Montana Territory

Dahlia Patton and WR Benton

 

Montana Territory

© 2009 By W.R. Benton and Dahlia Patton, All Rights Reserved

 

CHAPTER 1

Corporal James Thomas didn't feel the heavy cast-iron cannonball that instantly removed his head from his body. His lifeless form fell to the ground and twitched until his system shut down a minute later, leaving him in a pool of blood. Sergeant William Sanders ran by the body of his life-long friend, but couldn't stop. Bugle calls were heard and cannons filled the air with white cotton balls of death, that rained hot steel to the ground. Hundreds of rifle shots were heard and they seemed to all sound at the same time, adding more confusion to the already dazed Sanders.

Grasping his rifle tighter, he pointed the long bayonet at the Yankee lines and gave a bloodcurdling Rebel yell, running faster toward his enemy. Men fell to his left and right, but he remained untouched.

“Down!” Screamed Captain Fall from in front.

Bill fell to the ground, but many others had not heard the warning in time and a second later a swarm of lead bees flew into them. Some men screamed as they fell, while others made not a sound.

Grapeshot, he thought as he heard the captain order the troopers forward, before the Yanks had a chance to reload the cannon.

Nearing the cannon, a red haired Yank ran at him and Bill swung his bayonet hard, striking the Yankee's gun barrel, knocking the man off-balance. Pulling his rifle back, he brought the bayonet up and into the Yank's soft belly, seeing a look of surprise come over the man's face. The long knife stuck in bone and the man danced on the end of the rifle. Unexpectedly a bullet struck Bill in the side, grazing the skin, which caused him to pull the trigger on his rifle. He saw the Yankee blown off of the bayonet by the muzzle blast and heavy .54 caliber lead slug.

As he rapidly reloaded, he glanced around and saw most of the men in vicious hand-to-hand combat with the blue-bellies. Seating the mini-ball, he replaced his ramrod and moved toward a Yank gunner attempting to place a new load of grapeshot in the cannon. The man's back was to him, so Bill rushed forward and ran the long blade into his back, near his kidney's . The Yankee screamed in pain and fell forward to the grass, dropping the bag of shot.

Turning, Bill ordered, “You three men, help me turn this cannon around. We'll give them Yanks a taste of their own medicine.

The four turned the cannon, Bill loaded the bag of grapeshot down the barrel, and one of the men lit the fuse on the big gun. A second later the cannon jumped from the ground and a huge cloud of smoke covered the area. Screams of pain and anguish were heard coming from the Union lines.

“Move it slightly to the left now boys!” The general called out from behind them.

The gun was moved, powder and shot loaded, and once again the gun was fired. Ten minutes later, out of ammunition, the four ran forward into hell!

Bullets zinged and pinged all around as Bill moved onward. He was afraid to stop for a second, because it would mean his death, because moving targets were harder to hit. Forward and onward was set in his mind, regardless of the battle or any injuries sustained.

A bullet kicked his hat high into the air, but on he ran, pausing to shoot at a young Yankee lieutenant. When he squeezed the trigger the man went down hard, unmoving. Reloading, he scanned the battlefield and saw the Union troops were pulling back.

“Hold your fire! Ya damn fools, hold your fire!” The first sergeant screamed as he walked up and down the battlefield.

“They're runnin'!” Bill's friend Jims said as he walked beside him.

“Ya hit?” Bill asked.

“I don't think so, but ya took a hit or something along your side.”

“Ball, but it ain't much, just a graze.”

“Better have the sawbones take a look at it. Iffen it starts to fester, ya'll play hell gettin' it cleaned out and it'll cause a lot of pain too. Here's your hat, I found it a ways back.”

“I'll pour some whiskey on it and be fine.”

Then, taking his hat from Jim, he added, “Thanks, a dang bullet knocked it off my head.”

“Okay, men!” The first sergeant called out, “Move into defensive positions and let's make this place a home for the night. Sergeant Sanders!”

“First sergeant!”

“Your squad will pull picket duty until dark. Keep your eyes open, 'cause them Yanks mighten just counterattack. That's what I'd do iffen I was them.”

“Will do. Okay men, let's move out about a hundred feet. I want no loud talkin', playin' grab ass, or smokin'. Iffen ya want tobacco, chew.”

“We always get the shit details!” A man named Patton complained as he picked up his pack and started moving forward.

“Ya got a bitch, Patton?” Bill asked as he turned to face the man.

“No, just tired is all. We been in a battle three days in a row and I'm beat.”

“So are we all, but we've a job to do.”

