In preperation of a research day at the Wisconsin Historical Society, I was playing around on their website and found some amazing electronic primary materials on Wisconsin in the Civil War. From how the 8th got its Eagle to humor, the link below has some wonderful pieces for your pleasure. Enjoy.
NOTE: Summer school ends Friday as does my time in front of a computer until school starts again. With that said, my posts will slow even more until school starts again and I want to play academic again.
http://www.wisconsinhistory.org/civilwar/stories/
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Another story
Since it's summer and I am outside more than in, very little research fills my time. With that said, I offer a short story I wrote a bit ago. The premise, cheesy as it may be, focuses on a small Virginia clearing in April of 1865. Two sides meet and share one last truce. I enjoyed writing it. I hope you find some value in it. Enjoy.
A CLEARING IN THE WOODS
By
Steve Acker
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. Grassy and green it is self-sufficient and removed from all that surrounds it. The forest protects the clearing from intrusions. Sure there is the deer trail through the thicket and the hoof prints at the stream’s edge, but not the steady stream of passing life that a valley or plain endures. The big difference between a clearing and a plain is, besides the size, the intrusion of man. Man, that creature who takes more than he leaves and always leaves what isn’t wanted.
April 5th, 1865 Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia is in full retreat. After a bloody 10-month siege outside Petersburg, they are running from an enemy five times their size and determined to make up for past losses. Like an animal smelling blood the Army of the Potomac is out to kill the Army of Northern Virginia.
Along a deer trail barely perceptible to anyone not accustomed to the nuances of the forest, 18 gray clad soldiers drag themselves along. Where once there stood 100 men in the company now one officer, one sergeant, one corporal and 15 men are all that remain. Those not present lay buried under the battlefields of Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, Wilderness and Petersburg, or work their farms as best they can, less an arm, leg or eye. The Lieutenant, the last officer alive and man not up to the challenge of his position, has been charged with the protection of the army’s flank, or at least a clearing’s worth of the flank. Somewhere in the forest is a clearing he must secure in the “name of the Confederacy, for the survival of the army.”
Small darts of light poke through the canopy of ash, oak and maple while ahead the darkness of the trail opens up to the sun. Bold and bright it shines. At the edge of the clearing a corporal takes a knee. Raising his right hand, he motions for the column to halt. This clearing, nothing special as far as uniqueness, is bordered on one side by a stream. High banked and slippery the sides give way to a small mudflat where the busy brown water leaks out a bit. Here is a natural ford where legged animals can drink and cross over to the other side.
The corporal’s pendulum eyes search for signs of blue in the forest of green and wood. A look across the clearing the trail continues as a slightly worn line in the tall grass. 30 yards beyond the forest begins again with the trail paralleling the stream.
“Corporal, see anything?” the lieutenant kneels next to the corporal.
“Nothin so fer. Don’t mean they aint ther though.”
Sergeant Clay Hendricks arrives with the rest of the boys. Dirty and threadbare, their jean cloth uniforms are a grayish mess of stains, patches and tears. Only the sergeant stands out thanks to his jacket, issued just a month before the retreat. Of a once deep bluish gray wool, English made and much finer than the drab jean the men call a uniform he’s often teased for sportin such find duds. The vibrance has already faded.
“Hendricks, take six men round this clearing and spread em out along that side of the stream. Go about 10 feet per man. Make sure you…”
“Have them work as skirmish partners. One works with the other. Got it sir.” The sergeant knows the drill and enjoys reminding the lieutenant of the fact.
“That’s right sergeant. Place yourself in the center and back so I can see you from this side of the clearing. Got it.”
Taking his detail the sergeant skirts the edge of the clearing making sure to keep a bit of forest between his men and the other side of the stream. Quietly Hendricks places the men according to the rules of skirmish drill. Once placed, they prepare the defense. While one man scans the opposite bank his partner clears branches, dirt and rock, anything that will keep him from the lowest possible elevation once the shooting starts. Using bayonet, plate or cup, he notches out a spot for himself along the bank. Once he’s done, his partner clears himself a bit of safety.
Once the men are dug in, except for the sergeant as ordered, the men informally relax. Danger is an intuitive feeling that, after years of facing, is recognizable when present or absent. Sleep, the lover of every soldier, comes fast to the men. Only the sergeant stays awake. Most of these boys had been his students, a role Mr. Hendricks hasn’t quite relinquished. Let em sleep; I’ll keep the watch.
