Chapter Thirty Two: Bloodshed on the Battlefield

March 8, 1862

William Farragut sighed as several shots rang out. Having been rerouted on a simple frigate - in a rather pathetic and desperate attempt to disguise him as he sailed nearer to Virginia - he found himself without any way to command and, frankly, was becoming quite bored. Even as the opening shots had commenced some hours earlier, the day was still cool and more or less calm on the roadstead. Two ironclad ships, it appeared, had engaged in combat some hours earlier.

Personally, William had heard of ironclads before: he had read about the first ironclad ship to ever sail the seas in 1859 - a French ironclad by the name of the Gloire. Of course, it was never actually in significant combat. But this battle unfolding before him - between the Monitor and the Merrimack, or something - he had hoped would be exciting: the first time ironclads ever faced each other on the waters.

Unfortunately, the battle was boring at best. The two ships seemed to be reluctant to sink the other - not due to any lack of effort (well, perhaps a little), but more so due to the fact that both ships seemed to refuse to sink. In fact, the less-attractive conflicts between traditional, wooden vessels and shore batteries seemed far more amusing.

Right at that moment, as William sat aboard the command deck and sighed again, he rolled his head over and spied another Union frigate advancing upon a Confederate wooden warship. He turned to the captain of the vessel - an older man with a beard and black hair that was turning grey with age - and cleared his throat.

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?” He reasoned, somewhat reluctantly. “Send us to that ship over there.”

Early Morning, April 7, 1862

Trekking through through forest and grasslands - copse after copse - in the dark. Occasionally, lanterns and campfires would break through the haze, and here and there were solitary wooden buildings from which light would glow. Hundreds of people bustled about through the darkness. Back in town, William Jr. witnessed doctors running to and fro between houses, across the streets, their hands and aprons smeared in blood. Walking wounded came in droves. Men had gashes upon them, bullet wounds, and even missing limbs. Some clung to one another, some sobbed, and some were silent and alone, and simply looked sullen. Still, the most-shocking ones were those that were horribly wounded - like one man, who had a gigantic burn along his entire-right abdomen, so severe that even part of his large intestine was showing - and yet, they did nothing. That man simply sat calmly, smoking a cigarette, against the wooden wall of some shop or another. He seemed not in the least bothered - or even aware of - his wound.

“He’ll be dead, that one,” Gover - an Irish immigrant, with a very peculiar nickname, who was serving in the Union military - stated. “If they can’t feel the pain, it means that the wound is too great.” William had been ushered through training so swiftly that he felt inadequate to fight. He was moved around in Virginia, and then to Tennessee, and saw no action whatsoever. In truth, it relieved him more than he felt bored: he had not actually wanted to fight, or leave his wife, Anna, for that matter, but he felt obliged to fight.

Now, however, with the Union forces being absolutely slaughtered at Shiloh, reinforcements were called in. In a desperate attempt to garner enough federal troops to oppose the Confederates, companies and platoons were rearranged, and William - an upper-class private just short of a lance-corporal - was swiftly introduced into an Irish company. Most of them were the sons of poor immigrants, or immigrants themselves: new to the United States, mostly, and in need of a paying job. Foolishly, they had seemed to have chosen the army.

Within hours of being relocated, William had befriended the man who marched by his side: a short, brown-haired Irishman with a stubbled chin, age nineteen, who went by the name of Gover McFain. But their conversations were anything but lighthearted, in the traditional sense. In some way, William found himself ready to laugh at just about anything, merely as a result of the tension of the situation. By the time they had reached the front lines, he was nearly hysterical with nervous laughter.

But then the sounds of gunshots and artillery came into earshot. Along the ground, beside and within each dark copse, by the light of lantern, he witnessed hundreds of dead and dying on both sides. Some had their organs hanging out of their abdomens. Others were simply shot. Shining blood and the lustrous silver of discarded rifles reflected a Hellish yellow glow given off by the lanterns of the soldiers around them.

William’s heart pounded, and he suddenly wanted to cry. Screams and shots that rang even nearly a mile off suddenly seemed deafening. William glanced around him nervously. In the yellow glow of the lantern, he felt pressed in and consumed by the men around him: he saw the backs of blue uniforms, and heads with black, brown, red and blond hair. Most of them Irish, but so many different colors of hair…Such diversity in the beauty of hair color: all of them in blue coats, and all of them about to die.

The yellow light reflected eerily off of the gleaming ends of wooden-stocked rifles, hoisted over the men’s soldiers or cradled in their arms, clanking and rubbing against their other supplies. William wanted to melt into his uniform - the night seemed hot, though it was actually quite cool. The lanterns created crude shadow effects around them.

