ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME
By Jo Anzalone
Chapter 8:
An hour after sitting down, they took up arms again, marching toward the Potomac. On the
way they came to what was loosely called Fort Evans, nothing more really than a waist-high
embankment, made only large enough to hold a single battery. General Evans was there and
halted the soldiers, exhorting them to valor and bravery. "Give 'em hell, boys!" he shouted.
Near him, resting atop the embankment, sat a bottle.
"Think it's whiskey?" John Gideon asked, elbowing Seth.
Seth wasn't in the mood to answer and, though Jonathon wasn't either, he deflected the
question from Seth by replying, "Probably nerve tonic."
Barksdale proposed three cheers for the South and as the sound of that died away, three more
for General Evans. Then the regiment right faced and continued on past the fort. When they
reached Goose Creek, the rest of the 7th brigade was bivouacked, and they, too, halted for the
remains of the day. It was now becoming clear that the Yankees' real attack would be up by
Leesburg, that their movements and demonstrations at Harpers Ferry and Fairfax Court
House were nothing more than cover for their actual intentions. A great piece of luck for the
Confederates confirmed it. The scouts had captured a Union courier who was carrying
dispatches with the complete details of the attack, meant for General Stone, the commander
of the Federal forces.
This resulted in Rebel scouts being intensively sent out and they brought back information
through the gathering darkness. The Yankees were crossing the river at last, in large
numbers, and seemed to be concentrated in two places, Edwards Ferry and Harrison's
Island. Knowing they were going into battle, the regiment had left their knapsacks and
blankets back in Leesburg, the memory of what happened to them after Manassas all too
clear in their memories. Their possessions might have been safer, but the men settled down
for the night on the edge of a thicket with nothing but the bare ground to rest upon.
The danger was that the two Union forces, the one crossing at Edwards Ferry and the one a
little further north at the four mile long Harrison's Island, would meet. The island was a
long, narrow teardrop-shaped piece of land with several fine farms on it, and though
it pressed close to the Virginia bank of the Potomac, it belonged to the state of Maryland.
Yankees had been camping on it for a few days now, with the main channel of the river
already crossed and only a narrow bit between them and Virginia.
The 13th came under fire on the morning of October 21st and they pulled back from the
thicket nearer to Fort Evans. From there Duff's company of the 17th Mississippi and the
Attala Minute Men of the 13th, were sent north to the Harrison's Island area, with the 8th
Virginia as support.
Jonathon and Seth found themselves among the soldiers ordered to prevent the Yankee
crossing at Edwards Ferry and as they moved forward in that direction, came in contact
with General Stone's advance troops, who with a considerable force behind them, intended
to attack Leesburg from that direction.
Jonathon was crouched behind a stone fence, Seth just behind him, as he moved carefully
along, keeping a steady pace, trying to keep himself concealed. In order to lead the Union
soldiers to think the Confederates were planning an attack at that point, reconnoitering
parties had been sent out, both to watch enemy movements and to be seen enough to confirm
any Yankee suspicions. But the orders were merely to hold them in check, not to engage.
Company H lost Bill Parke, who revealed a bit too much of himself atop the fence and was
shot as a result.
"Down!" Jonathon yelled as Gideon popped his head up to see what had happened. "Dammit,
John, you want to provide the Yankees with target practice, do you?"
The order came from Barksdale, who felt the enemy was trying to flank him on his right, to
about face and fall back to the road, where they marched to the right a few hundred yards,
then went down behind another stone fence. What was left of the regiment was to keep at bay
a force of Federals much larger than their entire brigade. Barksdale ordered a company out
to advance as skirmishers and when they returned, another company was sent. Somehow the
rest of the afternoon, the 13th managed to keep the Yankees thinking they were a much
larger force than they were.
Up near Harrison's Island, the 13th's Attala Minute Men and the soldiers with them were
battling atop a 60 foot embankment called Ball's Bluff. The bluff was now to the Yankees'
rear and as the Confederates advanced, many of the Union soldiers attempted to escape and
fell over the cliff, others drowning as they tried to swim the Potomac. About 200 of them
tried to cross on a ferry, but the Rebels had captured a cannon and turned it on them, sinking
the boat with the loss of most of the men.
(The bluff at Ball's Bluff with the Potomac far below.)