Nothing more was said as the men moved into positions in some hardwood trees. Sitting on a boulder, Bill glanced around and saw it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, and flowers were even blooming.

Too nice a day to die.

Bill Sanders was a big man, six feet and six inches, two hundred and twenty pounds, with huge muscles as a result of his previous profession. He had been a blacksmith before the war and ran a very successful business, but with the battle of Wilson's Creek his life had changed. His father had lost an arm and his older brother killed, so Bill joined the 3 rd Missouri Infantry out of anger. At first he figured he had a score to settle with the Yanks, but that thought quickly died and now he fought just to stay alive. His quest for revenge had died a long time back.

Removing his hat and pushing his long brown hair back he thought, I wonder if Clara yet waits for me?

Clara Sue Wade was his bride to be and he'd left her behind to go off to war. It was two months since the last letter, but Bill knew that was not unusual with the war going on. Some of the men had been in the unit for over two years and not a single letter yet. The problem, as most of the men saw it, was the army was constantly moving and delivering mail was a nightmare. Nonetheless, the lack of mail made the situation on both sides much more difficult. It was the not knowing how a loved one faired that made things fearsome.

In her last letter, Clara had spoken of the hardships at home and struggles they had to face from day to day. Most of the men were off to war and a woman had to work hard to turn a patch of rocky soil into a life-giving garden of sorts. She'd spoken of how the Yanks had ridden through and taken all the livestock they could find. Her family had lost all of their fowl, chickens, pigs and half of the garden to the men in blue and no amount of pleading would stop them. Now, she'd said, they were living on wild greens, deer, squirrels, and rabbits.

“We're near Pilot Knob, ain't we Bill?” Old man Franklin asked out of the blue.

Franklin was near fifty-five and didn't have to be in the infantry, but since the Yanks had burned his farm and killed most of his family he remained where he was.

“Close. I think we're only about five miles from Fort Davidson.”

Scratching his chin, Franklin asked, “That close?”

“Mayhap, I ain't real sure. The word I have is General Price wants to take the place.”

“I ain't real partial to attackin' no damned fort. Sounds like a good way for a man to get his ass killed.”

“Likely. It's a goat-ropin' affair too, like most of these battles. Hell, we lost twenty men today and we're likely to lose twenty times as many iffen to go against a fort.”

“Well, there's enough of us to take the blame thing iffen Price want's it badly enough, only he'll pay for the fort in blood—our blood.”

“We've got over 12,000 men, or so I heard, so we should be able to do the job fast enough.”

“How many do ya reckon the Yanks got?”

“I don't think a fort could hold more than a couple thousand men, but he could have some men dug in outside the walls of the place.”

“Yup, I hear ya. I just wonder how many of our men have guns.”

“Some of our boys ain't even got guns, but I ain't sure how many. Why all the interest in our battles all of a sudden.”

Lowering his head, Franklin said, “This battle today scared the hell right out of me. I thought I was a dead man and more than once.”

“Ya've been in big battles before.”

“Yep, I have at that. Only there was something about this one that got my attention. Sims was kilt running along side of me and Wilcox took a wicked saber cut to his neck right after that. There was a feelin' I got and it scared the hell right out of me. It was like I knew I was goin' to die and could do nothin' to stop it.”

“But ya didn't die.”

Looking up, the old man said, “Nope, but I could have.”

“We all could have, but we didn't. I was scared too and any man with half a mind was afraid, but we still did what needed to be done. Besides, ya don't have to be here. All ya have to do is see the captain and ya'll be sent to the rear.”

“And what, be called a coward? I'm stayin' right where I am, no matter how scared I get.”

“Ya've been in the infantry since '61, nobody will call ya a coward! For God's sakes, man, get out iffen ya can. I surely would.”

Gazing into Bill's eyes, the man asked, “Do ya really think I should?”

Nodding his head, the sergeant replied, “Yep, I do and the sooner the better. The feelin's ya had might have been the good Lord warnin' ya! Ain't no man gonna call ya a coward either, not with me around. Go and do what ya should have done from the start.”

Standing, the old man grinned and said, “I'll do just that.”

Then, holding out his hand he said, “Been nice servin' under ya Sergeant Sanders. Iffen I don't return, ya take care of yourself and keep low in the comin' battles.”

As they shook, Bill replied, “I'll do that! Now, get to the captain and take care of this.”

As the old man walked away, Bill thought, I wish I could walk away like that, but he's an old man. A man his age shouldn't even be in the army.