“Look at that bloke,” Gover pointed in his heavy Irish accent, with an eerie chuckle, to a Confederate soldier who lay dead - no, dying! His lungs were expanding and contracting! - on the ground with his organs all lying neatly on display, but still technically attached to him. “What a profound display of human anatomy!” William swallowed and looked back to Gover: the shadow of the lantern was cast over his face. His one eye - the one in the lantern light - seemed to reflect the fires of Hell itself, and the other side of his face - the side that was in shadow - seemed drenched in blood. William looked around him: all the men were covered in blood! Smeared in blood everywhere there was shadow! He looked down at his own hands: blood. Blood, blood, blood!

He was going to die that night, he was sure of it. Somewhere, a man began moaning, but still, the sound of boots on mud created such a rhythmic tune of death on parade. The moaning didn’t stop. The man simply would moan, and then take in a breath, and moan again, and yet he marched on. William knew deep down that he would never again see the light of day. He would never see his wife. He would never see his family. He wanted to cry out: “Oh, God, why am I here?” But tears choked him. He could do nothing but march on.

Here and there a wounded man would groan for help - men on both sides…They were ignored: William, the Irish, and the officers minds’ were all somewhere far away from that battle, too far away to comfort those who lingered somewhere between life and death. William was convinced that he fell into that category. He did not feel alive, he felt dead, even - he knew he was already dead; he must be - but he wasn’t.

Finally, as the light of dawn came up over the horizon, and the company exited another copse, William strained to glimpse the grassland hiding behind the backs of the men in front of him. Just as the Sun spilled its muffled, golden, Hellish rays over the foggy battlefield - swept by smoke, smog, and haze - the landscape came into view.

All at once, William felt as if a chorus of singers were boasting their impressive song of strength and valor in his head - it was deafening! He wanted to shrink further into his military jacket, and hide way. The moaning man was still moaning, but was farther off now. As the soldiers spread out; and the day seemed to suddenly brighten in a terrifying, eerie fog; and as the smell of gunpowder and smoke - and the horrible scent of blood and gore spilling out into open nature than cannot be described - grew to an intensity that William had never before experienced…It all came to a head, and he saw the field before him littered with dead and dying men, blood, dead horses, wrecked cannons, scattered bits of abandoned and ruined supplies…It seemed…Glorious. No other word could describe it. It were as if Ares himself had been there to compose the perfect scene.

At the far end of the field, the smoke of the rifles and cannons of the Confederate forces rang out in pops and bangs - for each dozen little cracks, it appeared as if there were one low boom. The smoke created a scene that hid them well, and muffled the rays of the sun behind white and grey haze and the morning fog. Before them…A field of corpses. William wanted to melt into his boots, but he had no time, for the captain was already standing before the company, his pistol in hand, with the flag-bearing private behind him.

“Company!” He began proudly, cupping his hand around his stubble-marked face. “Charge!” And as if the enemy were waiting just for this moment to inflict their wrath upon them, just as the captain turned to sprint toward the enemy, an artillery shell zipped through the air and exploded right before them, sending the captain flying feet-backward, belly-down through the air, his arms flailing. He landed right before William, dead, and face down (a good thing, too, because if William had seen the captain’s dead face, he may have collapsed entirely). The flag-bearer, likewise, was launched into the air, and did not flail or give any grunt or display, but simply landed and rolled onto his back. The American flag was broken, torn, and the pole split. For a few moments, no one moved, but then one of the lieutenants stepped forward and shouted, “charge!”

They sprinted into the morning death as if they had full conviction and valor, but William did not even feel like what he was experiencing were real. Almost immediately, the unseen shower of bullets sent man after man sprawling, and mark after red mark appearing on the backs of the dark-blue uniforms of those who had managed to run just a little faster than William. Artillery shells and other projectiles came and exploded around them, sending troops into the air: some screaming, and others silently dead already. Still, other projectiles did not explode, but bounced, rolled, or in some other way found a way in which to rip someone’s head off or break their legs.

William clutched his rifle over his chest - he hadn’t even thought to aim it at the enemy. By the time he was nearly ten or so yards from actually physically confronting the Confederate line itself, he finally snapped out of his trance and came to his senses. In a fit of overreaction, he aimed his rifle into the line and fired at random. Time seemed to slow down as he realized that he had been aiming right at a young man’s face, a man not even five feet away from him. He had a thin brown beard and appeared to be raising his pistol to shoot someone else in William’s company. It was a point-blank shot, and the man’s nose seemed to implode as he fell, but his arm - the one in which his hand held the pistol - continued to swing around him…The dying actions of an attempt which never saw truth.

