A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (21 page)

“Move out, Private,” said Virgil. “The regiment is forming up.”

James was marched to the front of the long column of twos. A soldier ran up and handed him a wooden pole with a tattered battle flag attached to it. “Hold it high,” he said.

When the order was given, James started off through the woods leading the column with Virgil on horseback right behind him. As he marched along, he thought of the same things he imagined all doomed men thought about. First was his lovely wife. He knew deep down that she had wished him to stay in Mapletown with her. He also knew that she would never have tried to change his mind. He could see now how selfish he had been and it was very painful to know that he would not have the chance to say he was sorry. Then he thought about his parents and his sisters. Perhaps if he ended up dead in a Confederate uniform they could at least be proud of him. They would never know what he'd been doing since first leaving home. That was some consolation, he thought.

In seemingly no time at all they reached the edge of the woods and Virgil shouted for the column to halt. James could see across a half mile of open ground—the whole way to the Union defenses. The Yankees were well dug in behind a wall of earth and felled trees. At least six cannons were visible as well as several Yankee flags planted atop the earthworks. Virgil shouted another command, dividing the column of twos with a single column going right and the other column going left.

When the men were spread out along the tree line, Virgil dismounted and walked up to James. “When I give the command you run at them Yankees like the devil hisself is right behind you cause he will be. And you can bet your ass if the Yankees don't get you the devil will you nigger lovin son of a bitch.”

So there it was. Virgil
did
remember him after all and he was all set to carry out the threat he'd made a year before. James saw his chance of survival go from nothing to something less than that. Virgil got back on his horse; drew his sword, and James took a deep breath. Then Virgil yelled, “Charge!”

The peaceful morning was decimated by the famous Rebel yell; James took off running as fast as he possibly could. He held the flag high and screamed at the top of his lungs if only to live a moment longer by denying Virgil a reason to shoot him in the back. As he raced across the open field, he could see the blue clad soldiers getting into position. Thousands of rifle barrels were leveled along the top of the dirt wall, the head and shoulders of an officer raising his sword was visible as he rode his horse back and forth behind the line. James's only hope was to make it to the earthworks unscathed and be taken prisoner.

Halfway to the Yankee line, the cannon opened up, lobbing canister at the attacking rebels. Through the deafening noise, the screams of those hit by flying metal were horribly audible. As they got closer and closer to those hostile muzzles, James felt like every one of them was pointed directly at him. Then, suddenly enough to make it seem almost unexpected, the rifles belched a maelstrom of smoke and fire. James was slammed to the ground as a bullet struck his right shoulder and another hit his left side. He landed hard on his back just in time to see Virgil's head ripped from his body, throwing him backwards from the saddle. Someone tore the flagstaff from his grip as he ran by, stabbing James's hands with several large splinters. Although the battle continued on for some time after he was hit, the sights and sounds slowly faded away as he lost consciousness.

 

SIXTEEN

 

No More a Rebel Soldier

 

 

When James opened his eyes the sun was going down, which meant he had been lying on the field for many hours. It did not take a lot of time to collect his thoughts because there was not a lot to remember. He had charged a Yankee position that morning, and upon reaching a spot within a hundred yards of the line he was shot in the right shoulder and left side. The important thing now was to receive medical attention.

What had begun as a burning sensation was now a deep, aching throb. His throat was parched and he imagined that his agony would decrease greatly if he could just have some water. The battle was long since over but all was not quiet. Everywhere around him were the cries of other wounded begging for help. James could also hear muffled voices; probably stretcher bearers, but he couldn't tell where they were or if they were Yankee or Confederate. It did not matter to James who it was. He knew his wounds were serious and that he needed attention soon.

Mustering all of his strength he attempted to rise to a sitting position, but the pain in his side was too great. All he could do was lie still, wait, and be grateful that it was not winter lest he freeze to death.