Leaning against a rotted stump on the edge of the clearing. He wiggles his bare feet that rest just in the sun. He admires the toughness of his feet. They haven’t seen shoes of any sort for weeks and except for some blood crusted scratches his feet haven’t failed him. Clay smiles as he remembers the fine boots he bought in the spring of 61. Rich and subtle, certainly proof that Mr. Hendricks, teacher, was overpaid and extravagant in his stylings. They’d probably hurt my feet now.
A deer when moving in the forest is nearly silent. A man who is careful, much noisier. A lieutenant in a rage, well, that’s a noise heard round the world.
“What the hell are you doing? Wake these men up damn it.”
“Your yelling did that for me.”
The men stir heavy eyed.
“What would have happened if the Yanks would have attacked?”
“Mind if we set a fire. Cook up some rations?”
“Shit no you idiot. You wanna let the Yanks know we’re here?”
The private closest to them chuckles. Clay sits up. Peering across the stream, he yells,” Hey Yank do you know we’re here?”
“Yea Reb, we know you’re there,” comes a voice from somewhere on the other side of the stream.
“Gonna shoot us?” asks a now awake private.
“Na, not worth the lead. Besides we could have done that when you first arrived.”
“Lieutenant, can we set a fire and cook some rations?”
“Bastard. Set your fire. I’m going back to regiment to tell them we have federals in our front. You know what to do here.”
Both men smile. One because he’s been schooled the other because he taught the lesson.
A picket line is a non-lethal weapon of war when run by common soldiers. Some say killing a man on picket just isn’t right. Killing is for the big battles most folks say. In the clearing there stands a truce between men. Hendricks’ men busy themselves starting a fire, crushing parched corn in preparation for making Southern coffee or returning to their dreams. Across the creek blue forms come out from behind trees and brush to start their own fire. Digging through his haversack, Clay finds a piece of salt pork about the size of a man’s thumb. Foul smelling and black with disgust, the meat bears no resemblance to fresh pork. A man can eat just about anything if he’s hungry enough. At Cold Harbor some of the men ate hardtack taken from the blood-soaked haversacks of the Yankees killed that day. Those rations issued by the Confederate army more often than not consisted of moldy corn meal and blue beef or salted pork near rotted and most certainly wormy. This piece of meat went beyond that. Hungry.
Looking over to the stream, Clay pulls his pocketknife out. Using his thigh for a cutting board, he carefully slices off about a third of the meat. The remainder he places back in his haversack just in case the conditions make it more appetizing. From his knapsack he pulls out a length of string and a fishhook. Placing the meat on the hook and a piece of lead (once part of a bullet) about three inches from the hook, he takes another look at the stream. A picket line in truce certainly is safer than the fields of Gettysburg, but a man should never tempt fate by moving around too much. Many a man has fallen because he made himself a target, ‘too easy to pass up.’ With a deep breath Clay rises up to a half crouch. With an exhale he stands himself up as tall and comfortable as he can. By pretending there isn’t any danger he figures he’ll avoid it. He takes a step toward the stream bank. Click. He stops. Another step. Another click.
“ What ya doing Reb?”
“Gonna do some fishin,” he says as he steps into the clearing and to the ford deer so often frequented before man arrived at the clearing.
A third click. The musket is back on safety.
Stopping just short of the bank, Clay feels the mud ooze up around his toes. It feels cool. He likes it. Taking a twig about the size of his index finger, he begins to tie it to the string.
“ Better set your line ‘bout four feet Reb.”
“Four feet, why’s that?”
“Four feet will do you fine.”
Clay places the twig accordingly. Aiming for a small eddy made by a fallen tree, he tosses out the line. Arm extended he manipulates his line until it sits about half way across the stream right in the swirl.
“Not likely to catch much in this water. Too muddy.” His eyes follow the water, “Must have rained somewhere upstream.”
“My haversack told me to give er a try. Besides if you saw my bait you’d realize how little the muddy water’ll impact my chances of catchin dinner.”
From behind a tree not 10 feet from the stream a federal soldier emerges. His dark blue sack coat shows signs of hard campaigning and his sky blue pants are torn at the knee and around both ankles. He certainly looks as beat down as the fellas on the Confederate side of the stream. Sitting down the federal pulls his pipe and starts a smoke.
“Got yourself some tobacco. Tradition says, we’re supposed to trade our Virginia tobacco for the real coffee you boys always have in abundance.”
