at a moment's warning.

That night they lay down without tents, not knowing which moment those orders might come. Almost no one among them really slept and Jonathon and Seth certainly didn't, watching worriedly over a coughing Jimmie.

At 2 AM another courier rode into camp with the news that the Confederate army was

retreating from Fairfax Court House and the 7th brigade was now to fall back to Mr.

Carter's Mill on Goose Creek. A long drum roll beat through the night and the soldiers

got to their feet, cold and weary, falling into line. A misty rain fell on them as they went

the several miles, turning into a harder rain after dark. Except for the 8th Virginia,

General Nathan Evan's full brigade went into camp at Carter's Mill. The 8th had been

ordered to Leesburg on picket duty.

Jonathon and Seth were practically carrying Jimmie between them as they made their

way to the assigned camp. The last couple of miles, Jimmie's head hung limply down.

Without stopping, they took him to one of the mill's outbuildings where they saw the

regimental surgeon's staff setting up a small medical facility.

"We need some help here!" Jonathon called out from the doorway.

"What you got there, private?" one of the staff answered, coming forward.

"He's sick," Seth said, his voice nearly breaking. "Really sick."

While Jonathon and Seth anxiously waited in a corner, it was determined Jimmie had

both pneumonia and typhoid.

"Oh...God!" Seth moaned, sinking to his knees in anguish.

Jonathon knelt beside him, holding on, his own grief at the news nearly unbearable.

They hung around as long as they were allowed, but Jimmie just lay there inert, his eyes

closed.  When they were finally told they must leave, they simply sat down against the outside

of the small building, wrapping themselves in their blankets, so weary they slept a little in

spite of their emotions.

Sometime in the night they were awakened by an older man running into camp. Yankee

pickets had run him off his plantation and this Mr. Woods had come as fast as his legs

could carry him to the soldiers at Carter's Mill. He informed the colonel that he'd seen

a large force of Federals about eight miles from their camp, coming along the Alexandria

road. Barksdale immediately ordered double pickets on all the ways into camp and Seth

and Jonathon had to leave where they'd been as the soldiers were told to sleep on their

arms and be ready to march whenever ordered.

That order came at 4 AM with the sounding of the alarm drum. Jonathon and Seth made

a frantic dash for the medical station. Jimmie was the same and all they wanted to do was

hover near him, but Beauregard's orders had been for the 13th to go back toward Balls'

Bluff and defend the ford there while the rest of the 7th brigade was to go back to Leesburg, with orders that if the enemy proved too strong, they were to fall back to Thoroughfare Gap

in the Catocton Mountains, resisting the Federals there at all costs.

"All this marchin', marchin', marchin' and we ain't never got nowhere!" Seth spat as he

took one long, last look at his brother. 

Jonathon had his hand clamped firmly on Seth's shoulder. Jimmie didn't look good at all

and they were both afraid he might die before they could ever get back to him. He was

going to be left at this backwater mill with a few other sick men and a couple of aides to

watch over them. Everything in him rebelled at the thought of leaving him here, but there

was nothing to be done about it. The regiment was already forming lines and they had to

hurry.

As they went out the door, Seth's chin was trembling. "I can't stand it, Johnnie. I don't

think I'm gonna be able to stand this one.  It just ain't fair, dammit! It ain't fair at all!

Jimmie's only 21. I just don't...." But he was cut off by a lieutenant ordering them to step

lively.

Before daybreak they were marching away from Carter's Mill in quick time.  Both Seth and Jonathon cast several glances back at the building Jimmie was inside, but neither man spoke, each lost in his own dark thoughts.  When the road curved and the building was completely

lost to sight, a long, shuddering breath went through Seth from top to bottom.

The Union army had taken possession of Fairfax Court House and as they advanced, were

destroying, burning everything that lay in their path. The Virginians who lived in the area

began following the Confederate army in large numbers, wanting to be close for some sense

of protection. 

The 13th, marching on their own, took an hour and a half at their quick pace to reach

Leesburg, which they passed through then just outside the town, stacked their arms and

rested a while.

Seth sat bleakly, his elbows on his bent knees, his head in his hands. After a while he lifted

his head, looking at Jonathon. "If...if he...how will I...what will I tell Mama and Daddy? I

feel like I've let them down, let Jimmie down. I was supposed to...."

"That's got nothin' to do, Seth, with the fact of it. You ain't let nobody down. Nobody. You

hear me? All this sickness here can't be your fault. You got to understand that, Seth. It just...

happens...and what you did or didn't do's got nothin' to do with it.  Don't you go an' start

blamin' yourself for any of this.  It's the war. That's what it is, all it is. None of us knew war

was like this, Seth, all this gettin' sick and no help for it.  We all thought we would go off an'

shoot us some Yankees and then come home all cock-sure an' full of ourselves. Well, it's not

like that, not anythin' at all like that.  It's sittin' in the damn rain day in an' day out, your

blanket wet, your clothes wet, your belly cryin' out for some decent food. It's standin' guard

in the night when you're so tired you can hardly keep to your feet and then it's marchin' for miles the next mornin' then turnin' around and marchin' back the way you come."

He shook his head with the accumulating weight of it all. "I sure as hell hope Billy's smart

enough to keep out of it. I pray to God he is."

He had no way of knowing that two days earlier, one William J. McDaniel had gone with

two friends to Enterprise, Mississippi and signed up to join Company F of the Winston Rifles.

ON TO CHAPTER 8

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