The wind whipped over the stone and mortar walls,
snowflakes swirling in eddies created by the bluffs
upon which the fort sat like a vigilant giant watching
over the confluence of the rivers below. The sentry
stamped his feet, thinking how damp the air seemed to
have become. The cold wasn’t  was as bad as the
dampness was, which seemed to find every gap in the
armor of the soldiers clothing.  He approached another
sentry, and the two halted beside one another. 
 
	“I’d worry for being caught out by the mad little
Prussian Colonel of ours, but you can be damn sure
there aint a peacock out this night! Ruffled feathers
will be making best thoughts for sparking with their
stoves tonight!” The clouds of breath seemed to freeze
in midair, the wind swallowed the voices of the
sentries. 
 
	The other soldier chuckled. “You got a way of
speaking Callahan, but you’re right. Aint no officers
gonna be out looking after us this night. What do you
think about where they are sending us? How’s that for
luck?” Hamer clapped his hands together, and rubbed
them vigorously. Callahan, shifted from foot to foot
trying to keep the cold from his toes. 
 
	“Sure enough, to the forts here--but the way they are
raising men now, I am sure that we’ll get our turn
soon enough! We can just hope they save some war for
us, faith knows I want a tug at old rascal Davis’ heel
and scrap before this is through!”
 
The men bobbed in a vain attempt to find warmth
somewhere within their greatcoats, but finding that
standing still seemed the enemy of comfort, they set
back to pacing their sentry walk. Unaccustomed yet
fully to “Army life”, their arms ached from the weight
of their muskets. When they came to meet again and
once more halted briefly to chat, their Mississippi
Rifles slid to rest atop their brogans. 
 
	“Lucky fellows in company A get to ship south right
off, straight to the fighting!”, grumbled Hamer as he
brushed snowflakes from the muzzle of his weapon.
Callahan nodded and smiled.
 
	“Sure indeed, they do. But those poor boys gots
Colonel Borgesrode alongs for the ride, so it aint all
gonna be lovely and grand, now is it?” . Both men
laughed despite themselves, and that was their
undoing. A sharp, “What’s this then?!” cracked into
the cold air about them, and the ominous figure of a
noncommissioned officer appeared. Neither man know his
name, but it was one of the regular Army lads who
served to help teach the recruits-officers and
enlisted alike-their business at war. Hamer and
Callahan stood to attention, but they knew it was
already too late for that. The Sergeant-Major, looking
every bit the part, stood very close to each man in
turn and gave them the look over. For a full minute,
the Sergeant-Major said nothing. He stared at them,
then paced a full circle around them. Death was
preferable to what undoubtedly was coming, and both
privates knew it to the depths of their soul. At long
last, the moment came.
 
	
	“Are you ladies finished then with your conversation,
or shall I oblige you a bit longer to allow you to
conclude your discussion?”, came the terrifyingly calm
tone of the Sergeant-Major. The relaxed demeanor had
it’s intended affect, and both privates--despite the
cold--started to sweat. The trouble was, that this
feeling affected both men slightly differently.
Hamer, fully aware that he was an inch from various
and sundry punishments, was determined to do whatever
it took to escape with as much of his person in tact.
Callahan however, although aware of his peril, failed
to recognize it for as mortal as it was and instead
responded; “We’re quite finished”. The Sergeant-Major
smiled and even chuckled briefly. 
 
In retrospect, being assigned to peeling mountains of
root vegetables for hours at a time broken only by
near permanent assignment to guard duty was a fairly
light punishment. Every so often, Hamer could swear he
could smell that earthy scent as strong in those days
spent scowling at Callahan over the mound of potatoes.
A mosquito buzzed into his ear, and brought Private
Nathaniel Hamer back from his memories. He slapped at
his ear, eliciting a chuckle from a pair of soldiers
approaching along the company street. Green and
Harper, shirt sleeves rolled up, called out to him.
 
 
	“Ya get ‘em Hamer? Or just trying to knock some sense
into yourself?” , laughed Harper, setting Green to
hysterics. Hamer only smiled and gestured dismissively
to the pair of them.  The pair continued on their way,
Green looked back over his shoulder.
 
