BOOK ONE: The War Years CHAPTER ONE Toward the river, a rhythmic drumming of cannon fire echoed in the distance. Muzzle recoils sounded near and far, respective of the side that fired, ours, or theirs. Sporadic explosions would land near the cave myself and a few others occupied. Tiny streams of dust would issue from the ceiling when the shells landed too close to our position. The cave was one of the better ones dug into the side of the hill above Vicksburg, Mississippi. The interior was lined and reinforced by planks of wood. Some canned goods were piled neatly into a corner. The adults were somewhat solemn, or bored, or angry depending on the accuracy of the Union gunners. I shared the cave with a father and a mother and four wide-eyed children. An older couple, the grandparents, sat to one side of the cave. I was grateful to be extended the courtesy of their accommodations. The family was made up of good, honest folk. I'd seen the men in town. "You're Horatio Wilkes' boy, ain't ya?" asked the father. I nodded. "What's your name?" "Jeff," I replied. "Named after the President, if I recall." "Yes sir." "What's your father say about all of this cannon fire? Is he gonna stop it?" I shrugged. Everyone asked if my father couldn't do something about the Union gun-boats. If there was something that could be done, I imagine he would've done it. Truth was, I hadn't asked him. It seemed like a foolish question that he shouldn't be bothered with. I suppose the townspeople felt the same way and asked me instead. The father looked from me to the opening in the cave. "I expect we'll get along fine, anyhow. If Vicksburg could be taken, it would've been by now. Ain't that right?" I shrugged again. "What's your full name?" "Jefferson Doddridge Wilkes," I replied. "Doddridge, that was your mother's folks, wasn't it?" "Yes sir." "Fine people. Scholarly people," he said. "I believe so." The father nodded and looked about at his family. It seemed that he was speaking in a casual fashion to keep from showing fear, or to ease the minds of the children. Finally, the firing lessened and the explosions were few and far between. "Ought to be safe enough now," the father said and rose from his place in the cave. He made his way out. I helped him bring the younguns, the women and the elderly out of the cave. Looking back into the empty hole, it seemed much too small to house the nine of us. We were all smudged with dirt about the face and backsides. I picked up the squirrel gun I'd left outside and thanked the family for their hospitality. They offered my father their best. I nodded and headed down the slope of the hill to the edge of the high bluffs overlooking the river. When I got to the blind, my friends were already loading their muskets with powder, ball and patch. I don't know if we'd ever hit anything in the preceding months, but we always fired musket balls at the Union sailors when the bombardment stopped, as a sign of defiance. The Confederate soldiers didn't need our help, but we felt better for it. The blind was nothing but a few logs stacked atop one another. Branches, weeds and grasses were piled in front of the blind so that it could not be seen from the river. In our spare time we'd hacked notches in the logs through which to fire. The notches were small and didn't leave much room to aim as they were barely big enough to get a muzzle through. It was futile, I imagine, but for mere boys, too young to join the army as anything other than litter bearers, stable boys or cook's helpers, it was the best we could do to strike back at the Yanks. We fired several rounds into the river, drawing spouts of water out of the muddy flow. Once, William Flout rattled the metal of one of the ironclads with an errant ball. It was great, high fun, but had the effect of discharging muskets at flocks of geese. That night, as we fired through the holes in the timber and poured and tamped the powder, we chuckled and nudged each other, impressed with our own audacity. Toward midnight, as our powder grew scarce and regret for lost lead began to sober our fun, a heavy musket ball plowed into the timbers with a thud. Unaware that we'd ever draw fire from the other side, we glanced at each other with wide eyes and scampered out of the blind and up toward town as fast as our legs would carry us. We split up as we came to the buildings. It was late and most of the people had crawled out of their caves and gone back home. Groups of soldiers were starting to wander about the streets, some of which were helping to put out small fires started by the hurtling metal balls. My fellow citizens were all fairly adept at living under the constant threat of invasion by then. Many had gone when the gun-boats first arrived, but others stayed to keep Vicksburg alive. I wandered through the town carrying my musket. It was a short walk home and I enjoyed the late summer air. The willows were heavy with Spanish