Echoes of Dark and Light (35 page)

The skirmish lasted all of a few minutes. Turned out that a few straggler Rebels had stumbled upon our ambush. I had to give the Rebs credit for guts, a mere handful standing up to an entire division. I don’t think I would have made the same decision.

Toby, Woody and I eased out from behind our rocky shelter to regroup with the 27
^th
, but an unusual amount of confusion seemed to be oozing though the aftermath. Instead of charging towards our predetermined offensive spot, no one seemed to be going anywhere. Soldiers wandered aimlessly into small groups, whispering and glancing around as if unsure of direction or purpose. It almost seemed as if our group had no leader.

A cold steel trap clamped down around my heart. “Toby? Where’s Captain Truckey?”

Lee’s forces arrived on June 18
^th
, and the Union lost the opportunity to break Petersburg in one grand swoop. Instead, the Army of the Potomac settled in for a siege of the city. This process, though slower and less dramatic, still had the potential to accomplish Grant’s goals.

Captain Truckey caught a musket ball in his leg. The surgeons managed to remove the bullet and he seemed to be healing. He insisted on remaining with the 27
^th
, staying involved with us as much as he could, and though he never complained, I could see the wrench of pain etched behind his eyes.

At my first opportunity I wrote a letter to Emma. She knew I would tell her honestly about her father’s condition, and I assured her that he would pull through his injury. I hated the thought of my dear friend discovering that her father had been shot, how worried she and her family would be, but other than my letter of assurance, I couldn’t do a whole heck of a lot more.

I used the brief down time to double my efforts in asking anyone and everyone about my brother. Cora helped immensely by asking patients in the hospital tent, and Toby usually came along with me as I roamed through camp and the supply wagons. We usually returned to our bedrolls frustrated and tired. It seemed as if any evidence of Robert had disappeared. Once or twice, I caught Toby studying me with a look of sympathy. But when our eyes met, he quickly turned away without a word. My spirits dragged in the dust along with my ragged boots.

It didn’t help to find Woody’s condition steadily worsening. Once or twice a day, I suggested he go to the hospital tent, yet he vehemently objected with a gleam of fear pricking his eyes. After a while, that gleam merged to annoyance, and then to anger. I quit suggesting after that; I didn’t have the heart to plague our friendship.

In the days following Captain Truckey’s injury, the First Lieutenant took over immediate command of the 27
^th
, and we took turns with the rest of the 9
^th
Corps on picket duty over looking a ravine housing the Norfolk and Petersburg Railroad. On the other side, a mere four hundred feet away, camped the Rebel army, well fortified with four guns and two infantry groups, all focused at us. Not too long passed before we started hearing rumors of the next planned attack.

“You won’t believe this,” Toby announced as he awkwardly traversed the trenches with his head and shoulders ducked well below the sights of the Rebel sharpshooters. He dropped heavily onto a log by our small fire and tugged off his dusty boots with a sigh of relief.

I handed Woody a steaming cup of mostly water with the last bit of coffee thrown in for flavor. “At this point, I think I can believe almost anything. Want some hot water and coffee dust?”

Toby grimaced, and then shrugged. “Sure, why not. The air’s too hot for drinking coffee, but I need something to wash down this dust. Hey Woody, how ya feeling?”

Woody shot him a disgruntled glare above the rim of his cup.

“That good, huh.” Toby took the cup I handed him, the worry over his friend evident in his eyes. “Anyway, I overheard a couple fellows from the 48
^th
Pennsylvania Infantry talking—”

“48
^th
? They’re part of our 9
^th
Corps, right?” I took a seat on the half-buried boulder next to Woody.

“Yeah. Turns out that back home, a bunch of them worked the coalmines for a living. They came up with a crazy idea.”

“Just what do they have in mind,” I asked with unease.

“A rather ingenious idea, if you ask me,” Toby said, pulling a handful of hardtack from his pack. “And it’s crazy enough to just maybe work. They suggested digging a mine shaft four hundred feet up the incline between the camps, dumping a load of powder right beneath their feet and blowing their camp right out of Virginia.”

Woody and I exchanged dumbfounded glances and then turned back to Toby. I didn’t say anything; I kept waiting for Toby to burst out laughing at his joke. But Toby never cracked a smile. His determined brown eyes shifted back and forth between me and Woody, waiting for a reaction.

He gave up waiting. “Pretty good idea, right?”

Once I realized he was actually serious, I turned the plan over in my mind for consideration. The plan would offer quite the surprise attack, an explosion buried right beneath their feet. Of course, success all depended on keeping the plan a secret, and just how does an army of thousands keep the excavating of a mine, the act of moving tons of dirt and rock, a deep, dark secret when stationed a mere four hundred feet away in clear view?

“Lieutenant Colonel Pleasants leads the 48
^th
, and back home he’s a mining engineer. He’s planning the whole thing, working out all of the details. We start digging tomorrow morning.”

