Dawn Drums

By Robert Walton

May of 1864 was perhaps the Civil War's most terrible month. Dawn Drums begins at this crucial time and its action coincides closely with the sesquicentennial of the events it depicts.

Told by the voices of Abraham Lincoln, Clara Barton, Almira Martin, General Grant and an assorted host of other Civil War participants, including a small group of "contrabands," Robert Walton's narrative offers an utterly unique and riveting view of the Civil War's last year.

Dawn Drums will enable readers to clearly understand the appalling war that divided a nation. Despite the Civil War's horror and savagery, the main characters of this truly gripping, historical novel emerge as heroes who, even today, remain inspirational and noble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonlight Mesa Associates
• Release date: Mar 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938628184

Robert Walton

Robert Walton is a retired teacher with thirty-six years of service at San Lorenzo Middle School. He and Phyllis, his wife of 40 years, reside in King City, California. They have two sons - Jeremy, professor of Anthropology at Georgetown University, and Jon, artist and photographer in New York City. Robert is a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. He’s made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite. Three of his short stories about climbing were published in the Sierra Club's "Ascent". His short story "Dogwood Dream" won first place in New Millennium Writing's 2011 short fiction contest. His novella "Vienna Station" won the Galaxy prize and is available for Kindle on Amazon. Most recently, his short story "Like a thorny Child" won the Central Coast Writers spring writing contest.

Book preview

Introduction

Dawn Drums is intended for young adult readers and up, and coincides closely with the sesquicentennial of the events I’ve depicted. May of 1864 was perhaps the Civil War’s most terrible and crucial month. It is also mostly untreated by novelists.

I’ve used first person narrators throughout in an attempt to infuse the story with passion and immediacy. My historical narrators include Abraham Lincoln, Clara Barton, Harriet Tubman and Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. My fictional narrators include soldiers, nurses and escaped slaves. Many fictional treatments of the Civil War subtract women and slavery from their stories, not mine. I was especially interested in Clara Barton’s experiences and they became pivotal to this book. Also, once the war began, slaves voted with their feet. Tens of thousands fled slavery and joined the Union cause. I wanted to share and credit their sacrifices. Lastly, I admire Abraham Lincoln. Young Americans don’t know nearly enough about him. I hope that my portrayal of him and the other characters in this book will intrigue all readers about our shared history. I’ve included a bibliography in hopes that many will continue to explore that history.

It concerns me more than I can say that competing versions of what happened during our Civil War still divide us. I hope that this book will make a small contribution toward creating a healing consensus on the stories we share.

Robert Walton

Dawn Drums

They march again to war,

Sniffling, shuffling, voices muffled,

Through dawn’s uncertain door

Youth and man, rich and poor,

Through campfires’ smothered smokes

They march again to war,

From college, farm and store

They carry loaded muskets

Through dawn’s uncertain door

Damp drums tapping, four by four,

Meadow mists like ghosts ahead,

They march again to war

Black cannon mouths, fresh gore,

Shattered limbs and death await

Through dawn’s uncertain door

Flags yet furled

And bayonets sheathed,

They march again to war

Through dawn’s uncertain door

Abraham Lincoln

Ford’s Theater

I settled into my red plush rocking chair and could not restrain a sigh of relief. Its familiar contours and the deep burgundy den of our theater box were soothing to me beyond the modest comforts intended by the theater manager, though I didn’t feel I could fully enter a play’s imaginary world this evening. Battle’s imminence in Virginia weighed upon my mind, but appearances had to be maintained. I glanced to my left. Mary was deep in animated conversation with Clara Harris. I looked out upon the entering theatergoers. Gentlemen bowed and gestured gallantly with their arms as they attended their ladies. Skirts bustled and rustled as the ladies took their seats. Faces – a worried mother’s, a somewhat stout lieutenant’s, a serious-looking young woman’s, many more – peered up at me in hopes of divining my mood and thereby the future. I was accustomed to this and gazed back at all of them with what I hoped was an amiable smile upon my lips.

Colonel Robert Warren, a promising cavalry officer, entered the box and sat immediately behind me. I turned to him. Good evening, Colonel.

Warren possessed a high forehead, an open countenance and a ready smile. His smile greeted me now. And to you, Mr. President.

I leaned toward him confidentially. Did I ever tell you the story of the farmer and the bull?

Warren’s eyes sparkled. No, Mr. President, I’m sorry to say you never did.

Well, there was a wily farmer who lived close to Springfield, and every day he’d walk by his neighbor’s pasture.

Yes?

He’d walk right by his neighbor’s mean bull. That bull wasn’t God’s smartest creature, and the farmer couldn’t help teasing it now and then, reaching through the rail fence and smacking its backside just to see if it was awake. But one day that bull got loose.

Warren leaned forward. What happened?

Well, just as the farmer came up to the fence, he realized the rails were down. That bull charged right through, horns lowered and mouth frothing. The farmer ran for his life, ran straight to a big oak tree. He began running circles around that tree with the bull after him. He ran so fast that he caught up with the bull’s rear end. I sat back.

