The American Game

By Jeff McArthur

For three long years, the American Civil War has raged across the nation, scorching the land, leaving thousands dead, and tearing families apart. The endless fighting has hardened the hearts of soldiers of both sides. But on a lonely field in mid-Tennessee, some of those soldiers will come face to face with one another in a series of ball games. Stalled in a stalemate, the soldiers start out with small bets on who is better at the game; but as the wagers increase, so do the risks. In order to play, they will have to accomplish what their governments were incapable of doing to avoid the war, compromise. Each man will bring his own ideas and rules to the sport, and together they formulate their own form of the American game. But they have to be cautious, for soon the war will catch up with them, and they will be forced into conflict once again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff McArthur
• Release date: Oct 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311564474

Jeff McArthur

Jeff McArthur was born in Nebraska where he began writing before he could read. He went to school in New York, then moved to Los Angeles to begin a film career. In the past couple years he has written a comic book series and published three books. His most recent one, Pro Bono, has just been released, and his upcoming books include a new Relic Worlds novel, and The American Game, about a baseball game between enemy soldiers in the American Civil War.

Book preview

The American Game

by Jeff McArthur

Copyright 2014 by Jeff McArthur

Smashwords Edition

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One – The Dawn’s Early Light

Chapter Two – What So Proudly We Hailed

Chapter Three – Whose Broad Stripes and Bright Stars

Chapter Four – Through the Perilous Fight

Chapter Five – Proof Through the Night

Chapter Six – O’er the Ramparts We Watched

Chapter Seven – Our Flag was Still There

Chapter Eight – The Twilight’s Last Gleaming

Chapter Nine – Gallantly Streaming

Chapter Ten – Does That Banner Yet Wave

Chapter Eleven – Land of the Free

Chapter Twelve – Home of the Brave

Chapter Thirteen – Play Ball

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Baseball was not invented by any one individual. It’s a unique sport in that it was created over a long period of time by many individuals all across America. From the farmland fields to the town squares of the cities to the prairies of the west to the plantations of the south, children and adults everywhere built upon their own versions of the game with a stick, a ball, and a series of bases one had to run around before scoring.

It began with immigrants and the games they brought with them, such as rounders and cricket. These games were already evolving, and when they arrived in the new country and were played with other immigrants and American born citizens, they altered even more. Everyone put their own spin on the game, making it fit the environment and culture in which they were playing.

Rules were typically based on what was convenient at the time. For instance, if a farmer’s field had six trees in it, he may have six bases, or if there were two, one might say that the batter had to run around both of the trees before getting back to a rock that served as home base. The vast majority of people who lived in cities and towns got used to playing in town squares where there were four corners, thus town ball was born, with four bases and a home position.

Rules were also based on social norms and cultural standards. Examples include catching the ball before it bounced on the ground, which, before the days of gloves, was a way to prove how manly one was. Striking out, which was not a normal rule in the early days, was sometimes instituted to shorten a game, and make it more watchable for the ever-growing number of spectators.

Thus, these games, which many were beginning to call base ball, (two words,) were as diverse as the people and regions in which they were played. Though leagues began to form around the New York and New Jersey areas in the 1840s, and rulebooks began to be formalized in that specific region, people who played the game in other parts of the country continued their own versions, and many did not even hear about this northeastern style. Most Americans played as they always had, and when someone moved from one area to another, they had to learn the rules of the new region.

Thus, by the middle of the 19th century, base ball, town ball, stick ball, cricket, goal ball, fletch-catch, rounders, lapta, stool- ball, whatever one wanted to call it, was shaping up to be the primary game in America, even though it had no formalized method of play.

When the Civil War came about in 1861, men from all over the country were crowded together in camps north and south. Many had never been far from their homes before. Few understood the cultures of their fellow Americans. Playing games with them during long lulls in the fighting were ways for them to break the ice. Card games were the most popular, and betting on anything and everything. Gambling was the ultimate pastime.

Whenever the men wanted to play a physical game, it was almost always a form of base ball. How they played it and with what rules was based on what states the men were from. Those who assumed everyone played as they did were up for a major surprise, and rules had to be discussed before the games began to avoid arguments.