	“Gonna come to the match? I hear it’s gonna be a good
one today!”, called out Green, his youthful  voice
seemingly absent of care. Hamer got himself to his
feet, nodded and followed after. He was feeling his
years today, though he still had plenty of vinegar to
spare. The night had been blustery, but this day was
proving sunny and hot with the humidity that only
Dixie could muster. They had been given a rare day at
the rear of the siege lines and if nothing happened to
spoil conditions, it might be a good day to catch up
on some rest.  A needed thing, especially after the
misadventure of the attempt to dig a series of canals
for the gunboats through the swampy, malaria infested
bogs around Vicksburg. The desire to save the Navy
from shelling by the big guns which traversed the
river meant that the Army paid in sweat and blisters.
In the end, it was a series of battles
overland--though desperate and violent--that proved
the most productive. Now, entrenched and hurling
bullet and shell back and forth, Vicksburg lay
besieged. All of this proved that Army life was a hard
existence; and that harshness worked itself on Hamer
by disturbing his ability to sleep. He supposed that
might have been part of why he found himself
reminiscing about their first days in uniform. Making
his way along behind Harper and Green, they soon came
to join a gathering crowd near the sinks. In the
distance, the salvo of cannon drifted like impotent
thunder; but no one seemed to notice. Here were men of
several states and numerous regiments, and a wild
jubilant atmosphere reigned supreme. There was an
observable absence of officers here; though Hamer did
spy first lieutenant Forbes along the edge of the
crowd looking interested. All at
once, Daniel Dills and his brother Charles appeared at
his elbow. 
 
	“Hamer! Good to see you down! We got a lovely spot
set aside with a great view just over there-come along
before one of these whelps usurps it!” Cheered
Charles, taking Hamer by the arm and shouldering his
way through the crowd with brother Daniel in their
wake. Hamer smiled over his shoulder at Daniel and
freed his arm from the others grip as they made their
way to their seats. 
 
	“How's the guts today Dan? Not turning into a
hospital rat now, are we?” , ribbed Hamer of the other
elder man. Dills and he were near in age, both in
their 40's. Daniel Dills frowned and rolled his eyes. 
 
	“Plenty of those around, but I don’t mean to be one
of them. Orderly gave me something to help put off the
quickstep, but all it seems to have done is slow it.
My son is going by the sutler today to see if he has
any Hanson’s Elixir, but I’ve warned Charles Henry
about taking care around that old muggins. Wouldn’t
put it past him to package something else in a
Hanson’s envelope and sell it at profit!”. 
 
They had come to their spot, and with a little effort
they all three climbed atop a great pile of cracker
boxes. They soon had company, but being at the top
their view was very good of the sport to be had.
Before them, surrounded by a crowd 5 men deep, was a
makeshift boxing ring made of cavalry horse lines and
cast off planks. A stump sat in one corner and upon
it--being given fervent direction by sergeant
O’Malley–sat James Honan. Honan was stripped to the
waist, and looked ready to take on the world. In the
opposite corner, accompanied by his compatriots, sat a
large artillery man with wild red hair and great
drooping mustache. Hamer raised his eyebrows and gave
a low whistle. 
 
	“Holy saints! That man looks like a hard case! I
wonder if Honan is up for this?”, he whispered to the
two brothers Dills.
 
Daniel looked at Charles, the pair exchanged a wry
look before turning back to Hamer as one and
answering, “Honan will be fine. Everyone knows in a
fight, you cannot judge on looks alone.” . 
 
Someone was calling for quiet and attention, and
looking down there stood Private Rose with his hands
raised over his head. “Welcome boys, today you’ll have
a treat! A fine contest between two branches of our
glorious Army of the Mississippi--and two titans of
pugilistic prowess!”. 
 
There was a chorus of catcalls and whistles to Rose’s
speech, but despite it all he went on. “On my right,
the mighty arm of the Emerald Isle--James Honan,
infantry!”. There was a roar of support as all the
infantry lads about cheered and Honan stood to
grandstand for the crowd. Rose finally got the noise
down, and Honan resumed his stump. “And on my left,”
Rose said gesturing to the great read-headed
artillerist, “a man made of the same iron and steel of
the guns he mans--Samuel Chase, artillery!”. And equal
wave of noise greeted this announcement, as the
artillery men in the crowd cheered their candidate. Up
on their cracker box seats, Hamer and the Dills sat
sharing a packet of candied fruit which Charles had
come up with from somewhere. Meanwhile down below, the
introductions complete, someone gave a good whack to a
tin pot to signify the start of the match. There crowd
became ever more animated as Honan and Chase leapt to
their feet and circled one another. Each man danced
about, bare knuckles poised to strike out at the
other, and the crowd moved with them in voice. Chase
was the bigger man, looking like a mountain before
Honan–but the infantryman was made of granite and
fleet as a fox. Honan dodged a flurry of jabs, then a
mighty right hook which would have felled an Army mule
had it connected. Chase was going red in the face with
effort and clear rage at his opponents ability to
evade him. Some of the crowd for Chase joined in
shouting against Honan’s style, and then cheered as
Chase connected at last. Honan was thrown back,
staggered briefly and shook his head. The crowd was
hesitant, a collective breath was drawn and all eyes
were on Honan for a reaction. O’Malley, nearly dancing
just outside the ring shouted, “Faith Honan! By gawd,
ye shouldn’t toy with ‘em so--lay the bastard out and
win me bet then!”.
 