For a time he dozed off, waking after dark when someone kicked the heels of his boots. James opened his eyes and was blinded by the lantern being held over him. “You alive, Reb?” said a voice. With a raspy reply, James confirmed the fact that he was indeed still alive. “Grab his arms, Joe.”

The first man sat the lantern on the ground and took James by the ankles while the second man grabbed his wrists. He could not hold back the screams as the two men hoisted him a couple feet in the air and laid him on a stretcher. The painful ride ended about ten minutes later when he was carried into a dimly lit tent and placed on a makeshift operating table. The Yankee surgeon examined him carefully and said, “All things considered, you've gotten off pretty lucky, young man. One bullet cut a deep gash in your shoulder but it did not hit the bone. That bit of good fortune has saved your arm. The wound in your side is worse, but the bullet went straight through and I don't believe it hit any of your vitals. If I have any real concerns it would be with infection. A bullet has an unfortunate tendency to drive pieces of material from the uniform into the flesh, which can cause serious problems. Your uniform is grade A filthy and no doubt infested with all kinds of germs. I will clean the wounds as best I can and dress them. Then you will be taken by ambulance to the hospital at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri.”

The surgeon administered laudanum then set to work, first removing the splinters from James's hands. During the procedure he lost consciousness again and when next he awoke, he was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital.

For many days and nights, the terrible journey continued until the train of ambulances reached their destination. By the time James was taken to the ward for enemy wounded he was delirious, suffering from chills and a very high fever. The ward was kept under guard, but very few of the patients had the strength to get out of bed let alone try to escape. The care that James received at the hospital was better than the care at the field hospital and still it posed a real challenge to the medical staff to bring his infection under control. Days became weeks and weeks turned into months. In the end, it was owing to James's youth and strong will that he was able to survive.

After six months in bed he was finally able to get up and walk around. His wounds had healed, but he was weak from so much inactivity and his freedom was limited to a small fenced in yard behind the ward. Sometimes he passed an entire day just walking the fence line around and around to get some exercise. As he walked he thought about Polly and how she was doing. He knew that she must be frantic with worry wondering what had happened to him. But he was a prisoner of war and not afforded the privilege of sending correspondence.

Then one afternoon, the doctor in charge of the hospital, Major Kendal, came into the ward to see James. After a brief examination the doctor told him that he was no longer in need of medical care. “In fact,” said the major, “you will soon be leaving here for a prisoner of war camp. But that is not really as bad as it sounds.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Last July, the two governments agreed to parole or exchange all prisoners within ten days of their capture. Unfortunately for you, you were wounded or you would have been released long ago. When you get to the prison I'm sure you won't have to wait long. For that, you will be very grateful. I hear that the conditions are nothing less than terrible.” James thanked him for the care he'd been given as well as for the information.

In November l862 he was transferred along with ten other men to the prison at Camp Douglas near Chicago. Upon arrival, the first thing James noticed was the near criminal lack of heat. One small stove in the middle of a room that measured roughly fifty feet by seventy-five feet did not stand a chance against the frigid air that passed constantly through numerous cracks in the walls. How thankful he was that before leaving Jefferson Barracks he was given a heavy overcoat, compliments of a man who had died from a head wound.

Looking past the cold, a man quickly realized that conditions went downhill from there. Rations were scarce and not fit to eat, usually consisting of a stale piece of hardtack and a rancid slice of beef or pork. Water was adequate for drinking but none for cleaning one's person, and even the icy weather could not stifle the human stench. But Major Kendal had been right about the exchange program; consequently, the prison was not overcrowded. In less than a week he was taken before Colonel James Mulligan, an Irishman and ex-Chicago politician who served as camp commandant.

When James entered the office, he stood at attention in front of the desk and waited for Colonel Mulligan to put down the folder he was reading.

“You are Private Sterling Hargraves of the 5
th
South Carolina, wounded and captured at Cumberland Gap, Kentucky?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Private, I am sure it will not upset you to learn that you will be exchanged and leaving here in about three days.”