These games, whether cards or base ball, were obviously played between soldiers on the same side most of the time. However, the American Civil War was unique in that, though it was one of the bloodiest wars to that date, it was also one of the most civil in that soldiers treated enemies with a higher level of affability. There were many instances of enemy soldiers coming out of their entrenchments and talking to one another between battles. Pickets regularly shared newspapers with each other, and traded coffee for tobacco, or other goods. Burial details many times worked together, and after, sat and chatted. Others just came out under a white flag in the evening, not surrendering, but just to meet with an old friend, and sit and chat with those who were, just hours earlier, mortal enemies, and would be again in the morning. Many eye witness accounts describe family members finding one another in these ways, some locating old friends, and some making new ones. It must have been surreal to see men who had been trying to kill one another chatting it up in the evening, or during a siege, only to go back and have to kill each other the next day.

Sometimes these men took advantage of the opportunity to play games with the enemy. What exactly happened during these games has not been recorded in history, but those who witnessed them were struck by the unusualness of it.

But it isn’t as odd as one might think, if one considers the time. Of course, there is the fact that it was one country fighting itself. As many differences as there were between the people, they did share an overall culture. Also, the fighting style of the time was almost game-like. There were rules and codes of honor one was supposed to follow, and almost all did. For instance, in one battle where a now-famous general saw a white flag raise and wave, he began to ride into the field, ready to take the enemy surrender. The enemy general, rather than order him shot, stood up, ordered his men to stop firing, and called out, That wasn’t a white flag, general! We were just signaling to our own men! Go back before you get shot! The enemy general rode back to his line, and once safely in place, the men of both sides resumed firing.

When enemies played games together, their rules were swapped, and they spread out from there. Thus, Southern forms of base ball and cards influenced Northern forms, and vice versa.

The sides also had to do what their governments could not, compromise, in order to have a game. These compromises also became rules which sprinkled into the mix and became part of what we know of the game today.

By the time the war ended, rules from all over the country had been tried and tested together. Good ideas flourished, and bad ones, or rules that didn’t fit, fell to the side. Men went back home and played the game with rules they had learned from others in different parts of the country, and even further developed it. The popularity of it grew, and caused publishers to create rulebooks, and distributors to sell them. The rules that went into these pamphlets were a direct result of what men from all the different states had done.

As the game progressed, and the published materials were tried and practiced across the country, more revisions were made, and the game was polished and perfected until at last it became the game of baseball, as we know it today, at about the turn of the 20th century. To get there, it had been formed, tested, played and revised by hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people. It had come to this country the same way they had, as an immigrant who was changed by the land, the culture, and the other people who had come from their own countries. And finally, the game was formed by the most American thing of all; that most overlooked and underappreciated talent of our country, the very foundation of our being. Compromise.

Compromise made it possible to form a country made of such diverse cultures, and of such a broad scope. It made it possible to tie together such differing colonies, to create states with varying idealisms. It made it possible to stretch from sea to shining sea, and yet remain together as one cohesive nation. And when these values were impressed upon this game, they built it in the same way. It is altogether appropriate that such a game was forged during a time when the country was reforming itself. Baseball was literally reformed with it, and its invention is one and the same with the healing of our nation.

The game was not conceived by one person, not formed by an individual committee, not brought over by a single culture. It was a creation of the people, by the people, and for the people.

In these ways, baseball truly is the American game.

To my mother

Who was with me

through all the years

I tried to get this story told

"I see great things in baseball. It’s our game,

an American game.

It will heal our wounds and bring our people together."

Walt Whitman

Chapter One

The Dawn’s Early Light

The sun splashed down across the tall, tan grass of the Tennessee prairie, reflecting blindingly bright, like halos, against the heads of the children as they ran like a flight of birds. To an ignorant observer, their movements would look chaotic, unreasoned, dictated by chaos, or perhaps the wind. A more astute observer might notice the small, horse-hide ball they were chasing, and if they knew the game, they would recognize the fist-sized object to be a base ball, known to others as a town ball, and to others still as a stick ball, or any one of the other monikers it had been given by players over the years.

One of the children, a blonde boy with more freckles than pale peach on his skin, picked it up and looked around, gathering the situation and how it had changed in the past few seconds while he was leaning down to get it. Spotting the runner nearing second base, he threw the ball hard to a girl who was closer to third. She wore a dress that was tied up high so she could run, and she had dark skin, the shade of tudor oak.

It was the kind of color that would have made her as much a part of the property as the chair Mr. Mason was sitting on as he watched the children play on his front twenty acres when he was a child himself. But today she could run as free as anyone else.