Before I could respond, a nearby soldier fired another ramrod up the hill towards the Rebels. He and his cronies cheered and howled with laughter at the symphony of strange sounds the ramrod made flying though the air. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. They rarely hit anything, but the few seconds of entertainment helped ease the unending boredom and oppressive foreboding lurking in every crevice.

June 25
^th
dawned beautifully, or so I’d heard, with a fire-red ball of sun peeking over the horizon promising a bright, cheery day. I wished I’d seen the display. Hours before sunrise, we trudged out of our trenches to the ravine behind us. As soon as we dropped over the lip into the ravine, the Rebel camp disappeared from view. I guessed that answered part of my concerns. The mine operation wouldn’t be in clear view of the enemy; the Rebels wouldn’t see us digging. I still had my doubts, but it began to look like this Pleasants guy knew what he was doing.

Not set up for mining operations, we had to make do with what we had. We constructed makeshift wheelbarrows out of old hardtack crates and the metal hoops removed from old pork barrels. Our army picks used for digging latrines trenches that I knew so well worked decently as mine picks with a little modification. And to support the tunnel walls, we tore apart an old, nearby railroad bridge for the timbers.
Pretty innovative, eh?

The first few feet into the hillside resembled nothing more intimidating than digging holes along Lake Superior’s shorelines with my brothers way back when. But after a few hours, with the tunnel measuring five feet high, four feet wide at the bottom and two and a half feet wide at the top, the dark, dirt walls seemed to mold around me, leaving no room for breathing what little air oozed around my skin. And I shuddered down to my boots at each and every creaking timber. I did not appreciate trusting my life to the strangers installing the supports. And talk about an aching back, working stooped over in that tiny space. But I didn’t have much choice in the matter. To say the least, I started getting a bit cranky.

The 9
^th
Corps dug around the clock, but as soon as my shift ended, I quickly disappeared. I desperately needed some space, fresh air and quiet. Of course, in the midst of thousands of men, those are priceless luxuries and hard to find. But I did my best.

First I checked in on Woody. Excused from digging duties, he remained encamped in the trenches, keeping watch and firing rounds at the Rebels now and again. Though lately even that activity proved a bit too much strain for his injured arm. I brought him a refill for his water supply, and could literally feel the heat burning off his skin as I handed him the canteen. I quietly suggested yet again taking him to the hospital tent, or at least seeing Nurse Cora, but his eyes popped with fear and fire. My gut told me to toss him over my shoulder and forcibly carry him to the hospital, but my heart couldn’t bear betraying his trust. Instead I let him be and with my head down, I scrambled though the maze of trenches until breaking free into the ravine.

I focused straight ahead, refusing eye contact with anyone, feigning some important soldiering task so as to avoid being plucked up for latrine duty, or worse, manning the wasting fire. The entire landscape reeked of its odors and purpose — to burn the never-ending pile of dead soldiers.

Eventually, I managed to find a relatively quiet corner of non-trampled grasses and wildflowers. I settled down in the gently waving stalks, my back against a sturdy stump freshly cut and oozing a sticky sweet sap. Even hidden from sight in my temporary haven, the exploding mortars, screaming musket ball, and the whistling ramrods from the bored fellows, still reached my ears. I focused hard on my immediate surroundings, trying to block out the images of war a short few yards away. A few bird songs trickled into my ears and I clamped on to them. A chickadee and a crow, a white-throated sparrow, the laugh of a pileated woodpecker. My thoughts immediately zeroed back on Woody; I hadn’t heard his friendly laugh in forever. I’d assured him he’d be okay, and he desperately clung to that like a drowning sailor. Would he die because he’d trusted my words uttered for reassurance? Woody hadn’t let either Toby or I catch a glimpse of his wound for a couple days now, keeping his shirt sleeve buttoned at the wrist despite the blaring heat. But I’d felt his own heat radiating from his skin moments before. His condition hadn’t improved. I briefly wondered if Toby and I would have to forcibly drag him to the hospital tent and pin him down with our own weight so the doctors could cut off his arm. Ice cold shudders rippled though my body at the thought.

A flutter of feathers thankfully caught my attention as a lively black capped chickadee settled on a nearby sapling. She cocked her feathered head to the side, studying me. I remembered the handful of hardtack that I’d stuffed in my pocket earlier. Moving slowly, I pulled out a handful of stale crumbs, sand and lint balls. The mess looked even more unappetizing as when I’d stuck it in my pocket. I held out my palm, offering the crumbs to the bird.

As she contemplated my trustworthiness, I tried to remember the last time I’d actually had an appetite. My britches barely clung to my hips, even with the assistance of a belt. Then I tried to remember when I’d last had my cycle. Cora had told me that both stress and a lack of food could cause a cycle to skip. I wondered if Robert had enough to eat, wherever he happened to be right then.

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee.” The bird casually conversed, studying my offering.

I wondered if maybe Robert didn’t need food anymore…

Hot tears blurred my vision, but I fought them, staring hard at the smoky horizon. Maybe I had been a fool all along, believing Robert to be alive amidst all of this complete horror. So many dead, so many suffering.
What made Robert any more talented or special than the others? Why would he have survived when so many had not? So what the heck am I doing here?