“If you please, sir,” said James. “I do not wish to be exchanged, instead I wish to be paroled and sent home.”

“I see. Am I to understand that you have had enough of the 5
th
South Carolina and perhaps the fighting as well?”

“Not exactly, sir. The fact is, I never joined the Southern army.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Colonel.

Once again James found himself telling the story, in detail, of his adventures since leaving home in April 1861. In conclusion he said, “My real name is James Langdon and I wish to get to Pennsylvania to see my wife before resuming my mission. I do not consider you to be gullible, sir, and I am willing and able to provide you with names and locations of persons who can verify my story.”

Like the Yankee major in Morgantown, Colonel Mulligan was more than a little surprised. “That is quite a story, young man. Such courage on the battlefield would be worthy of a medal. If your story
is
true, after all you've been through, do you really want to risk your life again?”

“Yes, sir, I do. The history of this country is about freedom and the sacrifices that were made to pay for it. What is the value of my life compared to an entire race of people in bondage? Yes, sir, I will risk my life again.” For a moment, the colonel sat in silence. Then he said, “I will make the necessary inquiries, son, and if I find that what you are telling me is fact, I would offer to you this suggestion.”

“Please, go on, sir.”

“Why don't you consider joining the Union army?”

“That thought occurred to me at one time, Colonel, but I dismissed it. Mr. Lincoln is concerned with keeping the country together, North and South. While that is a worthwhile goal and one I wholeheartedly support, the president himself has stated that he will not interfere with slavery except, perhaps, to try to halt the expansion of it.”

“How long has it been since you've seen a newspaper, James?”

“Months,” James replied. The colonel opened a desk drawer and extracted a copy of the
Chicago Tribune
dated September 23
rd
, 1862. He handed the paper to James and said, “Read the story on the left hand column of page one.”

James unfolded the paper and the headline he saw nearly jumped from the page. “PRESIDENT LINCOLN ANNOUNCES EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION,” he read aloud. He continued to read the story of the new proclamation that Lincoln had presented to his cabinet. When he finished, he looked at Colonel Mulligan and said, “This is wonderful.”

“I thought you would be pleased,” said the colonel. “Now you can see why I suggested that you join our army. Once this goes into effect, the war will not only be about union but about liberation as well. As our armies sweep through the South, freed Negroes will be left in their wake. You can fight alongside thousands of men whose mission is the same as your own. There is strength in numbers. It would be safer for you in the army than going south alone. We need men with your kind of dedication because the sooner we win this war, the sooner we can bury slavery in an unmarked grave.”

James could find no way to dispute the colonel's argument. If the North was underwriting freedom for the slaves, then that is where he felt he should be.

“You've convinced me, Colonel. I would like to join the Union Cavalry under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I must first return to Pennsylvania to see my wife.”

“If your story is verified, the condition shall be granted. I can guarantee you a thirty day furlough before you report for active duty. You say that you grew up on a large plantation in Georgia?”

“Yes, Colonel, I did.”

“I imagine that you have some fine horses on this plantation?”

“Yes, sir. We have some of the finest thoroughbred horses in the world.”

“Then you must be a pretty good horseman; I assume you ride well.”

“Proficiently, sir.”

“Yes, that is what I was hoping you'd say. I am having a thought, Mr. Langdon. I am going on the premise that your desire to join the cavalry stems from your lifelong capabilities with horses. From the outset of this war, when you stacked our advantages up against the Confederacy's, we came out first in most categories, but to this point, there is one area where the South beats us every time: a cavalry battle. We have many farm boys who are familiar with horses, but they are mostly draft animals. They can ride well enough to stay in the saddle, but when it comes to maneuvering, when it comes to expertise as a mounted soldier, they simply cannot compete with Southern boys like you. I have some political connections in Chicago and a modicum of pull in the War Department; I would like to send a few telegrams and see if I can secure a commission for you based on your much needed ability.”