By the time William had realized his deed, his bayonet had already found soft flesh, and he felt warmth dripping down his lower uniform. He shoved the corpse away from his legs and the man fell doubled-over onto the ground - he had stabbed him in the stomach, William did, but it would be good enough if he were simply wounded to the point where he could no longer fight.

As William charged forward again, he confronted a man who also had his bayonet a the ready. William lunged toward him…And felt the sickening manifestation of a blade finding its way between the framework of his small intestine. In an instant, his mind flashed to basic training, when someone asked what to do if their bayonet got stuck in an enemy soldier. The instructor had replied: “if you can’t get your bayonet out, just shoot it out.” William comprehended all that in a fraction of a second, and he began to open his mouth to plead for mercy, but a loud bang erupted, and a hot feeling engulfed his entire abdomen.

He let out a curdling, massive, pained scream that could only ever be uttered by someone enduring searing agony. The man who had shot him was already off somewhere else, as a fearsome melee battle had erupted around them. William stood where he was for a moment, bent over, clutching his abdomen, and then fell over. He fell silently into the blue-sleeved arms of some other soldier, who seemed surprised, given by the way he grabbed him in return. A tear rolled down William’s cheek as he glimpsed the sun shining through the smoke and fog as thousands of men killed each other beneath the beautiful sky…It suddenly seemed so pretty, now…Why had he never noticed it before? The man whose arms he had fallen into pushed him out of the way, finally, and William fell to the ground.

April 28, 1862

Flower pushed through the crowd with such determination that it was surprising for her age. The hospital was in a repurposed Church - the pews had all been torn out and used for fuel or kindling, and cot after bloodied cot held two to three soldiers upon them. Many others, still, lay on the ground. The place was full of crying loved ones, moaning and resting wounded, and doctors rushing from patient to patient - doctors who had gone for days without breaks.

“Here he is,” Anna stated as she pointed to a bed a few rows over. The two of them rushed to confront William, who was asleep on one of the few beds in the place. His wounds were so severe that he had been given his own sleeping arrangements. For two weeks, his family had been trying to track him down. All they knew, via letter, that he was “wounded in the abdomen and highly-unlikely to survive.” When they found him, he opened his eyes. He was under the blankets, and wearing nothing but a white nightshirt. He smiled once he saw Anna. He did not let them say anything, all he stated was:

“It’s actually healing,” and smiled. “They say I might actually live.” He laughed, and a bittersweet stream of chuckles and tears erupted from the trio. Flower knew - by some force or power, she knew - that William, her son, would not die. She knew that he would get to see his son again.

July, 1862

Maria stood at the back of the tavern. She didn’t know a few hours before, of course, that it would be full of scalawags and Union sympathizers. She rolled her eyes in disgust at the sound of the dozens of men jovially singing in drunken lore to “John Brown’s Body” as a man played on the piano: “‘…The stars above in Heaven are-a lookin’ kindly down, on the grave of old John Brown!…” She shook her head and walked toward the door. It was late outside, and thus probably not too safe for her to be out much longer. Besides, a group of pro-Confederates - equally drunk - seemed to be arguing with some other patrons at one of the bar tables. Maria decided to get out of there before a fight broke out.

In the street, there was one other gentleman, well dressed, and also drunk, with a bottle in his hands. “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” He still sang, though alone, as he walked home through the dark streets.

“Hey,” Maria shouted. The man turned around - his bowtie was undone - and faced her.

“What,” he moaned as he slouched backward and spread out his arms. Maria rolled her eyes.

“Stop singing that song.”

“Oh, so you support treason, do you?” The man chuckled, and turned around once again, slowly walking away.

“Watch yourself,” Maria shot, then suddenly worried that she may provoke his anger (which, as he were drunk, could be dangerous).

“The Union will win the war, my lady,” the man chuckled as he walked, without even turning around.

“A false anticipation.”

“But we will.”

“And so what,” Maria questioned. “Even if you do win,” she shouted after him. “War merely determines the stronger power, not who was right.”

“So?” the man shouted back, nearly so far down the street, now, that he was almost out of sight.

“I will keep fighting, somehow, some way, for what I know is right.” The man only walked on, either not wishing to reply or not having heard Maria. Maria heaved and walked on.