The old man had worn a rut into the wood of the patio from leaning back and forth; a habit fueled by anxiety, or age, or perhaps simply from being deep in thought, a place Mr. Mason often went these days. He silently watched the neighborhood children play and halfway disappeared in his mind, seeing his own past; seeing himself there on the field with his brother… and the others.

The loud squawk of a goose snapped him out of his daze, and he looked in the direction of the sound to try to understand why such an animal was on his land. Instead he saw the black, squared top of a carriage bouncing above the tips of the wheat field. When the boxy object emerged swiftly on the other side led by no horses and followed by an ongoing sputtering sound, Mr. Mason realized that it was one of those new horseless carriages everyone had been going on about. Some called it the automo-something. He had seen them one or two times before and had paid little attention. Life was too far along to try something new. And there was little out there too far for a horse to take him that he cared to see.

It had taken Mr. Mason a long time to appreciate what he had; the home, the land, the large sky above; neighbors close enough to care, but far enough to give him space. He had once thought such a life dull and plain, and had come round to realize its quiet beauty.

He was drifting in his thoughts again, and the familiar crack of the bat against the ball snapped him out of it. Some boy who was up had hit the ball and it was flying far into the field, past the hewn grass and into the tall, untamed prairie where the outfielders would have to search for it.

The boy who had been stopped at second earlier by the black girl now stuck his tongue out at her as he passed, and she did the same in return. He then shook his butt at her, slowing to make fun, touching the third base, then turning toward fourth and strutting toward it, mocking the crowd of children searching for the ball.

One of them found it and threw it in to the fourth baseman. The runner’s eyes jumped, alarmed, and he rounded the final base and headed home.

The boy at the base, a cousin of the runner, nabbed the ball and chased after. The two were huffing, pumping their legs, and laughing in spurts.

Mr. Mason watched intensely, leaning forward in his chair, studying what would happen next.

The baseman kept running, and pulled back his arm, ready to throw the ball. The home baseman held out his hands, urging him to throw the ball to him. The boy from fourth wasn’t going to do that. His eyes were set on his cousin.

They were close to home now. The fourth baseman was directly behind him. He threw his hand forward, and released the ball. The ball flew out of his hand and hit the runner square in the back. It landed so hard that the boy flew forward, and crashed down toward the base.

Sergeant Thomas Mason hit the cold, hard ground full force. He did not know exactly why he had thrown himself down; if it had been a conscious or unconscious decision, or if he had had any choice in the matter, but had rather fallen because of the shaking, or the concussion of an explosive round. All he knew was that he had a lump in the back of his pants. In the moment of impact, during his moment of unconsciousness, his bowels had forced out the few contents of his intestines. After how little he had eaten the past few days, he was surprised that there had been anything to evacuate.

He felt the swish of the cannonball as it passed over his head. He heard the familiar sound like twigs breaking mixed with the splatter of rotten apples hitting a wall, and a scream which was cut short as the iron globe ripped the man who had been behind Thomas apart. Far be it for Thomas to feel relieved, but rather he felt ashamed. ‘I should be standing like a hero, facing the enemy’s bullets. But instead I’m clutching the ground like a rat with a load in my pants.’

Around him, Thomas noticed that all the rest of the men in his line were lying face down. Had someone ordered them to lie prone? No. Even if someone had, no one could have heard an order over the loud crash of explosions that had just rocked them. They had all fallen in terror. The earth itself was exploding beneath them.

He could not see far, only about twenty men in each direction until a thick layer of fog faded the rest away into a dull gray blanket of mist. Some took cover in small indentations, they could hardly be called craters, in the earth that the explosive cannonballs had created. Others clung so tightly to the ground that it looked like they were trying to will themselves inside of it. Beneath the aggressive roaring of battle, he could hear quiet whimpering; the voices who had, when marching through town and in front of the ladies, boomed with confidence and declared that they would whip the Yankees. Now they lay in sadness, fear, or, worst of all, shame.

Thomas spotted two more cannonballs ambling out of the smoke toward them. It was as though they were monsters drifting out of the murkiness of the sea in both slow motion and faster than lightning. Thomas could not react, only watch in horrid fascination. They dropped toward the ground in arcs, crossing each other and flying out in a V shape. When they hit, everything shook, and Thomas felt himself thrown into the air. He landed hard on his stomach again, just in time for the second to land, and the earth came up to punch him in the chest again.

The cannonballs bounced up and flew past him. One drifted back into the fog to his left, and all he heard was more breaking twigs and rotten apples, and the sound of a man screaming.

