Chickamauga (6 page)

There must have been forty girls in it, a lot of them from Baltimore and Philly. Only there were three or four that weren’t gay—I mean they were more, oh you know, rich people that sat up front; every once in a while an officer would pop in his head from the next car and ask them if they wanted anything. I was in the seat behind with Nell and we heard him whisper:

“You’re in pretty terrible company but we’ll be there in a few hours and we’ll go right to headquarters, and I’ll promise you solid comfort.”

I never will forget that night. None of us had any food except some girls behind us had some sausage and bread, and they gave us what they had left. There was a spigot you turned but no water came out. After about two hours, stopping every two minutes it seemed to me, a couple of lieutenants, loaded to the gills, came in from the next car and offered Nell and me some whiskey out of a bottle. Nell took some and I pretended to and they sat on the side of our seats. One of them started to make up to her but just then the officer that had spoken to the women, pretty high up I guess, a major or a general, came back again and asked:

“You all right? Anything I can do?”

One of the ladies kind of whispered to him, and he
turned to the drunk that was talking to Nell and made him go back in the other car. After that there was only one officer with us; he wasn’t really so drunk, just feeling sick.

“This certainly is a jolly looking gang,” he says. “It’s good you can hardly see them in this light. They look as if their best friend just died.”

“What if they do,” Nell answered back. “How would you look yourself if you come all the way from Philly and then climbed in a car like this?”

“I come all the way from the Seven Days, Sister,” he answered; pretty soon he left and said he’d try and get us some water or coffee, which was what we wanted.

The car kept rocking and it made us both feel funny. Some of the girls was sick and some was sound asleep on each other’s shoulders.

“Hey, where is this army?” Nell demanded. “Down in Mexico?”

I was kind of half asleep myself by that time and didn’t answer.

The next thing I knew I was woke up by a storm, the car was stopped again and I said, “It’s raining.”

“Raining!” said Nell. “That’s cannon—they’re having a battle.”

“Oh. Well, after
this
ride I don’t care who wins.”

It seemed to be getting louder all the time, but out the windows you couldn’t see anything on account of the mist.

In about half an hour another officer came in the car—he looked pretty messy as if he’d just crawled out of bed: his coat was still unbuttoned and he kept hitching up his trousers as if he didn’t have any suspenders.

“All you ladies outside,” he said, “we need this car for the wounded.”

“What?”

“Hey!”

“We paid for our tickets, didn’t we?”

“I don’t care. We need all the cars for the wounded and the other cars are about filled up.”

“Hey! We didn’t come down to fight in any battle!”

“It doesn’t matter what you came down for—you’re in a battle, a hell of a battle.”

I was scared I can tell you. I thought maybe the Rebs would capture us and send us down to one of those prisons you hear about where they starve you to death unless you sing Dixie all the time and kiss niggers.

“Hurry up now!”

But another officer had come in who looked more nice.

“Stay where you are, ladies,” he said, and then he said to the officer, “What do you want to do, leave them standing on the siding! If Sedgewick’s Corps is broken like they say the Rebs may come up in this direction!” Some of the girls began crying out loud. “These are northern women after all.”

“These are—”

“Oh shut up—go back to your command. I’m detailed to this transportation job, and I’m taking these girls to Washington with us.”

I thought they were going to hit each other but they both walked off together, and we sat wondering what we were going to do.

What happened next I don’t quite remember. The cannon were sometimes very loud and then sometimes more far away, but there was firing of shots right near us and a girl down the car had her window smashed. I heard a whole bunch of horses gallop by our windows but I still couldn’t see anything.

This went on for half an hour—gallopings and more shots. We couldn’t tell how far away but they sounded like up by the engine.

Then it got quiet and two guys came into our car—we all knew right away they were rebels, not officers, just plain private ones with guns. One had on a brown blouse and one a blue blouse and I was surprised because I thought they always wore grey. They were disgusting looking and very dirty; one had a big pot of jam he’d smeared all over his face and the other had a box of crackers.

“Hi, ladies.”

“What you gals doin’ down here?”

“Kaint you see, Steve, this is old Joe Hooker’s staff.”

“Reckin we ought to take ’em back to the General?”

They talked outlandish like that—I could hardly understand they talked so funny.

One of the girls got hysterical, she was so scared and that made them kind of shy. They were just kids I guess, under those beards, and one of them tipped his hat or whatever the old thing was:

“We’re not fixin’ to hurt you.”

At that moment there was a whole bunch more shooting down by the engine and the rebs turned and ran. We were glad I can tell you.

Then about fifteen minutes later in came one of our officers. This was another new one.

“You better duck down!” he shouted to us, “they may shell this train. We’re starting you off as soon as we load two more ambulances on board.”

Half of us was on the floor already. The rich women sitting ahead of Nell and me went up into the car ahead where the wounded were—I heard one of
them say to see if they could do anything. Nell thought she’d look in too, but she came back holding her nose—she said it smelled awful in there.

It was lucky she didn’t go in because two of the girls did try and see if they could help, but the nurses sent them right back, as if they was dirt under their feet.

After I don’t know how long the train began to move. A soldier came in and poured the oil out of all our lights except one and took it into the wounded car, so now we could hardly see at all.

If the trip down was slow the trip back was terrible. The wounded began groaning and we could hear in our car, so nobody couldn’t get a decent sleep. We stopped everywhere.

When we got in Washington at last there was a lot of people in the station and they were all anxious about what had happened to the army, but I said you can search me. All I wanted was my little old room and my little old bed. I never been treated like that in my life. One of the girls said she was going to write to President Lincoln about it.

