Fife

By William Meehan

Just shy of his fourteenth birthday, young Fife leaves home after the passing of his mother to enlist in the Union Army. With dreams of glory and visions of capturing old Robert E. Lee himself and leading him by the bayonet to President Lincoln, Fife lies about his age to take musket and join the men of the 137th NYSV. As soldiers seek relief from the boredom of camp life, Fife finds himself at the head of a grand snowball fight and a momentous baseball match-but visions of glory take a drastic turn as Fife is soon thrust into the horrors of battle at Antietam and Chancellorsville. But it will be upon a patch of ground on a small hill overlooking a town called Gettysburg where the volunteers of the 137th will hold the balance of a terrible battle in their hands. Facing overwhelming odds as Rebel forces swarm to take the hill in which Fife and the 137th must hold at all costs, young Fife will come face-to-face with the harsh realities of America's Civil War.

"The airing of the issues that led to the war are remarkably balanced and accurate, which seems pretty rare in Civil War literature of any kind. The ending is really first-rate."
John Perry, author of Mrs. Robert E. Lee: The Lady of Arlington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595836130

William Meehan

William Meehan is currently a reading and writing teacher in Hopkinton, MA. William coaches high school hockey and plays the upright bass for the popular Irish music group, Gallant Sons of Erin. William?s first novel, Amulets of Acacia (iUniverse), earned the prestigious Editor?s Choice and Reader?s Choice awards.

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Copyright © 2006 by William Meehan.

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ISBN: 978-0-5953-9223-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-3613-0 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/12/2013

Contents

A Journey Begins

Prelude To Battle

I To Preserve The Union

II The One-Legged Reb

III Picket Guard

IV The Right Of The State

V Seeing The Elephant

VI Pay Call

VII Winter Quarters

VIII Snow Fight

IX Chancellorsville

X Damned Yanks

XI The New York Game

Back At Culp’s Hill

XII Dearest Wife

XIII We Alone

XIV Out Of The Smoke And Darkness

XV Lies With Angels

Epilogue

Glossary

Author’s Notes

PRELUDE TO BATTLE

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Culp’s Hill, Gettysburg, PA

July 2, 1863

That’s it, Fife. Plug any holes yeh see. Don’t even let the wind slip through, lad, puffed Murry, as he grabbed holt the wide, flat boulder I was struggling with and helped to slide it atop the growing wall of earth, wood, and stone.

I never did ask if Murry was a first or last name, come to think of it, though I guess that don’t really matter. He would always be just Murry to us all, anyhow.

I don’t see why we got t’ put up this here wall, griped Boyles, good and loud, so’s the boys would hear him. We oughteh be facin’ these derned Rebs like men, not hidin’ behind no dirt wall.

Boyles was always fussing about something. Some people are just plain happier when they’re fussing, and Boyles was one of them.

Yeh’re dern right! spouted Gates. No one’ll be a-callin’ me yeller.

You could always count on Gates to side with Boyles. If Boyles had decided that putting up these breastworks was a good idea, then Gates would have agreed with that too.

Murry was a shrewd Irishman and not one to be putting up with foolish talk. He turned right sharply on Gates’s words. They’ll be callin’ ye damned fools is what they’ll be callin’ yeh! he thundered. There’s goin’ ta be more Rebs climbin’ up this here hill than yeh’ll know what ta do with. Ye can stand out there like a couple a galoots if yeh like, but do us all a favor and go dig yer graves first. We have enough ta be keepin’ us busy ’round here already.

Murry turned his back on the two and reached for a large trunk felled earlier that morn’—one that should’ve taken two men to shoulder. With barely a puff, he hoisted it atop the wall and wedged it amongst the loose stones. Boyles, a lanky man of no match for Murry, spat at the wall and murmured something to Gates before jabbing his bayonet hard at the ground. He grabbed at the loose earth like a man grabbing at a stubborn weed and throwed it at the works as if he were pitching it at Murry himself. Murry fixed Boyles a hard stare, but Boyles didn’t make nothing of it and got back to digging. He was a hard case, that Boyles, but he weren’t stupid.

Though Murry was just a private, his words carried weight. If there was ary a man in Union blue you wanted by your side in battle, it was Murry, and he had brains to match every bit of muscle.

I just watched as Murry paused to wipe at the sweat beading on his brow. A silver cross hanging from a strip of leather tied loosely around his neck shimmered as it caught the sunlight. His sleeves were rolled high, and his arms, swelled from the morning’s work, rippled like stones tossed into a pond every time he moved them about. You didn’t give grief to a man with arms like that, I can tell you, though Murry was never one to cut a shine. But couldn’t I just imagine myself walking about with arms like that—no one would try to goad me on. Why, I would have thumped that Boyles and Gates long ago, and that’s the truth.

Murry drew a long swig from his canteen and rumpled my hair. Drink plenty a water now, Fife, he sputtered as he passed me his canteen. Yeh don’t want ta be pitchin’ over on us now, lad.

I pulled a quick swallow and lapped a bit onto the nape of my neck. I tipped my head back to let the cool water trickle down my spine and stole a peek at the sky. It gets real easy to forget to take a peek at God’s work when living gets so tough, and I made sure to thank Him for his blessings though they can be mighty difficult to realize at times like this. It was a perfectly peaceful morn’, barely a cloud in the sky. You would have never guessed the trouble a-coming.