Warren knew me. He grinned. And?

I grinned back. He grabbed hold of the bull’s tail and gave it a yank. Instead of stopping, the bull just got madder and ran faster. The farmer saw he couldn’t let go, and that set him to cussing.

Warren tilted his head, still grinning. And?

I think he’s running around that tree to this day with that bull’s tail in his hand! I sat back. Just so, our Army is a mean bull, and Bobby Lee is about to grab its tail.

Warren laughed. I trust you are right, sir.

I rocked in my comfortable chair.

Warren continued, The Army of the Potomac will succeed this time, sir. When it crosses the Rapidan River into Virginia, it will succeed.

I nodded. It must. Richmond must fall.

Warren frowned slightly and did not reply.

I glanced back at him. But you know, Grant is the first general I’ve had.

I’m not sure I understand, sir.

I nodded. In three long years of war, he’s the first general I’ve had. No impossibilities!

Impossibilities, sir?

Surely, Colonel, you know how it’s been with all the rest? As soon as I put a man in command of the army, he put the responsibility of success or failure on me. They all wanted me to be the general in charge. Now, it isn’t so with Grant. He doesn’t ask impossibilities of me, and he’s the first general I’ve had that didn’t. The coming battles will decide the winner of this war and the future of this nation. Grant has settled that burden upon his own shoulders. I trust those shoulders.

Warren nodded. As do we all, sir.

The theater lights dimmed. We turned our attention toward the stage.

§

General Grant

May 6th, 1864

The Wilderness, Virginia

Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant sat on a stump in gathering darkness and whittled a stick, a cigar clamped between his teeth. His black hat was pushed back on his head. His blue private’s coat, adorned with three stars on each shoulder, was unbuttoned. His brown cavalry boots, more than somewhat scuffed, straddled a small mound of cigar butts and a somewhat larger one of wood shavings. Muskets fired in the near distance, though not the crash of volleys, nor the hissing crackle of sustained combat. Only single shots chased moving shadows back into the trees.

General Meade, Commander of the Army of the Potomac, approached him and came to attention. Sir!

Grant looked up, his gray eyes steady and bright.

Meade said, I have reports that Sedgwick’s 6th Corps has been routed and twenty thousand men are in flight toward the river crossings. The woods are afire behind them and they’ve abandoned the wounded. The right side of our army has been destroyed. This is a crisis that cannot be looked upon too seriously. I know Lee’s methods well by past experience; he will throw his whole army between us and the Rapidan and cut us off completely from our communications! We must retreat immediately!

Grant looked steadily at Meade, but made no reply.

Meade cleared his throat. What are your orders, sir?

Grant sat still for a moment and stared past Meade into the tangled forest, stared at the glow of fires where wounded men burned. At last, he folded his clasp knife and rose.

§

Almira Martin

In May of 1864 I sat alone in my father’s house. He had gone to Philadelphia on business in March and died there. After the funeral, I sat for days in close silence broken only by the ticking of the hall clock. The walls pressed on me like uninvited hands. When I could stand it no longer, I visited Jacob.

Red earth crumbled from the edge of an open grave. I gathered black-eyed-susans on my walk to the Elizabethtown Cemetery, intending to place them on Jacob’s headstone and pray, but that trickle of blood-colored earth halted me. I shivered with sudden revulsion and, driven by some imminence I could neither name nor define, took the next train to Washington.

I leaned back on the coach’s hard bench and watched telegraph poles flash past the cinder-flecked window. No one sat near me and the rhythmic clack of the wheels on rail junctions soothed me, allowed me to think.

Jacob died at Antietam with thousands of young men, their lives crumbling together and trickling away like so much red earth. Death strode there – his footsteps shell bursts, his breath powder smoke, his million fingers bullets. Now Death sits within my father’s clock and mocks my sorrow, mocks my hope that the lost lives weren’t meaningless. He waits for me, expects me to join him, and I must. How am I not to take his invitation personally? How was I to know that Jacob’s bullet was mine too?

***

I rented a room in a boarding house on H Street. I was distracted at first, for the city was filled with bustle and soldiers. Watching the soldiers march with sturdy purpose, it came to me that I was of no more account than a mayfly or a cobweb.

I went to Ford’s Theater that night, seeking diversion. I found it, for President Lincoln was there. Framed in flowing gold drapes and flag bunting, he occupied the presidential box to the side of the stage. It was the first time I had seen him, and I couldn’t help often glancing his way. He looked back at me once and, so it seemed, smiled upon me.

The lights then dimmed and the curtains parted. I had hoped to see Booth act, but he was not performing this evening. My mood soon soured. The play was frivolous, and never before had I heard such trivial words spoken so insipidly. I noticed that the President, too, was not engaged. He turned repeatedly to speak to someone behind him. Disgusted with both the presentation and myself, I left before the second act and secured a carriage outside the theater.