At dusk the First Sergeant Andy Watkins walked to Bill and said, “Sergeant Thornton and his men will relieve you directly. Ya know, it's been too quiet and that makes me nervous. Them Yanks should have counterattacked us, but they didn't and that causes me to wonder why.”

“Too many of us, I guess.”

“Maybe, just maybe, but it ain't like them at all.”

Bill pushed his hat back and asked, “Where do ya want us to go once relieved?”

“Find ya a spot over on the left side of the company.”

There came a bright flash of lightning behind them and when they turned, thunder cracked loudly in the evening air. Bill saw dark, almost black, clouds rolling in and he knew they were in for rain.

Grinning, the First Sergeant Watkins said, “Have your men use their shelter halves and maybe they'll stay partly dry tonight.”

“Most ain't got none.”

“That's our supply system, outta everything! How in the hell do they expect us to fight a war, when we ain't got half the stuff we need? Check with the supply sergeant and see if any of the shelter halves from dead Yanks were turned in.”

Bill laughed and asked, “Ya sure ya want me to do that? I'm willin' to bet ya right now, he ain't got a single one.”

Shaking his head, the first sergeant replied, “Likely he ain't, but ask anyways. Iffen he ain't got none, hunker down under the trees.”

At that point a group of men dressed in gray and butternut entered the woods and Bill heard Sergeant Thornton say, “Y'all can get back to camp now, we're your relief.”

Walking to Thornton, Bill said, “Glad to see ya made it through that battle!”

“She was a rough one, I'll tell ya that much.”

Turning, Bill spoke to his men, “Move back boys and let's call it a night.”

Returning to the first sergeant Bill asked, “Ya goin' back with us?”

“Nope, I'm gonna stay out here for a spell. I'll be in later.”

Full darkness made walking through the woods slow, as each man tried to avoid roots, rocks and fallen limbs. More than once Bill heard a man fall and then curse.

Too early for a moon and with this rain comin' there won't be one tonight, he thought stepping over a large log.

The camp contained hundreds of small fires and from the woods they looked like fireflies in the darkness of night. Breaking from the forest, Bill ordered Corporal Jenkins to see to the men, while he tried to find some supplies.

He found the supply sergeant, a thin man named Moss, in front of a large tent handing out the evening rations. From what Bill could see, the meal consisted of about three ounces of hog jowl, half a cup of corn meal, even less coffee. The coffee, thanks to the union blockade, wasn't real and was made from a mixture of acorns and chicory.

Seeing Bill approach, Moss called out, “Hey, Bill, I see ya survived the fight!”

“That I did, but it was touch and go for a while there.”

Having another man take his place on the serving line, Moss walked to Bill and asked, “What brings ya here?”

“The sergeant major sent me over to see if ya have any shelter-halves from the Yanks that died earlier.”

“Nary a one. I 'spect the men on the line kept what they needed. Hell, I didn't even get a pair of boots or a single hat. Times are rough for the South, ole son, and it ain't lookin' no better for tomorrow either. Ya might as well take your supper rations while your here.”

Looking down at the meager meal, Bill said, “I can see times are gettin' rough by my supper rations. Ya know, I can remember when we had some decent pork, beans, and even baked bread with our meals. We even had beef a time or two, but, hell, I ain't seen that in over two years.”

Shaking his head as he wiped his hands off, Moss replied, “Ya'll never see them days again. We're about beat is my thoughts on this war.”

“There's still some fight in us, but not for long. We can fight without a lot of things, but food, bullets and powder ain't some of them.

“Sergeant Sanders!” A voice called out in the darkness.

“Over here, on the left side of the serving line.”

Captain Fall neared and said, “Private Franklin will not be rejoinin' your squad. Due to his age, he's been assigned duties other than fightin'.”

Bill laughed, pulled off his hat, and replied “Sir, that's fine. He did one hell of a job for a couple of years there and it was my idea he come and talk with you.”

Fall, his white teeth showing in the pale firelight as he smiled, said, “Well, his fightin' days are over, unless some serious shit hits the stump. Oh, in the mornin', I want your men to lead the company forward.”

“Where we headin'?” Moss asked, hoping to get a hint at least.

“I can only tell you that we're moving toward Fort Davidson.”

“We gonna take that place?” A corporal moving through the chow line asked.

Shrugging, Fall replied, “I don't know if that's our intended objective.”

“I'll tell ya what, for the 25th of September, it's gonna be a wet one!” Bill said and then put his hat back on.

Fall, lowering his voice, said, “We're going right through Pilot Knob and the Arcadia valley, rain or no rain, and our scouts say the place is just swarmin' with Yankees.”