“No need to trade. We got our fill when we took Richmond.”
“Took more than that.”
A long silent moment follows. There isn’t the tension of enemies bitter or of a fight near lost. Both men are silent because there isn’t much else to say. It was a good fight and now it was nearly over.
“You know we’re coming in the morning.” He points to the clearing. “Right through here.”
“Figured as much when you told me how deep to set my line. But that’s no military secret. That’s why we’re here, to let the brigade know when you come over.”
The federal soldier takes a long contemplative draw from his pipe. He looks at the sergeant then to the others sleeping, cooking, living in the clearing. Looking over his shoulder he sees men in blue, men in blue living like the men in gray. Taking his haversack off, he feels the weight of three days rations and fresh coffee.
“ Here Reb.” With a toss he sends his haversack to the fisherman. “Good night Reb.”
“See ya in the morning Yank,” the sergeant offws all he has, a thank you. That night a sergeant sleeps without hunger pains.
The sun begins its pinkish orange rise. The campfire offers its last hints of life as it smolders in its ash white heap. Charred remnants of sticks and twigs surround the ash, a reminder of what fed the fire. A charred reminder of man’s visit to the clearing. Across the stream, movement earlier in the morning alerted the 18 Confederate soldiers in the clearing. The lieutenant, returned from regiment, pulls his revolver from the holster and checks the loads. The click turn of the cylinder is in silent chorus with the men checking their loaded muskets. The sergeant is the first to fix his bayonet. This one would be close and personal.
From the other side of the clearing the Lieutenant’s voice breaks the silence, “Sergeant move down to the center of your line. I’ll take this side. We’ll retreat slowly making sure to keep a fire on them. Make sure the men work together, keeping one man loaded and the other…”
“Firing just like in skirmish drill.”
Both men smile.
Putting the federal haversack over his shoulder, he rises ever so slightly from the stump so he can move to the center of his line. Across the creek a federal spies a gray cap on the edge of the green clearing. A musket fires from the federal side of the creek. Then another then another, soon an entire regiment of muskets roars fire into the Confederate side of the stream. The ragged response tells of a company that in 1861 had 100 men. Now 17 men fire, surrender and run as hordes of federals cross a creek, barely four feet deep, and pursue beyond the clearing and into the woods. Soon the clearing is silent. The Union Army of the Potomac is again chasing and the Army of Northern Virginia is running again. Six days later the Army of Northern Virginia surrenders.
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. In the tall grass of the clearing a sergeant of the Confederate army lies, his left arm unnaturally placed over his head, the result of a federal getting his haversack back.
A CLEARING IN THE WOODS
By
Steve Acker
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. Grassy and green it is self-sufficient and removed from all that surrounds it. The forest protects the clearing from intrusions. Sure there is the deer trail through the thicket and the hoof prints at the stream’s edge, but not the steady stream of passing life that a valley or plain endures. The big difference between a clearing and a plain is, besides the size, the intrusion of man. Man, that creature who takes more than he leaves and always leaves what isn’t wanted.
April 5th, 1865 Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia is in full retreat. After a bloody 10-month siege outside Petersburg, they are running from an enemy five times their size and determined to make up for past losses. Like an animal smelling blood the Army of the Potomac is out to kill the Army of Northern Virginia.
Along a deer trail barely perceptible to anyone not accustomed to the nuances of the forest, 18 gray clad soldiers drag themselves along. Where once there stood 100 men in the company now one officer, one sergeant, one corporal and 15 men are all that remain. Those not present lay buried under the battlefields of Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, Wilderness and Petersburg, or work their farms as best they can, less an arm, leg or eye. The Lieutenant, the last officer alive and man not up to the challenge of his position, has been charged with the protection of the army’s flank, or at least a clearing’s worth of the flank. Somewhere in the forest is a clearing he must secure in the “name of the Confederacy, for the survival of the army.”
Small darts of light poke through the canopy of ash, oak and maple while ahead the darkness of the trail opens up to the sun. Bold and bright it shines. At the edge of the clearing a corporal takes a knee. Raising his right hand, he motions for the column to halt. This clearing, nothing special as far as uniqueness, is bordered on one side by a stream. High banked and slippery the sides give way to a small mudflat where the busy brown water leaks out a bit. Here is a natural ford where legged animals can drink and cross over to the other side.