The interior of the carriage smelled of leather, old cigars, and horse. I cried silently as it jounced through potholes and mud. My tears flowed and flowed but brought no relief from the bleak reality of my uselessness. When we halted before my boarding house, I called to the driver. My voice was a husk, and my words came from some unknown source. I told him to drive to the riverfront.

***

I walked by the river for some time. Its gentle lapping and plashing soothed and attracted me. Every time my mind became settled enough to carry through with my intention, a noisome smell enveloped me like a drunkard’s breath. Repelled and revolted, I cried silently and continued my search for clean water. At last, I came to a disused jetty. I walked to its end and stood poised there, like a gull the instant before taking flight.

A woman’s voice sounded behind me, clear and firm. It is none of my affair if you wish to take your life. However, you could be of great use to me for the next week or two if you reconsider.

I turned.

The woman took a step toward me and offered her hand. I am Clara Barton. You are?

I had not expected to speak again, and my voice echoed as if it rose through deep water. Almira, Almira Martin.

Almira, can you read and write?

I nodded. I can.

I have war work to do and I need your help.

My help?

I’m bound for the hospitals in Fredericksburg. Will you take ship with me?

When?

Now.

***

My few possessions came aboard the James Kenton just as sailors cast dripping hawsers onto the pier. The great wheel at the Kenton’s stern groaned and turned. We moved into the Potomac’s current a few hours before dawn. The city’s lights soon looked as distant as stars. The Kenton’s driving wheel took up its rhythmic crushing of the Potomac’s waters.

Clara stood at the rail beside me. We watched the wake’s flow together in silence for many moments, breathing in the fresh scent of the river. At last, she shivered and wrapped her woolen cloak more tightly about her shoulders. It’s cold for May.

It is.

She was silent again and then turned toward me. It was too dark for me to see her face, but I felt her gaze upon me. She spoke then, quietly. Only six weeks ago I could not raise my spirits, and the old temptation to go from all the world came over me.

I did not answer.

She turned away. I think it will come to that some day. It is a struggle to keep in society at all. I sometimes want to leave all.

You wished to kill yourself?

She chuckled. What intelligent woman doesn’t from time to time? I’m surprised more don’t, given the way we’re consigned to corners and expected to sit in them obediently.

I looked at her with surprise. Even you?

Even I.

But you’re the angel of the battlefield.

So the newspapers name me. She smiled. Though I am no angel. I do what must be done, or at least all that is possible.

A campfire on the far bank cast fingers of rusty light toward us. I watched them clutch at our wake’s ripples. What must we do tomorrow?

Clara took a deep breath before she answered me. Make no mistake. Great horrors await us.

We will be close to the fighting?

She shook her head. I think not, not at first.

What is battle like?

She sighed. It is far worse than anyone believes, all thunder, blood and carnage. At South Mountain, our wagon wheels cut within six feet of yet unburied dead. A mingled mass of blankets, coats, canteens, broken wheels, and cannon balls which had done this deadly work – the very earth plowed with shot. It was a fearful way to learn of a battle, a hard page to read. We climbed over the hills and ledges to find the last wounded man and see that he got medical attention, then trod through the field to answer screams and whimpers. The last I saw of that field of death was the lingering haze of smoke and a hideous pile of mangled and dismembered bodies. That was two years ago.

I looked at her. Haven’t better arrangements for the wounded been made now?

She nodded. They have. She looked at me. But the armies have also made better arrangements for killing.

***

Dull dawn greeted us at Fredericksburg. Scarves of fog drifted over the river and clouds touched Marye’s Heights beyond the town. It was not cold, but humid air clung to us like sweaty arms. Rain was imminent. Dozens of Army ambulances, covered flatbed wagons, stood mired to their axles in a nearby muddy field. Vague sounds of distress came from them. Clara glared with fury at the still loaded wagons for a long moment. The crew was already stacking boxes of supplies near our bags. Clara signaled them to follow and forged down the gangplank. She knew where to go.

We walked less than a block and came to the Old National Hotel. Slipshod repairs of shell holes made its façade seem tattered and somewhat dowdy. Clara did not pause at the door. She flung it open and entered. I followed.

I followed and stopped short. The floor was carpeted with writhing, moaning men. It reeked of blood and excrement.

Clara looked at me grimly. This is a staging hospital.

I ground my teeth together so that

Reviews for Dawn Drums

[glenrh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In Dawn Drums, Walton has created a historical fiction novel that doesn’t seem like one. The characters, both historical and fictional, seem plucked from the environs of the war itself. If I had no background in the history of the period I would not have been able to distinguish between historical characters and the fictional ones. The characters are crafted in such a way as to have strengths and weaknesses that are the joint heritage of humanity; because of this many will be able to connect to the history though the lives of the characters in a way that often doesn’t happen in a classroom. The afterward makes a great jumping off point to teach how the War Between the States effected subsequent history; I can imagine many lessons based on the later lives of the characters. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and will put it on my school bookshelf to be used as a common core resource for both history and English language arts.