Like a horse to whom the spur has been put, Honan
stepped back towards his opponent, and began laying
punches of his own. The Irishman was a blur of
violence, the artillery man doing his best to dodge or
block but to no avail. Honan ducked a mighty swing
from Chase and landed his own to the mans chin,
snapping his head back hard. For a moment, the
read-headed giant stood as he had, then like a tree
toppling as it is cut, down he went with a might roar.
The crowd, already wild with partisanship for the
combatants, broke into various squabbles of it’s own
as supporters of either side took their pride and
anguish out upon one another.  Rose stepped in, and
looking over Chase briefly and giving him a nudge with
his brogan, declared Honan the winner. Breathing hard,
his brow bleeding slightly, Honan helped his groggy
opponent up and the two embraced as friends. Money
changed hands, betters cursed and praised their luck,
and a smiling lieutenant Forbes could be seen counting
his winnings as he made his way back to the officers
section of camp.
 
********
 
Hamer rolled over, and finally gave up trying to sleep
anymore. He crawled out into the inky darkness, and
went to sit by the fire. The embers still glowed with
intensity, throwing waves of heat into the cool air.
Hamer tossed a log into this vortex and watched as the
flames burst within seconds from the bark. This sudden
light cast long shadows about him, as he sat alone by
the fire pit. Hamer felt the warmth work into him, and
became slightly drowsy. Leaning his head forward and
resting his chin in his palm, he considered the flames
and the shadows briefly. He realized that he wasn’t
really alone, one was so rarely alone in  the Army.
Even now, there were hundreds of men all about him.
Sentries were walking in the shadows beyond the tents
and wagons behind him; pickets skulked beyond them to
ensure the rear and flanks of the siege-works were not
surprised by enemy movement. Before him in the dark
muddy trenches and bomb-proofs from which they were
being given a short reprieve huddled men sleeping
fitfully, for fear of the enemy creeping across the
divide to waken them with violence. Hamer felt himself
doze off slightly, shifted, but sleep crept over him
again. He woke with a start in the coolness of early
morning, the night having passed in an instant. The
fire had gone out at his feet, and a dampness was
starting to settle upon him in little gem like beads.
He was startled to note a figure seated across from
him, very still and watching him. It was private Philo
Henry, a calm and quiet man the boys called “shoe” for
some misadventure with his brogans back in the early
days. Henry nodded, and made to start the fire. Within
a few minutes he had it going smartly, and the big
coffee kettle was simmering. 
 
	“You having trouble sleeping?”, asked Henry quietly
as he worked. Hamer cleared his throat, and shifted
his feet.
 
	“I just couldn’t sleep and got tired of rolling about
in the tent; I must have dozed off out here.”. Hamer
stretched and yawned. His body protested having slept
sitting up all night. Henry smiled and passed his a
cup of hot coffee, fresh from the top of the kettle.
Others in the camp were moving and awaking now; those
who had stood watch being replaced as the great
rotation of Army life went on. In the early morning
light, the first shots of the artillery as they
resumed pounding the city to dust signaled the start
of a new day.
 
Hamer gave a feeble smile, and shook his head. “I just
don’t sleep well out and about, never have. I ought to
have thought of that before I joined I suppose.”.
Henry nodded and sipped his coffee. 
 
	“Oh well, if any of us had thought about it more we
wouldn’t be here now, would we?”, he smiled over the
lip of his cup. Hamer smiled and nodded. Both men were
quiet then, and others joined them to seek coffee and
commiserate as soldiers do first thing in camp. Hamer
stood up and wandered away towards his tent intent
upon a little more sleep before the day began.
 
