GLORY II Chapter 15

Chapter 15

  Albert was awakened by the sounds of snorting horses and yelling men.  Like most everyone else, she didn't get to sleep until the heavy rains had ended around midnight.  Even then it was impossible to find a dry spot anywhere.

  Peeking out from under her bedroll she saw the silhouettes of the cavalry standing around their early morning fires, steam rising from their drying uniforms, cups of hot coffee held comfortingly in their hands.  She had been on many lengthy marches, but the last nine days had been just about the worst yet.  She'd never seen so much rain at one time and the roads were almost impassable.  Not only did the incessant rain turn the roads into soupy mud, three thousand cavalry horses in the lead did a lot of damage.  Following behind thousands of horses who churned the mud into a calf-deep quagmire was miserable work.

  At least today should prove to be better, she thought.  Camp scuttlebutt had it that most of the day they, would be crossing high ground, and the millions of stars above were proof that the weather was clearing.  It would be nice to walk in the warm sun over dry roads for a change.

  Unexpectedly, the bugler sounded 'boots and saddles,' which was picked up and passed on throughout the camp.  That was the signal for the cavalry to prepare to move out.  The men standing around the warm fires filtered away in ones and twos amid groans of protest.

  Now that she was fully awake, the discomfort of the damp wool uniform was beginning to bother her, especially the gamy smell.  Pulling her blanket around her, she stood and walked over to the still blazing fire.

  The sudden heat sent shivers of pleasure down her back and clouds of steam billowing from the wet blanket.  Dawn was breaking with small wisps of fog curling in the low ground.  While nibbling on a piece of crispy hardtack to dampen her hunger, she watched as the cavalry mounted up.  The groans of the saddle sore men and protests of the weary animals, combined with the creaking of leather and the rattling of equipment, shattered the otherwise still quiet of the early morning.  Most of the infantry she could see was still sleeping, burrowed deep into their soggy blankets or snoring from inside their hasty shebangs.  A few brave souls, like her, were up, standing around fires left by the departing horse soldiers.

  A familiar bugle call to her left slowly spread until it filled the entire camp.  It was the fast paced jumping beat of reveille being played by the Negro brigade, which had been sticking to military customs throughout the march.  Most units in the field rarely used the bugle for any action other than officers’ call or signals during engagement.  Many normal customs, which were strictly enforced in a garrison environment, were casually overlooked in the field.  But, the Negro soldiers and officers were different.  They stuck to the familiar regimentation as if they were an old-time Roman Legion, never deviating from routine.

  She could see them off in the distance scurrying from their tents like an army of busy ants while the majority of the white regiments continued their slumber.  Within minutes, they had cooking fires blazing, their tents folded and packed away, their uniforms straightened, even their brass freshly shined.

  The last time Albert had shined her brass was months ago, right before a guard inspection and the only reason she had shined it then was in hopes of being selected supernumerary.  The supernumerary was the one who stayed in the barracks as a backup, but did not have to pull guard duty.  The Negro soldiers were impressive to watch.  Very impressive.

  On the west side of the camp, Sergeant Major Hooker took his time inspecting the men of C Company.  It was his routine to pick a company at random each morning and inspect them in detail.  None of the companies knew which one would be picked; therefore, each was faced with measuring up or subject to the wrath of the Regimental Sergeant Major.

  Hooker was not necessarily looking for spit and polish; that was reserved for the garrison environment.  He concerned himself with inspecting their equipment for wear and tear, the cleanliness of their rifles, proper storage of ammunition, rotation of dry socks, torn footwear, and any other small detail that might have an impact on the soldiers’ ability to march and fight.  Any man found slacking was assigned to the worse detail available.

  The last nine days had been especially grueling and difficult.  Not only was the third brigade ordered to bring up the rear of the column, marching in mud churned deeper by the cavalry, the advanced infantry brigades, and the heavy artillery, they were detailed to insure that the 250 heavily loaded wagons made it through the axle deep mud.

  Very often the wagons would be buried up to their axles and bottomed out in the deep mire and only a supreme effort on part of the exhausted mules and men could get it moving again.  Often was the case that once freed, the very same wagon would bog down a few feet further down the road, the trailing wagons going through the same process.  It was exhausting, repetitious, and very hard work.  Most evenings, the men were too tired to even fix their meager rations.  They simply passed out as soon as relieved of duty.

  As Hooker continued down the row of men standing at rigid attention, the face of Private Selmer came into view.  Selmer knew that he was on the Sergeant Major's shit list; therefore, he went out of his way to be the best soldier in the unit.  No sense in providing the Sergeant Major with a reason to pick on him.

  Hooker looked long and with close detail at Selmer's equipment and uniform, but could find nothing that would justify placing him on punishment detail.  He took note of the small tin badge pinned to the pocket of his left breast.  Most of the men wore them with pride, some with arrogance as in the case of Private Selmer.  Stamped on the thin badge were the words, "Remember Fort Pillow."

  Although not regulation issue, there was not much Hooker could do about it, unless he placed every man in the regiment on punishment detail.  Personally, he thought they were fools for being so arrogant.  He was certain that word had already reached the enemy of their pledge to give the rebels, "no quarter," should a battle ensure.  This single-minded stupidity would only serve to infuriate the enemy and might possibly backfire on the men of the 55th and 59th.