Moss. I cut through the forest and made my way along the same path I'd often taken to school. I had my musket charged and awaited the approach of phantom troops through the trees, but none came. I wondered what would happen if I stumbled upon a party of Union soldiers. I emboldened myself with visions of daring. I contemplated my bravery until recalling the incident at the blind and how we'd all run. I smirked at myself and knew I'd probably high-tail it home. It was an impulse allowed to children, but I was growing older and I'd have to overcome the impulse to run if the war continued a few more years. In little over a month, I'd be 15, and I'd have to start preparing myself for the inevitable command that would come, should the South need me. The idea of commanding men seemed distant as I walked through the woods. Of course, I had the training. My father saw to that. When I was younger he'd put me in the cotton fields alongside his negras to pick cotton. My fingers bled and the negras taught me how to pick. I was sore and bloodied at the end of each day for a while. Then, when I'd become proficient at picking cotton, my father put me in charge of overseeing the pickers. He just left me to my duties and berated me when production was lacking until I learned to get the field hands to produce. The negras tried every trick in the book. They explained to me why they couldn't pick that day, or had to go slower than before. I listened and felt compassion for them, especially having been in their position shortly before. I gave them longer breaks and understood their troubles and ailments. Before long, we'd fallen several tons behind and our relaxed work habits led to the endangerment of a good portion of the crop. Lord, my father put the fear of God into me over that. I recalled, as I walked, how he'd brought me into his study and showed me the figures of dates in the past and tons of cotton available for shipment by those previous dates. "You're costing me a lot of money, son. I may have to sell the negra cook to make up the expense." I stood before him, gazing at the figures and hoping to change them if I stared at them hard enough. I didn't see how we'd fallen so far behind and I kept trying to reason it out, but there was only one reason for it: I'd been too easy on the field hands. I'd been too easy on myself. I wanted to be the nice guy, the friend they could count on. I didn't want to have to force them along. But, it wasn't working. "You know who'll have to do all the cooking then, don't you?" He asked, staring at me with small brown eyes. His lips quivered in anger from deep inside the heavy beard and mustache. "You, that's who." I lowered my head. "Perhaps, I'd be a better cook than an overseer," I mumbled. He leaned on the big, oaken desk and brought his hairy face closer to mine. "Perhaps, you would, but I don't need a cook. I need an overseer able to run this farm, to run my other varied business interests. I need a son, not a cook." I nodded, but didn't know how I'd ever become the man he wanted me to be. I enjoyed the company of the negras in the fields and didn't relish the idea of having to go out there the next day and be the type of overseer my father was. I wanted to remind him that I was just a boy, then 13, and not yet up to the task. He sat down in his chair and studied me. I continued to stare at the desk and the figures laid out before me in the ledger. "Son, this war," he said, "this war of independence from the North, it isn't about to end soon, as I predicted it would. I know you had plans to further your education, but there are more pressing matters. Soon, I may have to take several trips to Richmond to consult with my old friend, our new President. I have to feel confident in your abilities to run this farm. Old Ezra, he's a good negra, but he isn't kin. He can run the farm without your help, excepting the odd purchase in town and the signing of papers and deeds, but he isn't ever going to own this land, you are. I know you feel like a boy, a child, but you cannot remain so. I need a man and a man you must become. It's as simple as that." He pushed back in his chair and waited for a response. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to reassure him, but felt that I wasn't up to the job. I didn't want to disappoint him and I didn't want to make any promises that I couldn't keep. "Maybe we could let Old Ezra run the place for a while." "And what's to keep him from taking off for the North and taking the whole group with him?" I grinned. "Old Ezra isn't going anywhere, father." His massive hand slammed down hard on the desk as he rose well above my height. "Don't mistake fear for loyalty, son. Don't you ever think that any of these negras are here, because they want to be. Don't you ever think that anyone is anywhere, because they want to be. Folks are where they are, because they don't know of anywhere else to