The corporal’s pendulum eyes search for signs of blue in the forest of green and wood. A look across the clearing the trail continues as a slightly worn line in the tall grass. 30 yards beyond the forest begins again with the trail paralleling the stream.
“Corporal, see anything?” the lieutenant kneels next to the corporal.
“Nothin so fer. Don’t mean they aint ther though.”
Sergeant Clay Hendricks arrives with the rest of the boys. Dirty and threadbare, their jean cloth uniforms are a grayish mess of stains, patches and tears. Only the sergeant stands out thanks to his jacket, issued just a month before the retreat. Of a once deep bluish gray wool, English made and much finer than the drab jean the men call a uniform he’s often teased for sportin such find duds. The vibrance has already faded.
“Hendricks, take six men round this clearing and spread em out along that side of the stream. Go about 10 feet per man. Make sure you…”
“Have them work as skirmish partners. One works with the other. Got it sir.” The sergeant knows the drill and enjoys reminding the lieutenant of the fact.
“That’s right sergeant. Place yourself in the center and back so I can see you from this side of the clearing. Got it.”
Taking his detail the sergeant skirts the edge of the clearing making sure to keep a bit of forest between his men and the other side of the stream. Quietly Hendricks places the men according to the rules of skirmish drill. Once placed, they prepare the defense. While one man scans the opposite bank his partner clears branches, dirt and rock, anything that will keep him from the lowest possible elevation once the shooting starts. Using bayonet, plate or cup, he notches out a spot for himself along the bank. Once he’s done, his partner clears himself a bit of safety.
Once the men are dug in, except for the sergeant as ordered, the men informally relax. Danger is an intuitive feeling that, after years of facing, is recognizable when present or absent. Sleep, the lover of every soldier, comes fast to the men. Only the sergeant stays awake. Most of these boys had been his students, a role Mr. Hendricks hasn’t quite relinquished. Let em sleep; I’ll keep the watch.
Leaning against a rotted stump on the edge of the clearing. He wiggles his bare feet that rest just in the sun. He admires the toughness of his feet. They haven’t seen shoes of any sort for weeks and except for some blood crusted scratches his feet haven’t failed him. Clay smiles as he remembers the fine boots he bought in the spring of 61. Rich and subtle, certainly proof that Mr. Hendricks, teacher, was overpaid and extravagant in his stylings. They’d probably hurt my feet now.
A deer when moving in the forest is nearly silent. A man who is careful, much noisier. A lieutenant in a rage, well, that’s a noise heard round the world.
“What the hell are you doing? Wake these men up damn it.”
“Your yelling did that for me.”
The men stir heavy eyed.
“What would have happened if the Yanks would have attacked?”
“Mind if we set a fire. Cook up some rations?”
“Shit no you idiot. You wanna let the Yanks know we’re here?”
The private closest to them chuckles. Clay sits up. Peering across the stream, he yells,” Hey Yank do you know we’re here?”
“Yea Reb, we know you’re there,” comes a voice from somewhere on the other side of the stream.
“Gonna shoot us?” asks a now awake private.
“Na, not worth the lead. Besides we could have done that when you first arrived.”
“Lieutenant, can we set a fire and cook some rations?”
“Bastard. Set your fire. I’m going back to regiment to tell them we have federals in our front. You know what to do here.”
Both men smile. One because he’s been schooled the other because he taught the lesson.
A picket line is a non-lethal weapon of war when run by common soldiers. Some say killing a man on picket just isn’t right. Killing is for the big battles most folks say. In the clearing there stands a truce between men. Hendricks’ men busy themselves starting a fire, crushing parched corn in preparation for making Southern coffee or returning to their dreams. Across the creek blue forms come out from behind trees and brush to start their own fire. Digging through his haversack, Clay finds a piece of salt pork about the size of a man’s thumb. Foul smelling and black with disgust, the meat bears no resemblance to fresh pork. A man can eat just about anything if he’s hungry enough. At Cold Harbor some of the men ate hardtack taken from the blood-soaked haversacks of the Yankees killed that day. Those rations issued by the Confederate army more often than not consisted of moldy corn meal and blue beef or salted pork near rotted and most certainly wormy. This piece of meat went beyond that. Hungry.