  After dismissing the men, Hooker made his way to the brigade commander's tent.  Normally he would have reported directly to his regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Cowden, but just prior to leaving on the expedition Colonel Bouton had unofficially appointed him to the position of acting Brigade Sergeant Major.

  The colonel was in his tent being served breakfast by his orderly, a frail young black private.  Upon entering the tent, Hooker saluted and stated, "The men are ready to march, Sir."  He had to wait while the colonel took time to chew and force down a chunk of fatback.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Major.  The 55th will have responsibility for the wagon train today.  See to it that three or four men are placed with each wagon.  The 59th will follow as a rear guard behind the wagons.  Order of march will be Colonel Hoge's Illinois brigade, then Colonel Wilkin's Brigade, followed by the wagons and the 55th and 59th.  I've advised Colonel Cowden and Major Lowe to keep a sharp lookout for enemy flankers.  We're pretty deep into enemy territory now, and our intelligence concerning the whereabouts of the Confederate units is very poor.  They may be massing to hit us in force further south of here or they could very well hit us at any time without warning.  I'd prefer if you'd spend most of your time with Major Lowe and the 55th Sergeant Major."

  "Yes, Sir," Hooker replied, "will that be all, Sir?"

  Colonel Bouton looked vacantly at Hooker for a long time, obviously deep in thought before he replied.  "Are they ready Sergeant Major?" he asked his voice sincere and steady.

  Hooker knew what the Colonel was referring to and did not hesitate to answer.  "They're ready, Sir.  About as ready as they'll ever be.  They're as good as the old 54th Massachusetts ever was and a damn sight better than most of the other regiments on this expedition.  I have no doubts that they'll stand and deliver when the time comes to meet the elephant."

  Stand and deliver, Colonel Bouton thought.  Those indeed were the key words.  Stand against the fierce onslaught of an enemy assault and deliver back in full measure.  He'd seen many units break under fire earlier in the war.  Sometimes all it took was a few men hesitating while others advanced.

  "They know they're fighting for their freedom," Colonel Bouton stated the obvious.  "For their freedom and the freedom of the black race."

  "For those who fight for it, freedom has a flavor the protected will never know," Hooker replied.  "I imagine, Sir, that even the rebs can understand that."

  "Thank you, Sergeant Major," Colonel Bouton replied, presenting a dismissal salute.

  The Sergeant Major's look told him that even when this war was won, and won it would be, it would be a long and bitter struggle before the black race finally won true freedom.  Freedom, a mere word for many, was a precious thing to him.  Prejudices, intolerance, non-acceptance, would still exist, even among the white people of the north.  It would be greatly magnified in a defeated south.

  "Please send a runner over and inform Colonel McMillen and the General that the third brigade is ready to move out," he added.

  Hooker decided to deliver the message himself.  Daylight had broken and it looked to be a scorching hot day.  Already drops of sweat had begun to bead on his forehead and the first layer of dirt on the ground was already dry.  He could see both Colonel McMillen and General Sturgis sitting at a table outside the command tent, talking and eating a heavy breakfast.  Before he reached the field table, Colonel McMillen produced a hidden jug of whiskey and poured a generous dollop into both their coffee tins.  They held their mugs high then toasted each other.  Far too early in the day to be hittin' the bottle, Hooker thought, as McMillen poured another three fingers of whiskey into the now empty cups.

  "I don't know, Bill," Hooker heard the General state as he walked up.  "I have sad foreboding about this day.  Almost a premonition of bad things to come."

  "It's going to be a great day, Sam," Colonel McMillen hastily replied, downing his whiskey in one single gulp.  "Already the bright sun is rising, the sky is blue, not a cloud to be seen.  And, I'll lay you odds that Forrest and his rabble are a good fifty or more miles away.  You worry far too much, Sam."

  Hooker stood at attention near the table for five minutes before either of the senior officers paid attention to his presence.  Finally, General Sturgis turned and asked, "What do you want, Boy?"

  Boy, Hooker thought.  Boy, hell; I'm older than this white idiot.  "Third Brigade is ready to move out, Sir," he answered sharply, with a picture perfect salute and blank face.

  "Very well," Colonel McMillen replied.  "You may go now."  He did not even attempt to return Hooker's courteous salute, but instead reached again for the jug of whiskey.

  Hooker wheeled about and strode briskly from the area, the word, 'boy' still grating on his thoughts.  What more do they want or expect from us, he thought.  They expect perfection but even when we get close it's not enough, it's never enough.  The color of our skin will be held against us no matter how good we are, no matter how much blood we spill for the great cause.

  He wondered if it was all worth it, then answered the question himself.  Yes, it's a start, a small beginning towards ultimate recognition as human beings.  And, down deep, that's what it's all about, being human, being men.  Even now they look upon us as a lesser species, not much more than apes.  However, from this small start, purchased with the blood and toil of good men, perhaps a true beginning will develop.  Someday, perhaps many years in the future, the black man will stand beside his white brother and be thought of as an equal.  Different, but at least equal.

  That difference being the best of what the black culture can produce, a balance to the best that the white culture can produce:  Recognition and equality.  Maybe only a dream, he thought, but without dreams, without hope, we may as well go back under the yoke of slavery.  Why fight, why die, simply live the life of a dumb beast of burden.  No, we owe it to future generations to bear this bitter burden now so that one day our sons and daughters can bear witness to the fruits of true equality, true liberty, honest recognition.  Gettin' far too philosophical, he thought, apes ain't supposed to think on philosophy.