To his right, he saw a cannonball land on a man. He had been clutching the earth, holding tight to a tuft of grass, his fingers dug deep into the mud as if it was his whole body. The iron ball had bounced a couple times before it landed square on his back. The top and bottom of his body burst open and his innards squirted out like black-red molasses. His head jolted to the side in an unnatural tilt, his eyes wide open in a horrified and pained look that expressed his very last moment of life.

Chunks of the man’s organs splattered onto Haywood. He shivered, like a naked man in the cold. He had been whimpering for a while now, even when standing, even when he didn’t appear scared. The look in his eyes expressed the simplicity with which he saw the world, one of bewilderment and wonder. He had no notion of what was going on around him, any more than a child understands the details of their parents’ job.

There were more booming sounds in the distance, beyond the reach of their eyes. Haywood rose up his head to peer into the fog; to see what was coming.

Duncan, his friend with wild, stringy hair that was used to hanging from a much plumper body, jumped atop him and pulled him down. Just as he did, a cannonball raced out of the mist, crashed into the ground just in front of them, shooting mud into their faces that felt like tiny bee stings. They felt the thud of the ground punch into their chests each time the ball hit, and Haywood yanked, wanting to run, but Duncan held him down with all his might. The ball bounced into the air again, arching just above their heads, directly where Haywood’s face had been. It landed behind them, then bounced again into the air, and disappeared into the dark gray mist beyond.

Haywood’s body heaved, and Duncan knew he was not holding him down anymore, but holding him tight, trying to make him believe they would be okay.

Thomas listened intently. All he heard were the booms of the enemy cannon, the whistling of the iron balls, and their smashing sounds as they bounced across the field, mixed in with the cries of pains of his comrades as they did their grisly damage. Thomas heard no orders from his own lines. No one was even trying to keep order.

He leaned up and looked around. He saw no one taking charge. All he saw was the small, wiry figure of the redheaded bugle boy curled up in an almost fetal position, clutching his bugle.

The young man looked back at Thomas, mud splattered all over his face, shivering slightly. Then he smiled wryly, as though someone had just told a dirty joke. Lovely day for a war, huh?

Where’s the lieutenant? Thomas asked.

The wiry little man shrugged.

Who’s in charge? Thomas persisted.

Looks like you, the man said, still clutching his instrument.

Thomas heard a couple more booms and ducked down. The ground shook once, then twice. Then two more cannon balls hurled out of the swirling grayness ahead of them. They bounced past Thomas and the thin man next to him. Thomas looked around to see if the others were down. The man laying behind him peeked his head up to see what the sounds were all about. One of the cannon balls flew right into his face. There was only a momentary cracking sound and the head was gone, flying into the mist with the iron ball. Blackened blood gushed from the neck for a moment like a fountain as the body remained frozen in place. It fell to the ground and the spray of his fluid reduced to a thick stream belching from his empty neck.

Thomas turned back to the frightened little soldier next to him. We can’t stay here, he said. We do, and we all die. Come on. On your feet. He grabbed the redhead and stood up.

Too surprised to pull away, the man just sputtered and finally got out, Have ya lost yer head?

No, and I don’t intend to. Everyone up! Thomas shouted as he held forward his musket and pulled a Minnie ball out of his pack.

The men around him hesitated. Some half stood, others rose to their feet, and still others hugged the ground even further. The redhead at his side hunched over, watching Thomas and looking at the others, curious how they would react.

Barely regarding them, Thomas shouted, Stand up and face the enemy like men! We’re not rodents who would be shot in our holes! On your feet men of the South! We shall show ‘em what bein’ real men is all about!

As he spoke, he could sense through his peripheral vision that others were standing. Soon, more were up than not, and the effect on those still cowering was to shame them to their feet.

Haywood shook Duncan off of himself and rose. Duncan tugged a moment, but knew his friend was right, and after a moment, stood up as well, picking up Haywood’s gun from the ground and handing it to him, then inspecting his own.

The redhead saw that Thomas was having an effect, and figured that if this was to happen, they might as well get in order, so he placed the bugle to his mouth and blew a weak sounding call to formation. The men rushed to form up along a line stretching out from Thomas.

Sergeant Vincent Stivens fell in on the opposite side of Thomas. Where are the colors? Vincent asked.

Thomas glanced around briefly, suddenly realizing the regimental flag was nowhere to be seen. After only a moment, he gave up and continued ramming his Minnie ball into his rifle. Don’t know.

Can’t move forward without the colors, Vincent insisted.