It took most of the day for the cramps and aches of
sleeping out to work themselves from his joints and
muscles, and Hamer felt that he had been foolish to
set off on this adventure at 42 years of age. He was
assigned to fatigue duty, and took his turn digging at
new sinks, and later in the day chopping and stacking
firewood. Many of the boys complained bitterly,
considering this was supposedly their chance to rest.
But the amount of labor needed to keep the Army going
was staggering, and when they were finished with their
rotation of work Hamer was worn and tired. He gathered
his mess and went to the regimental cook line for
chow. A hearty stew of some kind with rice, potatoes,
carrots, and bacon in what seemed to be a beef broth
greeted him and he was glad to make its acquaintance.
While some of the lads in the company were not too
terribly awful cooks, the central preparation of food
in these regimental kitchens seemed often to be
staffed with fellows with ingenuity and even real
skill. Hamer sat down in the knot of men that he had
spent the morning toiling with, and shared a quiet
meal. Charles Henry Dills, the young son of Daniel
that some of the boys called “Fullhouse” after a
spectacular hand at cards, sat down nearby. Fullhouse
smiled at him, and dug hungrily into his stew. 
 
	“My father says to say hello,” mumbled Fullhouse
around spoonfuls of broth, “he’s laid up in the
hospital again. He has the Mississippi Quickstep
pretty bad, but his spirits are as good as can be.
Uncle Charles even came up with some remedy from
somewhere”, Fullhouse gave a slightly disgusted look,
suggesting his disdain for the art of scrounging at
which his father and uncle were experts, “but doesn’t
seem to have made much difference.”. 
 
	“Your father is a tough fellow, he’ll shake it off
and be fine.” Said Hamer sopping up some the broth
with a piece of heavy bread. Fullhouse was quiet, but
continued eating. Sullivan, who was sitting opposite
them with Roth, nodded. Private Harris, a long faced
youngster with a feathery whiskers he liked to call a
beard, sat down with a grunt next to Fullhouse and set
to eating with dedication. After two or three
shoveling movements into his mouth, Peter Harris
launched into his news, sputtering bits of potato. 
 
	“You boys hear the news? I guess our rest is up,
they’re sending us back up to the lines tomorrow
morning. Them boys they set up there in our place
didn’t know enough to keep their heads down, and a
couple of them buckeye’s caught lead for it.”. The
young soldier smiled, and dug back into his food. This
report helped to lift the previous mood, and now
everyone was talking at once. Sullivan laughed
incredulously and challenged Harris. 
 
	“How do you know anything about it? Were you there?”,
sneered Sullivan. 
 
	“On account that James Rice told me! He was talking
to Frank Houldan, that fella from near Bancroft who is
an orderly over there at the hospital, and he told
Rice first hand. Said that this dumb pair of buckeye’s
were fighting over a tin of beef of all things up
there in the lines
and it gets knocked over the lip of the trench and
rolls a little way into the open. Well, before anyone
can stop him, one of these poor fellas climbs up after
it and gets hisself shot straight in
the mouth and out the back of his head. So down he
goes in amongst his comrades, and you can imagine the
fuss that made!”, Harris paused,  relishing the
attention of all eyes. 
 
Roth was shaking his head and muttering quietly, “For
a tin of rotten beef, what a waste.” Harris, resumed
with ghoulish relish.
 
	“So then, the other fella, he gets all worked up for
the death of his friend now of course. Of course the
argument is all forgotten too, and so he starts
screaming like a madman and cursing a blue streak and
charges up at the lip of the trench as well but his
pards get a hold of him and start dragging him back
again.”
 
	“Wait now, you said two fellows got themselves fitted
for pine,” started Fullhouse before being shushed with
a paternal air by Harris, a boy no older than he.
 
	“Now, now Charles,” clucked Harris, eliciting a frown
from the latter, “wait and all will be revealed. So,
as I said, his comrades are dragging this other poor
dumb buckeye back telling him to quit fighting but of
course he isn’t at all. Anyway, he breaks loose,
stands full erect to give them a piece of his mind and
it happens! Seems that sesech what shot his friend
wasn’t satisfied with the one, and was just waiting
for some fool to line himself up in his sights. Bullet
took his jaw clean off they said, just like what
happened to poor sergeant Blackmer at Ridgely, except
this fella died of it. So there, how’s that for a
grave piece of wickedness for you? I tell ya boys, we
better watch ourselves now. Two in the space of as
many minutes! That’s some marksman!” The group broke
into murmurs but Harris was quickly disregarded for a
“pup, and a young one at that”. In truth, no one
wanted to pay credence to the possibility that some
Mississippi or Arkansas backwoodsman with the skill of
a squirrel hunter might be sitting across from them
waiting for a target to cross his sights. 
 