Later in the evening, reinforcements were sent up to Harrison's Island, but darkness had
ended the battle and the regiment camped again close to Fort Evans, along with Evans'
entire brigade. For evening mess there was boiled beef, but no salt or bread, but they were
hungry, had had nothing to eat all day, and ate with some appetite anyway. As their blankets
and knapsacks were still back in Leesburg, they passed another night on the bare ground,
the sounds of musketry coming the whole time, keeping sleep away.
Weary, cold, they arose on the morning of Tuesday, the 22nd. Rain had begun before dawn.
"Got some bread today," Gideon smiled, handing Seth a chunk that rapidly sogged. There
was still some of the boiled beef but also still no salt to add any flavor to it.
Jonathon sat quietly, his hat pulled low, his shoulders hunched, trying to shelter his own
piece of bread. He'd eaten about half of the not-very-large chunk when the brim of his hat
folded under the weight of the rain, and the water came in a wide rivulet atop it. Still silent,
not moving, he held the bread in his hands, just watching as the rain wet it so thoroughly it
became a shapeless mass of flour, watching still as piece by small piece, it was washed over
the edges of his palms, through the cracks in his fingers, watching until it was completely
gone. His friends were like that, washing away through his fingers, being taken by the
ceaseless onrush of sickness and death, disintegrating before his eyes into a nothingness
that he was powerless to prevent. These were men he'd known most of his life or men he'd
come to share the bond of war with, men who would never see home again. These were...
Jimmie. He closed his eyes, his lashes starred with a combination of rain and tears. Jimmie.
Was he still alive today?
Around 11 the rain slacked off and they were ordered toward Edwards Ferry once again.
After Manassas, everything had seemed to be 'once again.' Today, however, they were not supposed just to hold the enemy in check, but to dislodge, possibly even destroy them. Today,
the road they had marched down yesterday was slick with mud, yet they marched at the
double quick with a drizzling rain in their faces.
Jonathon stood, wiggling his toes, listening to the sucking squish of the mud under his shoes,
waiting with the rest of the men about 300 yards from an old field. Barksdale had ordered
out skirmishers, this time the Lauderdale Zouaves, and they managed to get within 30 yards
of the Federal pickets. It seemed the pickets, instead of watching for the enemy, were playing
cards, probably poker, and the skirmishers advanced without being seen. Jonathon could feel the tension mounting in his body the closer they got and his fingers tightened and loosened several times on his rifle.
Then, as is so often the way of it after weeks or months of waiting, the world exploded in a
split second. Doublequick was sounded along the Confederate line and once again he was
part of a charging mass of men from whose throats the Rebel yell was being ripped. He fired,
reloaded behind a scrubby tree, running, yelling for half a mile till he came to a fence where
he fired again, charging, the yell continuing its wild rise and fall, the enemy retreating before
them as they loaded, fired, as they yelled. The yell itself, a physical force, caught him up,
carried him along, gave strength to his legs, sureness to his aim.
But then...he reached a ravine at the base of a slope and beyond that the Yankees had stopped,
had formed in line of battle, were awaiting his approach. Now bursting behind him came shot
from Union batteries across the Potomac. There was no way to get to the enemy cannon, no
way to disable them, and in front of him were 4 or 5,000 well-entrenched Yankees. The order
came to fall back, and the regiment managed it in good order. Only three of their men had
been killed in the charge that had yielded nothing, against the same force they'd held at bay
the day before.
On Wednesday, the 23rd, they camped near the village of Aldie on the Little River, where the 5th South Carolina, the 8th Louisiana, and two companies of the Washington Artillery from
New Orleans, arrived to reinforce them. Oak Hill, the former residence of President Monroe,
wasn't far away and ordinarily Jonathon would have been interested in the yellow-painted,
brick building with its apple orchards, but now he just huddled into himself, trying to keep
at least a little warm, his thoughts going to Carter's Mill and how Jimmie was faring.
(Oak Hill)
On a frosty Friday morning they left and rejoined the brigade near Fort Evans. Men who'd
been starting to get sick before the battle, got sicker from days of exposure with no tents, no
blankets.
On Sunday the 27th, three wagons of supplies were to be sent to Carter's Mill. Jonathon and
Seth drove two of them. It had taken some wrangling, some trading off, but they'd managed.