I was fixed on enjoying the moment, though, so I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the sun soak into my skin. For a brief moment, all seemed to grow quiet around me as the clamor of bayonets and tin digging into the hillside seemed to reach its finish. It was a long, hard road that got us atop this hill. Seems funny to think how eager some of us were to get ourselves into this here difficulty…

A JOURNEY

BEGINS

September, 1862

I

TO PRESERVE THE

UNION

Murry had taken me under his wing from the very moment we met just after the regiment was first formed. It just so happened that Murry was standing behind me in line while we were waiting to get our blue uniforms. I was just trying to keep to myself and not draw notice, but Murry had chatting on his mind, at least at that moment he did… seems funny to me now knowing how Murry ain’t usually one for chatting.

What brings such a young lad ta war? he asked, trying to size me up.

I turned and looked up at him, wasn’t sure he was talking to me, but there he stood staring straight down at me, raised eyebrow and all.

I cleared my throat and tried to stand a mite taller. I want to help preserve the Union, sir, I replied. I must’ve heard those words a thousand times, so I knew it was the right answer to be giving.

Murry fought hard to hold back a grin, but the left side of his lip curled up anyway. Oh, yeh don’t say, now, he replied. "Those are mighty important words comin’ from such a young lad."

And didn’t he draw out the word young like his tongue got stuck on the roof of his mouth when he said it.

"I’m over eighteen, Mister," I shot back.

Murry’s eyebrows said more than his words ever did, and his raised eyebrow was giving away his doubt right then and there, but he didn’t say one doubting word and hasn’t since. It was the same look the recruiting officer gave me when I told him I was over eighteen—and I wasn’t lying none either, and that’s the God’s truth… well, half truth, I guess you could say.

Real truth be told, I was just shy of my fourteenth birthday, and if’n they knew that, they would have never let me join the army without my daddy’s say-so. Even then, they would have never put a musket in my hand. I would’ve had to join up as a musician and play the drum or a fife—or a bugle or the like. Truth is, I’m a dead aim with a musket. I can shatter an empty jug sitting on a fence post from clear across the pasture back home. Now don’t get me wrong; musicians are a valuable lot in the army. Their ditties guide us from the moment we wake up ’til it’s lights out, but seeing as how I can’t dance a lick, I couldn’t see how I was to keep any kind of beat on no drum. I did try blowing on a fife once, but no matter how hard I blew into the darned thing, I couldn’t so much as raise a squeak. I did have some whiskers starting on my lip, though, so’s I thought I had a chance of getting me a musket.

I guess I joined the army more to get away from the misery back home than anything else. Not that things had always been so bad back home, but once the fever took my ma, Pa took to sipping at the jug and… well, I guess you could say it took him too.

Things got mighty sour after that, seemed like my pa thought I went under as well. I swan he didn’t know I was still around—probably doesn’t even realize I’m gone. I left a note on the kitchen table for him anyhow though he can hardly read a lick. I figured if he had a mind to, he could get Mrs. Bagley up the road a spell to read it for him. Ma used to send me to Mrs. Bagley’s to learn how to cipher and read, and I’d chop kindling and do some odd chores in return. Ma would say a strong brain was more powerful than a strong arm, but I’d still like to have me some arms like Murry’s. Mrs. Bagley’s a real nice lady, though, and I’m sure she’d read the letter for Pa if he came a-calling. Besides, I didn’t want to be missing out on all the adventure, no how.

* * * *

After packing a bag with some clothes and small notions I thought useful, I sat for a spell across from my pa at the kitchen table and searched for the right way to feel. He was laid out with his arms wrapped tightly around his jug like it was my ma he was still a-holding. I just sat there, watching my pa’s chest rise and fall on the table in a queer sort of rhythm with the clicks of the big clock. That’s when I decided to write the letter.

After I finished, I fetched a blanket from the bedroom and laid it over him. I don’t know why, but I just felt like touching his hair. I’ll make you proud, Pa, I whispered and crept toward the back door as if I half expected him to sit up and tell me not to go—maybe I was just hoping.

I made my way down to my ma’s grave. I knew it wasn’t her fault she left us, but I asked her if she could help Pa, though I was sure she was somehow already trying. I promised I’d make her proud too and straightened up around her marker before heading down to the recruiting office.

What a sight it was! A shindig was more like it. There was a band kept a-playing John Brown’s Body and politicians shouting out speeches about preserving the Union and everyone about the streets a-cheering and a-waving flags. Why, you couldn’t say old Broome County of New York wasn’t doing its part. And with Lincoln calling for more and more men, it was lucky for me the recruiting officers cared more about whether our teeth and eyes were good than about our true age. And I wasn’t the only boy there under the age of eighteen hoping to take arms, I can tell you.

It put me in a fix, though, seeing as I’d have to do some lying to get my hands on a musket; it just ain’t in my nature, I guess you could say. If there was one thing that brought on the wrath of my ma, it was lying, and now that she’s gone, well… it was just lucky for me a boy named Whitey passed along a fine solution when he did—a clever fellow, that Whitey.

He strolled right on up to me and gave me a once-over like he was about to buy him a mule. You plan on totin’ a rifle? he asked like I was some stove-in mule weren’t worth his time.

I didn’t say nothing back and fixed him a hard glare as he continued to size me up.

Here, he whispered, passing me his pocketknife. "Scratch the number eighteen there on the bottom of yer sole, he said, pointing to my shoe. Then yeh can jest walk yerself straight up t’ that