********
 
In the distance, the cannonade went on in a steady
thunder that long since lost the power to make them
pay the least attention. Instead, the boys were
arguing the purpose and wisdom of the settling down
into earthworks and blasting away at one another. This
succeeded the short, but violent discussion of the
work on the canals and which regiment involved had dug
the most. As Honan was about to interject his opinion,
the high whining sound of a mortar shell alerted them
all to take cover. It exploded short of them, but did
a fine job of scattering copious amounts of dust and
clay about them like rain. Before the last of it had
settled, Honan was already back up and speaking his
mind. 
 
	“Engineers, I figure you give them their due for
being clever--but give a war over to ‘em and you’re
asking for trouble!” He said, brushing dust from his
shoulder. There were some cheers of agreement to this,
but Johnson cackled derisively as he sat lighting his
pipe. 
 
	“Yeah, it’s so much better to have some fella with
pumpkin rind for brains instead of on his shoulders
lead us through the lead and over the defenses in a
valiant charge to perdition.” He scoffed, sending up a
curling wisp of pipe smoke into an oddly chalky sky
for early June. It seemed the weather was of the same
mind as their moods, obstinate and pithy. They had had
two hard days of mortar fire and determined assaults
as the rebels tried to break the Federal line; and
between this the harassing attentions of a sesech
sharpshooter whom the boys had taken to calling the
“Barber of Vicksburg”. He had gained this name because
of some spectacular shots, which led to the suggestion
that he was so good he might ‘shave a man from 400
yards with an aimed shot’. This particular
sharpshooter seemed to have marked out the sight lines
well indeed, though his favorite haunt was a portion
of the trenches 100 feet to the south west of where
company C was stationed. It was here that he had taken
two lads from company D, a corporal from a Michigan
regiment, and a less than prudent Major of the
Artillery who had seen fit to offer ‘The Barber’ an
easy mark whilst he sat upon his horse despite
warnings against it. The boys (ever superstitious
about such things) came to say when they had to
traverse this portion of the lines that they were
“going to see the Barber, but don’t tell Mother.” Some
swore this granted them special protection, whilst
others just did their best to stay as low as possible.
 
 
There was a shout from off to the right of “Here they
come again!”, which was quickly swallowed by the now
all too familiar screech-wail of the rebel soldiers
charging towards their lines. Everyone scrambled to
the lip of the trench, mindful always of the chance
that doing so might well prove fatal if someone far
across the divide was waiting for a target of
opportunity. The Texans, which the boys of the 5th had
decided were some of the most recklessly brave fools
they’d ever seen, were pounding towards them again
with guns blazing away. Reckless or not the enemy
wasn’t stupid, and when the Federal lines opened up
and a great swath of men were cut from their number,
the assault quickly evaporated and those able dove for
the safety of their own trenches. Honan scanned the
distance as the smoke and dust cleared slowly, Rose
beside him doing the same. Their muskets, the bayonets
fixed and dull from the light brown of dust, remained
ready as they scanned and watched for the enemy to
reemerge as they so often did. All that was before
them was the dead and wounded; some of the latter
crawling towards their own lines or crying pitifully
for aid.
 
	“Well, what was that about?”, whispered Harris from
somewhere down the line of men in the trench, “What’s
the point of running out where we all can see, and
shoot ‘em down like that?”
 
	“Something got messed, no doubt”, came the Irish lilt
of sergeant O’Malley, “I’d be betting that they was to
have some artillery support but it went awry, and them
poor bastards got left out afore our lines to fend for
themselves.” There was a low thud, then several others
and O’Malley shouted “Get down!”, as the whine of
mortar shells falling close were followed by a
terrible ‘WOOOSH’ as they exploded everywhere. The
world become a brown and white cloud, and Hamer felt
himself choking, having gotten half buried by
cascading dirt when the mortar round exploded to his
left. He realized quickly that this wave of earth had
probably saved his life, for as he got up again he
felt the limp form of Harris leaning against him. He
had stood opposite Hamer when the shell hit, and had
taken the brunt of its awful force. As daylight
returned through the smoke and dust, rebels came
screaming down on them again. One of the wild Texans
had emerged from the dust where the new lip of the
trench was and had just started to level his weapon
towards Hamer when Charles Rose exploded into view
before him and lashed out with the butt of his musket,
felling the man violently. Three more blows and the
Texan, a captain to look at his uniform, would move no
more. O’Malley was organizing the dust covered
soldiers and giving the swarming enemy no quarter.
Rose came and helped Hamer to his feet, handing him
his dusty brown musket. The two soldiers stood looking
sadly a moment on the wretched form of Harris. Hamer
realized then Rose and Harris had been much of age,
though Rose seemed to take on the withering age of
experience before his very eyes. Wiping dirt from his
face, Charles Rose returned to the fight. 
 