And in the papers next day they never said anything about how our train got attacked or about us girls at all! Can you beat it?

On the seventh day of August, 1861, I was nineteen years of age. If I live to the seventh day of August this year I’ll be ninety-five years old. And the way I feel this mornin’ I intend to live. Now I guess you’ll have to admit that that’s goin’ a good ways back.

I was born up at the Forks of the Toe River in 1842. Your grandpaw, boy, was born at the same place in 1828. His father, and mine, too, Bill Pentland—your great-grandfather, boy—moved into that region way back right after the Revolutionary War and settled at the Forks of Toe. The real Indian name fer hit was Estatoe, but the white men shortened hit to Toe, and hit’s been known as Toe River ever since.

Of course hit was all Indian country in those days. I’ve heared that the Cherokees helped Bill Pentland’s father build the first house he lived in, where some of us was born. I’ve heared, too, that Bill Pentland’s grandfather came from Scotland back before the Revolution, and that thar was three brothers. That’s all the Pentland’s that I ever heared of in this country. If you ever meet a Pentland anywheres you can rest assured he’s descended from one of those three.

Well, now, as I was tellin’ you, upon the seventh day of August, 1861, I was nineteen years of age. At seven-thirty in the mornin’ of that day I started out from home and walked the whole way in to Clingman. Jim Weaver had come over from Big Hickory where he lived the night before and stayed with me. And now he
went along with me. He was the best friend I had. We had growed up alongside of each other: now we was to march alongside of each other fer many a long and weary mile—how many neither of us knowed that mornin’ when we started out.

Hit was a good twenty mile away from where we lived to Clingman, and I reckon young folks nowadays would consider twenty mile a right smart walk. But fer people in those days hit wasn’t anything at all. All of us was good walkers. Why Jim Weaver could keep goin’ without stoppin’ all day long.

Jim was big and I was little, about the way you see me now, except that I’ve shrunk up a bit, but I could keep up with him anywhere he went. We made hit into Clingman before twelve o’clock—hit was a hot day, too—and by three o’clock that afternoon we had both joined up with the Twenty-ninth. That was my regiment from then on, right on to the end of the war. Anyways, I was an enlisted man that night, the day that I was nineteen years of age, and I didn’t see my home again fer four long years.

Your Uncle Bacchus, boy, was already in Virginny: we knowed he was thar because we’d had a letter from him. He joined up right at the start with the Fourteenth. He’d already been at First Manassas and I reckon from then on he didn’t miss a big fight in Virginny fer the next four years, except after Antietam where he got wounded and was laid up fer four months.

Even way back in those days your Uncle Bacchus had those queer religious notions that you’ve heared about. The Pentlands are good people, but everyone who ever knowed ’em knows they can go queer on religion now and then. That’s the reputation that they’ve always had. And that’s the way Back was. He was a Russellite even in those days: accordin’ to his notions
the world was comin’ to an end and he was goin’ to be right in on hit when hit happened. That was the way he had hit figgered out. He was always prophesyin’ and predictin’ even back before the war, and when the war came, why Back just knowed that this was hit.

Why law! He wouldn’t have missed that war fer anything. Back didn’t go to war because he wanted to kill Yankees. He didn’t want to kill nobody. He was as tender-hearted as a baby and as brave as a lion. Some fellers told hit: on him later how they’d come on him at Gettysburg, shootin’ over a stone wall, and his rifle bar’l had got so hot he had to put hit down and rub his hands on the seat of his pants because they got so blistered. He was singin’ hymns, they said, with tears a-streamin’ down his face—that’s the way they told hit, anyway—and every time he fired he’d sing another verse. And I reckon he killed plenty because when Back had a rifle in his hands he didn’t miss.

But he was a good man. He didn’t want to hurt a fly. And I reckon the reason that he went to war was because he thought he’d be at Armageddon. That’s the way he had hit figgered out, you know. When the war came, Back said: “Well, this is hit, and I’m a-goin’ to be thar. The hour has come,” he said, “when the Lord is goin’ to set up His Kingdom here on earth and separate the sheep upon the right hand and the goats upon the left—jest like hit was predicted long ago—and I’m a-goin’ to be thar when hit happens.”

Well, we didn’t ask him which side
he
was goin’ to be on, but we all knowed which side without havin’ to ask. Back was goin’ to be on the
sheep
side—that’s the way
he
had hit figgered out. And that’s the way he had hit figgered out right up to the day of his death ten years ago. He kept prophesyin’ and predictin’ right up to the end. No matter what happened, no matter what
mistakes he made, he kept right on predictin’. First he said the war was goin’ to be the Armageddon day. And when that didn’t happen he said hit was goin’ to come along in the eighties. And when hit didn’t happen then he moved hit up to the nineties. And when the war broke out in 1914 and the whole world had to go, why Bacchus knowed that that was hit.

And no matter how hit all turned out, Back never would give in or own up he was wrong. He’d say he’d made a mistake in his figgers somers, but that he’d found out what hit was and that next time he’d be right. And that’s the way he was up to the time he died.

I had to laugh when I heared the news of his death, because of course, accordin’ to Back’s belief, after you die no thin’ happens to you fer a thousand years. You jest lay in your grave and sleep until Christ comes and wakes you up. So that’s why I had to laugh. I’d a-give anything to’ve been there the next mornin’ when Back woke up and found himself in heaven. I’d’ve give anything just to’ve seen the expression on his face. I may have to wait a bit but I’m goin’ to have some fun with him when I see him. But I’ll bet you even then he won’t give in. He’ll have some reason fer hit, he’ll try to argue he was right but that he made a little mistake about hit somers in his figgers.