Looking over to the stream, Clay pulls his pocketknife out. Using his thigh for a cutting board, he carefully slices off about a third of the meat. The remainder he places back in his haversack just in case the conditions make it more appetizing. From his knapsack he pulls out a length of string and a fishhook. Placing the meat on the hook and a piece of lead (once part of a bullet) about three inches from the hook, he takes another look at the stream. A picket line in truce certainly is safer than the fields of Gettysburg, but a man should never tempt fate by moving around too much. Many a man has fallen because he made himself a target, ‘too easy to pass up.’ With a deep breath Clay rises up to a half crouch. With an exhale he stands himself up as tall and comfortable as he can. By pretending there isn’t any danger he figures he’ll avoid it. He takes a step toward the stream bank. Click. He stops. Another step. Another click.
“ What ya doing Reb?”
“Gonna do some fishin,” he says as he steps into the clearing and to the ford deer so often frequented before man arrived at the clearing.
A third click. The musket is back on safety.
Stopping just short of the bank, Clay feels the mud ooze up around his toes. It feels cool. He likes it. Taking a twig about the size of his index finger, he begins to tie it to the string.
“ Better set your line ‘bout four feet Reb.”
“Four feet, why’s that?”
“Four feet will do you fine.”
Clay places the twig accordingly. Aiming for a small eddy made by a fallen tree, he tosses out the line. Arm extended he manipulates his line until it sits about half way across the stream right in the swirl.
“Not likely to catch much in this water. Too muddy.” His eyes follow the water, “Must have rained somewhere upstream.”
“My haversack told me to give er a try. Besides if you saw my bait you’d realize how little the muddy water’ll impact my chances of catchin dinner.”
From behind a tree not 10 feet from the stream a federal soldier emerges. His dark blue sack coat shows signs of hard campaigning and his sky blue pants are torn at the knee and around both ankles. He certainly looks as beat down as the fellas on the Confederate side of the stream. Sitting down the federal pulls his pipe and starts a smoke.
“Got yourself some tobacco. Tradition says, we’re supposed to trade our Virginia tobacco for the real coffee you boys always have in abundance.”
“No need to trade. We got our fill when we took Richmond.”
“Took more than that.”
A long silent moment follows. There isn’t the tension of enemies bitter or of a fight near lost. Both men are silent because there isn’t much else to say. It was a good fight and now it was nearly over.
“You know we’re coming in the morning.” He points to the clearing. “Right through here.”
“Figured as much when you told me how deep to set my line. But that’s no military secret. That’s why we’re here, to let the brigade know when you come over.”
The federal soldier takes a long contemplative draw from his pipe. He looks at the sergeant then to the others sleeping, cooking, living in the clearing. Looking over his shoulder he sees men in blue, men in blue living like the men in gray. Taking his haversack off, he feels the weight of three days rations and fresh coffee.
“ Here Reb.” With a toss he sends his haversack to the fisherman. “Good night Reb.”
“See ya in the morning Yank,” the sergeant offws all he has, a thank you. That night a sergeant sleeps without hunger pains.
The sun begins its pinkish orange rise. The campfire offers its last hints of life as it smolders in its ash white heap. Charred remnants of sticks and twigs surround the ash, a reminder of what fed the fire. A charred reminder of man’s visit to the clearing. Across the stream, movement earlier in the morning alerted the 18 Confederate soldiers in the clearing. The lieutenant, returned from regiment, pulls his revolver from the holster and checks the loads. The click turn of the cylinder is in silent chorus with the men checking their loaded muskets. The sergeant is the first to fix his bayonet. This one would be close and personal.
From the other side of the clearing the Lieutenant’s voice breaks the silence, “Sergeant move down to the center of your line. I’ll take this side. We’ll retreat slowly making sure to keep a fire on them. Make sure the men work together, keeping one man loaded and the other…”
“Firing just like in skirmish drill.”
Both men smile.
Putting the federal haversack over his shoulder, he rises ever so slightly from the stump so he can move to the center of his line. Across the creek a federal spies a gray cap on the edge of the green clearing. A musket fires from the federal side of the creek. Then another then another, soon an entire regiment of muskets roars fire into the Confederate side of the stream. The ragged response tells of a company that in 1861 had 100 men. Now 17 men fire, surrender and run as hordes of federals cross a creek, barely four feet deep, and pursue beyond the clearing and into the woods. Soon the clearing is silent. The Union Army of the Potomac is again chasing and the Army of Northern Virginia is running again. Six days later the Army of Northern Virginia surrenders.
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. In the tall grass of the clearing a sergeant of the Confederate army lies, his left arm unnaturally placed over his head, the result of a federal getting his haversack back.
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