	Meanwhile, they had held their line and beaten back
the rebels. Sergeant Stephenson arrived with men to
bolster them, and as the dust settled fully and
Federal batteries fired a withering salvo at the
trenches of the enemy, Hamer saw at last the full
havoc of this attack. Johnson, with the help of
Sullivan, was dragging a dead rebel off the parapet of
the trench. Several of the enemy were strewn about,
felled in those awful moments of close quarters
vehemence. The enemy was not alone in the debris at
their feet. Private Thomas lay shot through the chest,
pale and dead, while Henry bent low over him. Harris
lay in a shattered heap nearby. Leaning in a
corner--with O’Malley holding a rag over a shoulder as
scarlet blood seeped through it--was Honan. He looked
pale, but his eyes darted about and he spoke.
 
	“I’m alright. Clean through it went, bugger got lucky
is all! Bayonet through the shoulder, but I made work
of him!”, said Honan in a funny wispy way. O’Malley
turned and shouted to Rose, displaying a right ear
that was oozing bright blood as he did. Rose came over
and helped carry Honan out of the trench and away to
the surgeon. Sergeant Stephenson took command of the
line, and went about checking each man. Several had
cuts and bruises, both from the fight as well as the
exploding mortar shells; but by a miracle they had
largely come through well enough. Lieutenant Forbes
came bustling along to convey congratulations to the
men, and to acquaint them with the fact that the
“Captain is proud as whiskey punch” for their spirit
and resolve. Hamer shook the dust from his greying
beard, made sure the percussion cap was yet on his
musket, and took his place again in the trench. He
stared out across the divide as the day slowly edged
towards dusk, and thanked God he was yet there to see
it. Daniel Dills was pressed up against him on the
left, scanning down the barrel of his musket across
the distance. Dills must have felt Hamer’s eyes on him
because he spoke quietly to him, without moving his
gaze from his weapon. 
 
	“Hamer, taking up farming did you? You look like you
were digging potatoes. Hope you saved me a couple.”
 
Hamer smiled ruefully. Dills, a week out of the
hospital after three days in, was pale. He looked
tired, and as though years had crept upon him in the
space of days. Some had started to talk that “Old
Pickle” wouldn’t last much more. Hamer knew better.
Dills was a tough, tenacious fellow who was happy to
leave if it was his idea; but to blazes if it wasn’t.
He tried to clear the dust from his eyes as best he
could with his sleeve. The dusk lead to evening, and
except for the occasional aimed shot and chance mortar
shell, rare peace settled over the trenches. Yet
despite the absence of fighting, only the dead slept
peacefully.
 
When morning came, O’Malley returned with Rose and
said Honan would be fine. The wound was shallow and
that he’d be back to normal with rest. Stephenson had
brought up spades and they set their backs to
repairing the trench and parapet as the early morning
sky slowly went from grey to a brilliant blue, . By
mid-morning, the heat was already stifling, and the
air thick with humidity. As they group sat in the dirt
for a rest they heard a voice from the rebel lines
call out.  “Hey, Yanks!”, shouted the voice. Everyone
looked at one another, and no one moved for a moment
before O’Malley suddenly cupped his hands around his
mouth and shouted back, “Hey, Johnny! Whatcha want?” 
 
	“Heya Yank, you talk funny-you foreign or
something?”, returned the voice. The boys chuckled,
and O’Malley smiled.
 
	“Irish, but I answers to Yank all the same, you
barefoot ragamuffin!”, responded the sergeant. They
could hear laughing from the rebel trench before the
voice answered.
 
	“I was a teacher before all this Yank, if you like I
could learn you to speak proper english!”
 
The boys laughed hard at that, Johnson only scowled.
“That dirty traitor has sand to speak to us like
that!”, he grumbled. O’Malley only gave Johnson a
lopsided grin.
 
	“Alright professor,” responded the Irishman at last,
“you just lonely, or is there purpose to this then?”
There was a pause, and the ‘professor’ responded at
last.
 