Seth drove the wagon in front of his and the whole way there Jonathon could tell from the way
he held his body he was about as tense as a man could get. At least it wasn't raining.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot while the wagons were unloaded, the horses tended to,
Seth finally was free and he and Jonathon made a mad dash for the small medical building.
Seth paused, a hand on either side of the door frame, sucking in a huge gasp of air. Then he
turned, his eyes meeting Jonathon's, the look in them silently communicating everything that
could possibly be said.
Jonathon nodded, clamping a hand on Seth's right shoulder, then they both went in, having
no idea what to expect. A little animal sound escaped Jonathon's throat when he saw Jimmie
was still there. Seth squatted by the cot, his left arm pressed across his own abdomen, his right
hand to his mouth, his eyes roaming over his younger brother's form. Jimmie's chest was
still rising and falling, but he looked somehow sunken into the cot. Jonathon stepped to the
side where he saw a doctor's assistant, asking him in a whisper about his friend. The man
looked briefly over at Jimmie, shook his head, and turned away.
They weren't allowed to stay inside but once again kept as near to the building as their duty permitted. Sometime in the wee hours of October 28, 1861, James H. Ellis died from typhoid pneumonia.
Jonathon had to do an afternoon trip up to Leesburg with a wagon, but he spent the morning
with Seth. Seth asked for enough planking and nails to make a coffin for Jimmie. He wanted to do it himself. Jonathon helped as much as Seth would let him and then together they found a little spot on a knoll a way back and up from the stream. There was a maple there that still had some of its yellow leaves and Seth liked the look of the place.
When they were done, Seth leaned on his shovel handle, just staring for a long time at his
brother's grave. Without taking his eyes from it, he said, "Johnnie, write home for me about
this, will you? Tell our folks how it was with Jimmie, how we was real close by when he went.
Them them about this place where he's restin' so's they'll maybe be able to picture it some."
His right hand was cupped over the end of the handle and he rested his chin on it like his head
had gone and gotten too heavy for his neck. "You got some words you can say for him, Johnnie,
somethin' to say good-bye before we go and leave him in this here solitary place?"
Seth's words triggered a memory in Jonathon and he pulled out his mother's Bible, opening
it to Isaiah. He paused a long moment, his gaze moving between Jimmie's grave and Seth still
leaning heavily on the shovel. Wiping a mist of tears from his eyes, he began to read, "The
wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice and
blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing: the
glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon, they shall see
the glory of the Lord and the excellency of our God. Strengthen ye the weak hands and
confirm the feeble knees. Say to them that are of a fearful heart, Be strong, fear not: behold, your God will come with vengeance, even God with a recompense; he will come and save you."
He looked up in time to see Seth let the shovel fall, sinking to sit beside the grave, his shoulders shaking. Thinking maybe he should stop, Jonathon let his voice trail away, but Seth asked him to keep on, so he continued. "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing; for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.... No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there: and the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
"When you write, Johnnie, tell Mama what you read for Jimmie. Maybe it'll help her some
to know the words that was said over him."
Jonathon couldn't help thinking about Cal's grave near Iuka. At the time he'd felt like Cal
was being buried so far from home. Now here was Jimmie. Oh, God, Jimmie...and after they'd
been through so much together. Jimmie, who'd been especially his piece of home more than
the other men. How far was this grave from Louisville? The distance was more in days than
in miles somehow. He wasn't even sure how many miles it was. Too many. Way too many.
He was standing near the maple and the thought came to him to pluck off one of the smaller,
yellow leaves, which he did, and pressed it in the little Bible right at Isaiah.
"I got to go," he said, squatting near Seth, laying a hand on his shoulder. Seth nodded mutely. "I'll see you in a couple of days." He almost added, "You gonna be all right?" but he didn't.
Of all times for him to be detailed as a wagoner but Seth not to be. For the last three days of
October he drove wagons between camps in the clear, cool weather the month was making
its exit with. They shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
The phrase repeated endlessly in his mind as he drove. How far away anything like that
seemed.
"When?" he whispered aloud, with no one but himself to hear. "When will all this sorrow
and sighing flee away?"
He was beginning to think it might be a very long time.
ON TO CHAPTER NINE
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