“Well, sir,” Bill said with a frown, “if that's the case, I'd better get back to my men and send them to the chow line. They'll need time to cook and get a good nights rest iffen there's a battle tomorrow.”

“Yes, that would be smart. Remember, I want your squad in front come morning.”

“Yes, sir, we'll be there,” Bill replied and then started walking back to his squad.

When he neared, he called out, “Corporal Jenkins, get the men to the chow line and do 'er now!”

“I was just goin' to do that. What's up?”

“There ain't much grub and if we want to eat, we need to get there now before it's all gone. I got mine, but it ain't much. I'll tell ya what's goin' on directly.”

“Y'all heard the man! Get your rations and then get your asses back here, I don't want to have to come after none of ya.”

When the men had left, Bill moved to a fire he shared with Jenkins, and pulled a small cast iron skillet from his pack. Placing the skillet on a few coals, he dropped the meat into the pan, and then leaned back to listen to it sizzle as it fried. A few minutes later, he sat up and turned the meat with the tip of his pocketknife.

The night was warm, but between lightning strikes he could still see the dark clouds overhead, and there was not even a hint of a breeze he could feel. Last night bright stars had sparkled like diamonds in the black sky, but he suspected tomorrow would be a wet day. He was growing tired of the war, as well as the army, but he wasn't the kind of man to desert. He'd sworn an oath to the South when he joined and to Bill Sanders, his word was binding. Either he would see this all the way through or he'd die fighting for a cause everyone knew was already lost.

I wonder if Clara Sue has waited for me like she promised. The way things are going in this war, she might not even be alive. I wish she'd write, so I'd know more about what's goin' on and that she's safe. What do I do if she don't love me no more? What iffen she's been killed?

I need to stop thinkin' like this, it ain't good for my mind to worry about things I don't know nothin' about. Well, the meats done, maybe eatin' will take my mind off of home.

Pulling his meat from the pan wit the tip of his knife blade, he stirred the cornmeal in the grease and watched it cook. As it bubbled in the hot oil, Bill finished his pork in two bites. After a few minutes, he removed the pan from the fire and spooned the blistering cornmeal into his mouth. His supper soon finished, he placed his Southern coffee in a tin cup and placed it near the fire to boil, knowing he'd not drink it all. The South had tried many substitutes for real coffee and in Bill's opinion none of them were worth a damn.

The men began to return and each complained about the poor rations.

James shook his head and said, “Piss poor doin's fer a man's supper. I do declare, my hogs back home ate more than I'm gettin' these days.”

Corporal Jenkins laughed, dropped his meat in his skillet, and then in a serious tone said, “Yup, it's a shame we was kept back followin' the battle, or we could have gone through some Yankee packs. They've always got food on 'em.”

Isaac Moreland, a new private from Mississippi, gave a weak smile and asked, “Is our food always this bad?”

Then suddenly dropping his meat, Isaac added, “Good God, there's worms in the hog jowl!”

“Usually is,” Bill said with a flat voice.

Gazing into Bill's eyes, Isaac replied, “I ain't eatin' this!”

Jenkins laughed again and said, “Ya'll be eatin' it within a week! There ain't nothin' else to eat son, unless ya take it from a dead Yank.”

“That's what I'll do then. No wonder y'all are so thin and look like hell warmed over, it's the food!”

Smiling, Bill replied, “Food, little shelter from the weather, marchin' all the time, and little rest.”

“I weighed two hundred pounds when I joined the army,” James said, “and now I'm down pretty close to a hundred and twenty.” He reached over and turned his meat with a rough cast fork.

A bright flash of lightning reached across the sky, breaking into numerous white fingers searching the black horizon, and lit up the countryside. A sharp crack of thunder sounded and rain began to fall harder, soaking the men in a few seconds.

“Move up under some of the bigger trees!” Bill ordered as he picked up his cup and began to walk toward a large pine.

“It won't do no good, I'm as wet as a big ole catfish!” James yelled out and then laughed.

“Cut the chatter and keep yer voices low!” Jenkins commanded as he made his way to a big oak tree.

Sitting near Bill, Isaac asked, “I guess we aint' got no dry clothes, do we?”

“Son, the only clothes we own in the whole glorious Southern army are bein' worn right now.”

“Damn it! Why didn't people tell me things were this bad!”

“Would ya have stayed home then?” Bill asked, interested in the young man's response.

A couple of minutes of silence followed, as Isaac gave the question some thought, and then in a voice just above a whisper he said, “No, I would have joined anyway.”

“I figured as much.”