	“Wondering if we might get out there in the open to
fetch back our dead, and see if any are yet amongst
the living. Any chance, Yank?”. O’Malley had hardly
looked to Stephenson when the other man was already
moving off at a crouch to inform the Captain of the
parlay underway. Setting aside his spade and brushing
himself off, O’Malley got up and risked a glimpse over
the parapet before answering.
 
	“I should think so professor, just wait a moment
though while we let the boss know. You know how it is
in the Army!”. 
 
	“I do, Yank, I do.”, came the reply.  Stephenson
returned with Captain Sheehan, who accepted the hasty
salutes of the gathered men and went to the parapet.
Removing his hat, he peeked out over the divide and
conferred with O’Malley. In the end, the terms agreed
upon, the rebels were allowed to go out under flag of
truce for their dead.  In their own trench, company C
watched them work to reclaim the dead. The affair was
somber, and no one spoke, knowing that it could just
as easily have been themselves laying out there in the
dirt. It wasn’t as though they felt direct pity for
these men that had died, they were the enemy after
all, but there was a sort of respect for them all the
same. When the grim task was finished, the war resumed
in earnest. 
 
**********
 
Stripping their gear and brogans, the men hurled
themselves down into the grass and gravel with the
exhaustion bourne of the terror and boredom of laying
siege to a determined enemy. They laid about in a
state of half unconsciousness, spattered in dirt and
blood, stained with sweat. Over head, the sky was a
brilliant blue. Here and there, great cotton like
clouds floated lazily above them with complete
disregard for the troubles of humanity. In the weeks
since Harris and Thomas had been lost, life had gone
on. Men tried hard not to forget their faces, but
found that war robbed one of memory as easily as it
could rob one of life. Charles Rose let out a great
sigh and settled his head on his haversack. In
moments, he was fast asleep, something Honan and
corporal Haltzdahlen sat contemplating. 
 
	“How does he do that? Three seconds, if it was one!”,
griped Honan leaning on one elbow and gesturing
towards the sleeping Rose. Behind Honan, Johnson
pulled his coat over his face and mumbled, “I’m trying
to sleep here, if you don’t mind!”.
 
	Haltzdahlen shook his head. “I suppose when you
haven’t much in the way of brains, it doesn’t take
much! Sleep, wake, eat, sh--”, but before the corporal
could finish, Johnson interrupted. “Will you be quiet!
I want to sleep!”. Honan shrugged, and laid back to
stare at the sky. His shoulder was still tender, but
in the weeks since he had been wounded, he had healed
well. He had yet to be able to draw a new coat from
supply, and so the hole remained where it had been
made. He found his left hand wandered to trace the
hole now and then without realizing it, and decided to
patch it at the first opportunity. The wounding had
made him feel less invulnerable than before, a sense
which Charles Dills had told him was simply maturity
sinking in.
 
	“As one ages, the reality of your mortality sinks
in,” he had said, “and that’s when you become a man,
in my mind.” At the time, laying there in his hospital
bed, he had brushed off the comment as simply Charlie
Dills attempt at sounding wise. In the weeks since, he
had come to recognize the true wisdom those words
belied. He glanced over to where Charles and his
nephew Fullhouse were resting, and wondered how Daniel
Dills was. He was laid up in the hospital again,
brought low once more with his chronic bouts of
dysentery--though he wasn’t the only one. The Army
seemed constantly plagued with such illness; not to
mention the malaria from the swamps, yellow fever, and
a host of other complaints. Now Hamer too was laid up
with something which sapped him of strength and
conviction. There was talk that he might soon take the
hospital steamer home, if his shakes didn’t abate
soon. Honan closed his eyes, and wondered how many men
he had stood with now lay dead or confined to their
sickbeds. Young men made old before their time; older
men devoured by war and pestilence. He tried to put
these thoughts out of his mind, and instead determined
once more to patch up his coat as he fell into a light
slumber. 
 
	A light breeze wafted through the tent, and though
the air was humid and hot, Hamer felt chilled. His
mind was clear one moment, and lost in a fog the next.
Days had slipped by without notice, nights lasted
years. He had been stricken in the aftermath of
another attempted assault on the rebel lines, passing
out as they returned to their own lines in the wild
dismay of retreat. They had thought him shot, or
stabbed from the way he stumbled down into the trench,
and much fuss was made in trying to find his wound. At
last, half naked from being stripped in a search for
the source of his collapse, his comrades had brought
him to the hospital. Since his arrival, men had come
and gone from the cots about him. Some had recovered,
some had passed in the dead of night and early
morning. Hamer felt himself aware, the chill subsided,
and he sighed quietly. “Got the shakes, huh? Them’s
bad”, spoke a voice from his right. Looking over, he
noted for the first time a man who had arrived when he
was in the throes of his fever. His head was wrapped
close with bandages, covering entire top portion of
his head and covering his eyes. There were yellow and
brown stains on the one side of his head, and by the
accent of the man he suspected this was a wounded
rebel. Hamer studied the man, quietly. 
 
