GLORY II Chapter 21

Chapter 21

  Private Selmer cursed as he pulled the thick splinter of wood from the palm of his hand.  His hands were red and blistered from pulling and pushing the heavy wagon wheels through the axle deep mud.  The work had been some of the hardest he'd ever done.  Even as a slave he couldn't remember such hard physical labor.

  The regiment was camped along a hillside with the long wagon train loaded with supplies going back as far as the eye could see.  They had been pulling and dragging the damn wagons through every swamp and up every hill in the hot, sticky, rainy, horrible state of Mississippi for nine days, while the white boys smiled at them and threw nasty signals in their direction.

  At least the morning had started out well.  The cavalry had left early and they had been issued five days’ rations last evening.  The rations were welcomed after the starvation diet they had been receiving.  Their brigade commander, Colonel Bouton had issued strict orders against living off the land and their regimental commander, Colonel Cowden had been enforcing that command to the letter.

  "The other units may break the rule," Colonel Cowden had remarked to them in formation, "but the 59th will not do so.  We will show these white units how the United States Colored Infantry can maintain discipline."

  Plus, that damn Sergeant Major Hooker had hung around them like a mother hen, or more like a buzzard, watching their every move.  Even so, several white civilians had accused the men of the 55th of stealing food and even some valuables.  One old bag, the sister of some confederate general, had gone so far as to accuse them of buggy whipping her man friend.

  "Even when you're the best of the best you're still a nigger," Selmer bitterly remarked to several friends sitting around the cooking fire.

  "Yeah, what for we gets stuck with these here heavy wagons every day?" Private Johnson remarked.  "Why don't the white soldiers have to take they's turn?"

  "Cause they got niggers to do the hard work for them," Private Melton answered.

  "I didn't join this here army to be no nigger slave," Johnson returned.  "I joined to fight these sesh what's been keeping my peoples in bondage."

  "You ain't joined shit," Selmer grunted, spitting in the fire.  "They drug your black ass out of the woods in Mississippi and forced you into that pretty blue suit.  They's just like the Rebs, gonna make you haul their wagons and carry their baggage until you drop, an when it comes time for the fightin’ they ain't gonna let you nowheres near."

  "But you was with the 54th and you gots to fight," Johnson spat back.

  "We fought.  And we died.  We died by the hundreds, cut down like wheat with a blade.

  "But you fought and you died like men."

  "Like men," Selmer whispered, remembering the steep ramparts of Fort Wagner, the bodies sliding back down the sandy slopes like sacks of grain.  He remembered lying in a ditch, the muddy water turned red from the blood of his friends, another friend sitting next to him with his guts hanging out.  The idiot kept playing with his own shredded intestines like they were strings of sausages, the smell putrid enough to gag Selmer.  When the man stood up from shock to look for his rifle, his head was blown apart like a ripe watermelon, showering Selmer with blood, brains, and pieces of bloody flesh.  From fear and desperation Selmer had hit himself in the head with his own rifle as hard as he could, finding peace and safety in unconsciousness.  Afterward, when he awoke from the nightmare, Rebs were hauling the bodies away for mass burial.

  Hidden by a tall sand dune, Selmer had managed to crawl away without being seen.  The few survivors of the 54th were happy to see him and gave him a hero’s welcome on his return.  In his mind, he felt he did the right thing.  The fools were rushing into a bloody meat grinder, Hooker leading the charge right behind Colonel Shaw.  How Hooker had survived he never knew nor asked.  The important thing was no one questioned his story of being hit with shrapnel blown at him from an artillery round exploding nearby.  He was hailed as a hero, and he accepted the offerings.

  They had made him a sergeant and Hooker had patted him on the back and welcomed him to the Noncommissioned Officers Corps.  At that time, he felt like he was on top of the world.  When the offer came to go out to the western theater of operations and help form a new colored regiment, he had eagerly accepted the opportunity.  But, when he discovered he was to be treated like the rest of the coloreds, he at first felt disappointment, then bitterness, followed by anger and hatred with anything white.  Sure, the white officers appointed over them were for the most part considerate and kind, but he could tell beneath their false mask of kindness they thought of him as less than human, more like a trained ape.

  "I reckon if these white commanders’ keeps up their boozing we're gonna fight," Melton said, cutting into his thoughts.

  "They couldn't pour piss out of a boot," Johnson spat, playing with the tin badge on his jacket that read, "Remember Fort Pillow."  "Colonel Cowden now, he be the man.  He gonna teach these here generals and colonels what fightin' is."

Before Selmer could think of a response, their company sergeant walked up and told them to prepare for inspection, which meant they would be moving out shortly thereafter.

  "We gonna get the front of the column today, Sergeant," Melton asked?

  "55th has the wagons and we have the rear end of the train," Sergeant Jackson replied.  "Now shake a leg, Captain Foster will be here in ten minutes for inspection."

  "Jus' like a nigger to bring up the rear," Selmer said, implying that Jackson was the trained nigger.  "Whatever masser says we does."

  "One of these days that mouth of yours is gonna get you killed," Sergeant Jackson came back, "and not by no white man."

  "You gonna do the killin’?"

  Sergeant Jackson did not reply to the baited question but gave Selmer a long hard stare before turning and walking away.

  "Nigger be scared of me," Selmer barked to his friends, pausing to throw the grounds from his coffee cup into the dying fire.  As he did, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.  Squinting hard and standing rock steady he gazed into the thick underbrush.  On the side of the hill across from where they were camped were several horsemen sitting on their mounts observing the goings on in their camp.  "We got company," he said, nodding his head towards the horsemen.

  The men stopped preparing their gear and stood staring at the hillside.  "I see um," Melton replied, "six maybe seven Rebs."

  "Go get the Captain," Selmer ordered.

  Captain Foster scanned the hillside with an old pair of field glasses he'd found after the cavalry had pulled out one morning.  There was more than one group of riders hidden among the thickets.  He counted at least four different groups.  Most were dressed in butternut with a few wearing ragged gray hats cut in Sheridan style.

  "There's more to the left," he remarked, scanning further along the wood line, "at least a company or better.  Keep a close eye; I'll report this to Colonel Cowden.  They may be planning a rush on the train."

  "That's Reb cavalry," Selmer remarked, "odds are there's a lot more waiting where they came from."

  "Reckon I could hit one of those sesh scum from here?" asked Johnson, leaning his rifle barrel against a small tree and taking aim at one of the distant horsemen.

  "You're ‘bout the worst shot in the regiment," Melton chuckled, "you be lucky to hit the hillside."

  Seconds later the big .58 caliber rifle went off, shattering the silence of the early morning camp.  A flock of blackbirds lifted up, startled by the unexpected noise, and flew off in a wild panic.  Heads throughout the camp turned in the direction of the gunshot.  A Confederate cavalryman on the far slope stood up in his saddle and sent a rude gesture in their direction; another cavalryman pulled his own rifle free from its holster and fired a shot back at the brazen Yankee, his round striking in the fire pit and sending a shower of ashes and black dust into the air.

  "Enough!" yelled Sergeant Major Hooker, pulling the rifle barrel down from another soldier who had been preparing to fire back at the Confederates.  "Those men are scouts and they're a good three hundred yards off.  Don't waste any more ammunition; you've already gotten the camp in an uproar as it is."

  "Just doin’ our job," Selmer snippily remarked.  "Tryin’ to kill Rebel trash.  That's what we're here for ain't it?  Or is we here to carry baggage for the white soldiers?"

  Without replying Hooker pointed a finger at Private Johnson.  "Take this dispatch to Colonel McMillen and come right back," he ordered.  "The rest of you form up for company inspection, on the double."