February, 1863

Diana coughed into her handkerchief and looked at it: drops of blood. Her congestion was becoming worse, and the medication that the doctors prescribed seemed only to lessen her symptoms rather than eliminate them. She feared that the worst may follow, but in time. At present, she merely wished to see a day when the war did not divide both her family and her country. It seemed as if, for a moment, everything were falling apart…

June, 1863

Anna was in Tennessee, near the front lines, accompanying her husband from hospital to military hospital. She was moving a lot, thus, and the war was constantly shifting matters drastically, both mentally and geographically. It was on her request that young Timothy be watched by Hope - as, with most of the family seemingly misplaced in some way or form by the war, she had nothing left to do, and no one left to talk to.

She happily watched over Timothy until Anna would be ready to return with her husband (should he be well enough and yet still injured just so as to exempt him from service, but anything could happen). Admittedly, she felt as if by being with Timothy, she were regaining the time lost with her own children. She adored Timothy, and spent much of her time with him.

He, in turn, became rather fond of her. But Hope considered how her actions could be affecting Anna - just as she had been in the past, Anna was being separated from her child. Hope, therefore, tried her best to treat Timothy merely as a lose relative, but she did enjoy having a child to care for once again.

March, 1863

A hard knock awoke James. He sat up in bed, somewhat alarming Etta. The knock sounded again, and he went to the door. It was early in the morning - the sun was not yet over the horizon - so he was certainly anticipating an unfortunate encounter. However, upon opening the door, he saw none other than Blue Snake.

“What are you doing here,” he asked in surprise. But Blue Snake merely held a hand to his head and looked up.

“I need to sit down.” He seemed troubled. James and Etta made haste to produce a chair and some water, and Blue Snake began to recount his tale.

“It was in the Dakota territory, on work,” he began. “The tensions between the settlers and the natives were growing. I didn’t care much then…They were not my people. But then the fighting started. Small clashes, at first, and then larger confrontations. I just got swept into it. The Dakota tribes were winning, but it didn’t last - it never does. Little Crow and his force scored many victories against the settlers, but they were soon defeated, and fled…I was horribly wounded, James.”

“Blue Snake, what are you doing here,” James asked, still astonished.

“I was wounded in the chest,” he continued. “I don’t know why I even got involved - it just happened. I almost died, but I didn’t…But I’m dying. They say it could be led poisoning, or maybe just a weakening heart…I could have as long as ten years, or as little as one: they didn’t know. I came all the way here to see you.”

“What do you want me to do,” James asked, genuinely concerned for his friend.

“I don’t know,” Blue Snake shook his head. “I just…Have no where to go, and no one to trust.” Just then, a child cried from another room. Etta got up and walked into the room, coming out with a little child in her arms.

“This is little Chadwick,” James stated. Blue Snake looked at the child with tired eyes. He nodded as if approvingly, and then stood up.

“I must ask for a place to stay for the night,” he requested.

February 20, 1864

Samuel held his rifle straight in front of him - it nearly touched his nose. Union troops had landed in Florida, at Jacksonville, and were trying to occupy Tallahassee. In response, a Confederate force had been sent down from Charleston, South Carolina, and Samuel’s company among them. The day was sunny and warm, and only growing hotter by the minute. The Union troops appeared a few hills afar, making their way along the grasslands, with small patches of forest seeming to dot the land here and there.

Samuel stood in his grey uniform, with his company, in line at the top of a hill. He stared down the battlefield. Any moment, now, they would be ordered either to advance upon the opposing forces, or to hold their ground and prepare to defend.

“All right, lads.” the captain of the company began as he stepped out of the line and paced back and forth with intense conviction. “We’ve been given orders to be part of a flanking operation while the rest of our forces defend…” Samuel shuttered at the thought of advancing.
 In truth, he was not too afraid of entering combat, for he had been in more-minor confrontations, though this was his first larger battle. He was more worried, however, of fighting for a side that he had come to doubt the validity of more and more as the months passed on. He had joined the military for food and for the standard wage, but by then, it was evident that the Confederacy was probably on the losing side of the war. Many people thought they could turn things around, but to the rest…It was merely to inflict as much damage as possible upon the federal forces before they went down.

But Samuel was having doubts - now more than ever. He swallowed as the captain gave his speech. He wanted to get away from that place. Looking from soldier to soldier, he saw intense conviction in most of their eyes…Samuel did not have that conviction. “What if I die fighting for something I don’t even believe in?” He thought. “Do I believe in it?” He assured himself that many people fight for sides that they do not fully support, but as he looked around again, it was difficultly for him to convince himself of that fact. “What? No! Who fights for what they do not truly believe in?”

“Steady…Advance!” The captain ended. The company marched forward at a moderate pace. Samuel swallowed. He was not ready to fight for this cause anymore. He could not see himself fighting the soldiers of the Union, no matter how much he had been indifferent to the whole thing before - it made him feel sick, now. But it was too late…He was going into combat.