Before he could speak, the rebel spoke again. “Hope
the idea of resting so next to a ‘Josh’ aint
too disagreeable for ya; as ya keen see I aint got
much ability to move myself even if I wanted too.
Well, not without tipping myself over things and
stumbling a lot anyway”, smiled the rebel calmly.
Hamer laid back, a chill running through him again
that made his teeth chatter. 
 
	“Arkansas huh?”, responded Hamer at last,  “I don’t
mind, though I can’t say I’ve had much opportunity to
speak socially with any of your neighbors you
understand.” The rebel chuckled, and offered a hand
blindly to be shaken. Hamer reached a clammy fist out
to take it, though he had to lean over far to the
right since the rebel’s inability to see had put his
sense of where things were quite off kilter. They
shook hands, and the rebel nodded.
 
	“My brother had the shakes when we was young. It was
rough on him, but with rest and care he recovered.
Once you got the malaria though, you are never full
and free of it. He still gets reminders of it now and
then, but it’s manageable.” 
 
	“If that’s me, then what happened to you?”, asked
Hamer. The rebel folded his hands quietly, and sighed.
 
	“Artillery shell burst in the midst of our line
during our assault. All I remember is running forward
with the others and then this flash and a roar of
sound filled my ears. Next thing I know someone is
talking about me and no matter how hard I try I can’t
see him. Turned out some of your lads found me looking
for wounded yanks and brought me out . I suppose that
makes me a prisoner now, but at least I aint dead.”
They were quiet for some time, before the rebel spoke
again. “Where are you from?”.
 
	“Minnesota.”
 
	“Where’s that at?”, responded the rebel.
 
	“Up north of here, north of Iowa.”
 
	The rebel chuckled, “You come a piece then to get
here. What’s it like way up there? Bet it’s cold most
of the time, huh?” Hamer smiled, and shook his head.
 
	“In the winter it gets to feeling beastly sometimes
yes, but our summers can be glorious. It’s a very
green country. Lots of lakes, forest and prairies.” 
 
	“Sounds beautiful.”, the rebel was quiet then awhile,
before speaking again. “You ever wish this war aint
never started? You ever regret that folks couldn’t
have figured some way of behaving more as the
preachers and Sunday schooling teaches?”
 
	“Turn the other cheek, forgive and love thy
neighbor?”, asked Hamer. The rebel nodded quietly, and
Hamer studied the man briefly. “Yes”, he said, “I do
wish it. But by the same token, I also believe this
war is about more than that.”. The rebel nodded.
 
	“I suppose they always are, these wars that folks
fight. For you and I, that fight is up. This war done
used us up and left us at the side of the track, while
it goes on over the next hill.”
 
	“I suppose you could say that, yes.”, said Hamer. 
 
	“I hope it all will be worth it when it ends.”,
whispered the rebel. Hamer, sighed and turned to look
up at the ceiling of the tent.
 
Several cots over, his face pale and sallow, Daniel
Dills quietly interjected.
 
	“It shall have been a mighty price for us all to pay,
if it isn’t. God help us then.” 
 
Nathaniel Hamer’s war would come to an end shortly
after, discharged for medical reasons towards the end
of June. He would later die in transit from a bought
of pneumonia just short of his 43rd year. Not long
after on July 4th, as General Lee was being defeated
at Gettysburg, the city of Vicksburg finally fell. The
boys of the 5th Minnesota were one of the first
regiments to march into the ruins of the ‘Gibralter of
the Mississippi’, singing and cheering as they went.
Daniel Dills, still weak but determined not to be left
out, marched with them. His son and brother at his
side, it would be the last action he would see. Within
a week, so frail he could not stand, Daniel Dills was
shipped home. The siege had been hard and costly, for
everyone involved. The Confederacy was now effectively
cut in two; and the old promises of “home before
Christmas” made the rounds again. No one was fooled.
The night that the city fell, the Federals gathered in
their camps and celebrated Independence Day as best
they could. Many a toast was made to their country, to
the victory at Vicksburg; and to those of their
regiment whom lived on only in those few things which
the war could not take from them.