go. Now, Lincoln's offered them someplace else and they can't help but think of it every moment of their wakening." My father began to pace about behind the desk. "It isn't any different for you, son. Tell me you haven't been thinking about going to the University, or off to war since this whole conflict began. Tell me you haven't." "I can't tell you that." "Of course you can't. You think of it all the time because you've been told that there's someplace else. But, you didn't think of it when you were a child." I shook my head, slowly understanding his point. "And we can't just turn the negras loose. I don't have enough sons to pick all the cotton. It seems now, that I don't have enough sons to oversee the picking of the cotton." His energy began to slacken and he sat back down in the chair. "Son, this cotton, and all of my affairs, make money and that money goes to help pay the salaries of the soldiers. I buy goods, rifles, food and clothing for the soldiers. When you fail as an overseer, you're helping the Union boys win the war. Children think of things as if they are solitary in their effects, men, and especially leaders of men, think of things as they're connected, one to the other. What I demand of you, at your tender age, is to become a leader of men and to think of things as they're connected." I nodded, but this time I understood what he wanted. "Now, you go to bed and think tonight of what you must do, how you must act to help the Confederate cause. In war, we must all do things that we dislike to ensure a future for us all. If you feel a weight on your shoulders, an obligation to the soldiers in the field taking fire from the enemy, then you're ready to become a man, a leader." I turned away from his desk and went up the steps to my bedroom. There was more for me to do than to be a child. I had a greater responsibility than I'd ever imagined and I looked upon all of my childish thoughts with disdain. Those times were over. By the summer of 1862, I'd learned how to run the farm and how to handle the negras. I was still a compassionate overseer, but I demanded certain things from the field hands and would tolerate no amount of loafing. The way I saw it, we all had jobs to do. If everyone did their jobs, so much the better for all of us. What few troubles I had at first were discussed with Old Ezra and matters were settled. Unfortunately, the gun-boats showed themselves on the river about the time I'd really learned how to do my job. The fact of it threw everything into chaos. I found myself working during the days and meeting my friends at night under the periodic bombardment of the Union troops. My father started getting regular visits from General Pemberton and from time to time General Forrest. At first, there was great suspicion of General Pemberton. Several of the townsfolk thought he'd trade out the Confederate cause if it got too rough. What else could they expect from a Yankee? The general's loyalty was never in question to my father. He praised the General at every opportunity to encourage the townsfolk to support him. Eventually, he won out and the people started to come around. I came out of the thickness of the surrounding forest and up towards the porch. I saw my father pacing back and forth while reading a letter. Inside the still distant window, he appeared a miniature of himself searching for the way out of a tiny box. His big cigar produced a smoky atmosphere of its own and leant a dreamlike quality to the scene. I stopped where I was and watched him. I knew that I'd always remember him thus and I lingered outside. I rested against the musket and looked into the window from afar. I was overcome by my love for the man. He was a great man and had given everything he owned for the success of the Confederacy. Already our assets were being drained and cotton was becoming nearly impossible to get past the Union lines. The blockade of the Mississippi was inhibiting all sorts of commerce. I approached the house and entered. The smoke was a welcomed scent and the interior of our home was inviting like never before. Perhaps, the musket ball smashing into our blind gave me an unreal sense of appreciation for all that I saw and smelled of, but it was a pristine moment that I came to treasure. I passed the door to my father's study and glanced in. He was engrossed in the sheet of paper that he held before him and failed to notice me. I proceeded on to my room toward the back of the house where my windows were left open the whole summer. I awoke nearly every morning to the bright sounds of birds chirping in the forest. I doubt there was a better living anywhere than in Vicksburg, even with the gun-boats on the river. I readied myself for bed and lay atop the mattress in long underwear. I glanced over at the musket standing sentinel in the corner, charged and ready for action should the Union soldiers make a daring attempt to capture the town.