No need for ‘em, Thomas said, not even looking at Vincent.

How’re the boys gonna stay organized?

We got the best bugler in the county right here, Thomas said, nodding his head momentarily to the small redhead next to him. Why he can blow the paint off a fence. Can’t you?

The man hesitated a moment, looking at Thomas, whose determined blue eyes stared at him through splotches of mud. He took in a breath, nodded, and said, Yessir, I can. Did so last week.

Vincent shook his head. We shouldn’t be maneuverin’ without the lieutenant and the colors.

Thomas ignored him, continuing to stare at the bugle boy. What’s your name?

Peterson. Cooter Peterson. My buddies call me Coot.

Well, I ain’t your buddy, Peterson, Thomas said, still deathly serious, but with a slight grin of over-confidence, but I may just be the man you die next to. So let’s show ‘em what for.

Cooter never enjoyed talk of death, but he liked the way the sergeant spoke, so he lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew the command to ready their weapons with a loud, smooth clarity that broke through the thick fog and straightened the men. As if moved like marionettes by the music, they snapped into position with their guns raised. Those whose weapons were not fully loaded rushed to get the Minnie balls into place, ramming them down into their barrels, or tossing their ramrods into the ground so they could be ready to fire.

Duncan noticed that Haywood had dropped his Minnie ball, and didn’t correct him, but rather finished readying his own gun. They all heard Thomas shout the order to aim. Duncan watched where Haywood was aiming, and pointed his gun in the exact spot, into the slowly swirling fog.

Looking out at the void, Vincent asked, What do we aim at? There’s nothing there!

They’re out there, all right, Thomas said quietly, almost a whisper, as if to himself. Then he shouted, Fire!

Without a weapon, Cooter leaned forward, peering into the fog, hoping he could see something. He saw nothing, but he heard a few pained moans just beyond the wall of fog. He heard the crunching of the bodies on the ground, some with one loud thump, others with a crack, then a thud, the sound of those who fell to their knees first, struggled to stay up, but lost the battle against their own failing anatomies.

Then came the steady snapping sounds of boots marching toward them, and out of the dark mist, a long line of blue faded into view. They were still not fully visible, and looked like dark apparitions when they stopped, the sound of their boots taking one last solid step echoing through the stillness. A layer of fog waved over them like a shallow tide of water. The Confederate men could hear the soldiers chattering within the ranks, encouraging one another, telling each other to get ready, pointing out the enemy, and giving orders. It was much worse, hearing their voices, knowing that the owner of each one would do everything in his power to see them dead.

Vincent noticed their flag. They still had their colors, and probably a full complement of command.

Thomas ignored all that and told the men to do what they were already doing, reload. Then he tore off the top of the paper wrapping that held the black powder, and part of the contents flew out into his face.

A single Yankee voice shouted out from the dark line in the fog. Ready! He was repeated by several others all along the line, which stretched out and disappeared into the mist in both directions. The rattling sound of guns being handled by their owners resounded all along the dark wall of soldiers.

The Confederate men reloaded as fast as they could. Duncan made sure Haywood put his Minnie ball inside the tube correctly this time. They had a lot of Yankees to kill before they would be safe.

Aim! the Union commander called out.

Thomas held his breath as he poured the black powder into his rifle and watched as the line in front of him rose up their guns like a firing squad. There was nothing they could do but stand there, waiting for the shots to come, like they were condemned prisoners on their execution day.

Fire! came the order, and the line exploded in white and red flashes and black smoke. This was followed a moment later by a mixture of the sounds of zips in the air, thuds, screams, and crumbling bodies, followed by cries of the wounded, rattling bones of the dying, and shouts of encouragement from the survivors.

It was Thomas’s turn. Ready! he shouted. The men hurried, finishing loading their guns. Thomas hurried, too. He suddenly realized he had shouted the order without being ready himself. He threw in the Minnie ball, yanked out the ramrod, and shoved it into the barrel as quickly as he could.

The men repeated what he was saying. The undertone of a murmur resonated all along the line as they prepared themselves. The Yankees, meanwhile, stepped forward, reloading as they moved. Their bodies were beginning to take shape, but their faces were still dark, covered over by their kepis and shaded by the mist.

Thomas spat out the paper from his mouth to make his voice more clear and shouted, Aim! Some of the men pointed their guns forward, others were still loading, including Thomas. He shoved one more time with the ramrod, then threw it, outer side down into the mud where it stuck like a nail in wood,