Sweetgrass: Book I: Johnathan and Esher

By Patricia Ann Kuess

Easterner Johnathan Traver joined the Union Army to die a glorious, crimson death. He feels a valiant death will liberate him from his abusive boyhood. Yet in April of 1862, right after the victory in the battle of Shiloh, he is still alive while thousands of others have perished.

Sergeant Traver faces a challenge; he firmly believes theyre fighting a modern war that calls for modern tactics. Travers new training techniques could change the course of the Civil War, and he teaches them to his squad, company, and regiment. But the army regards his efforts as seditious and views Traver as a traitor. On a personal level, Travers authority could be threatened when he falls in love with eighteen-year-old Esher Coley, a new recruit from the West. As they become warrior companions, their focus shifts.

A profound Civil War love story that overcomes ingrained pain and heals old wounds, Sweetgrass: Book I communicates a triumph of the spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462011513

Patricia Ann Kuess

Patricia Ann Kuess lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina with her dog, Luis, and all her characters. She can be contacted at patriciakuess.com.

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Copyright © 2011 by Patricia Ann Kuess

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-1154-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1152-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1151-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011912804

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/26/2011

Dedication ~

To Phyllis and Vivien

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Prologue

April, 1862, Southwestern Tennessee, after Shiloh

There is blood everywhere I look. The tent walls are slick with it. Thick clots dot the dirt floor and cling to the festering apron of the surgeon. The stink is profound. I hold down my Colonel, but I shift my grip so I don’t have to directly look as the surgeon saws through the mangled thigh bone. Unfortunately there is nothing I can do to muffle the sound. A tiny part of me realizes how appalling this is, yet I feel nothing. I am numb. Idly I wonder if I am dead and just don’t know it.

Sergeant? My Colonel struggles to speak around the belt I’ve given him to bite on. He has bitten through the thick leather. If I die … you must ….

You’re not going to die, I declare, somehow mustering up a confidence I don’t feel.

You must … persist. Promise that you’ll— He finally faints. I let up on my vise-like grip on him. Dully I watch the surgeon toss my Colonel’s leg through the tent flaps. It lands on a heaping pile of severed limbs with a cruel thump. I stare at the horrid pile. Are some of them moving?

Sergeant, the surgeon says, stay with him. I’m not done yet and he may wake up.

I’m not going anywhere, I answer.

The truth is I thought I’d be dead by now. I joined the Union Army to die a glorious crimson death, something I considered a certainty. Yet I am alive. I am whole. Why? When so many thousands have perished.

I smell burning flesh. It mingles with the stench of blood.

It’s a blessing he’s out, the surgeon says as he finishes cauterizing my Colonel’s stump.

There are no more bandages, sir, an Aide announces.

The surgeon motions to the pile of limbs. Cut up the clothing.

I remove the belt from my Colonel’s slack mouth and hand it to the surgeon. He uses it to secure the bandage, someone’s torn and dirty pantleg. The Aide and I carry my Colonel to a stretcher, and then outside.

An ambulance will come for him, Sergeant, the Aide says. Put him down here.

We are surrounded by hundreds of men, none have all their limbs. My Colonel joins them. I watch the Aide return to the surgical tent, the stretcher drags behind him. I lie next to my Colonel. I am exhausted, but I’m not expecting sleep to come to me. My eyes feel glued open.

Be ya wantin’ some water, Sarge? another Aide asks. He holds a full cup out to me. I have no idea if I’m thirsty, but I accept it and drink.

There’s a Camp a lil North o’ here. We’ll be marchin’ soon. He takes back my empty cup. I nod and wave a thank you to him. He leaves. I remain sitting.

Crimson. Glory. That’s how I envisioned my death. Noble. And quick. I never imagined piles of sawed off limbs. Gobs of blood. Soul-wrenching screams and moans.

A hand clutches my arm. My Colonel stares at me. Sergeant. Promise— He coughs.

Colonel. An ambulance is coming. You’re going home.

It is vital … vital, that you keep on. Our tactics will revolutionize this war as much as the new weaponry has. I am done, but you must continue. Make it your mission, Sergeant. Promise that— His grip falters. Promise …. He sinks back.

I promise, I say before he loses consciousness. I promise.

I feel a stirring of something lifelike deep within me. It happened when my Colonel said ‘mission.’ The word has challenged my numbness. Already it is dissipating. I will do what I promised my Colonel. I will teach the battle tactics we developed before Shiloh. My squad already knows them. We used them successfully during the battle for Shiloh. They work.

I have a mission. A thrill passes through me and I revel in it. I am not dead yet.

I have a mission. I will teach new training tactics to the rank and file. These maneuvers will spread, and grow, and surge upward to impress the Army High Command. The course of this horrendous war can change if the Army revises its outmoded battle strategies to match our modern weapons. I must work quickly, for surely I’ll realize my crimson moment in our next battle. I will begin the moment we reach our new Camp.

I have a mission. It has inspired me to keep on, to keep going until my last breath. I open my knapsack and take out paper, pen and ink. I must write. That’s how it is with inspiration: it compels you to do something. What I will do is write about my newfound mission. I will write about this God-forsaken war. Hah! I shout to the heavens. Yes, I will keep my promise to my Colonel. I will take on the Union Army. I will change the way it trains men or my name isn’t Johnathan Traver.

Chapter 1

Late April, 1862, Union Army Camp, Southwestern Tennessee

I learned to fly as a child. Flying rescued me from the night terrors that plagued my fitful sleep. I taught Casimir, my horse and best friend, to fly too. We glittered in lustrous Silver. Casimir twinkled, Silver bows intertwined in his mane and tail; I was resplendent in my full length Silver cloak. So garbed, we visited the moon. We only and always visited the moon. She was our special playmate. I say our special playmate because we never saw anyone else there. Casimir and I had the moon to ourselves.

I assume all children know how to fly. I couldn’t have been the only one. But I sense grown men don’t fly anymore for reasons known only to them. I don’t know about women. This is what I do know: flying can’t be discussed. A pity. It means that I, a grown man who still favors flying, must keep it private. Not that it’s difficult as I’m an odd fellow at heart: I enjoy solitude.

The trick in flying is knowing when to come back. As a boy, I used to wonder if I’d ever come back. But it never failed, at dawn, someone in the County who knew I was the son of my father, would grab Casimir’s bridle and lead us back to my father’s house. My father never said anything and neither did I.

Father? I stare at the gruesome word, unable to believe I just wrote it three times. I am as finished with him as he claims to be with me. I never intend to lay eyes on the man again, and I most definitely refuse to let him intrude upon my thoughts. I swipe the offending page from my lap, pick up a fresh sheet of paper, dip penpoint into inkpot, and begin anew.

My aim is to write about right now. My past is painful, and I have no future. Only the present counts. Now is all that matters. This thought makes me feel humble, and at the same time vibrantly alive. I thrive in the present. I pause to smile at these words, thrive in the present, they sum me up perfectly.

I’m on my logseat, situated right in front of my tent. It’s not comfortable, but it’s better than the ground. In daylight, it is my preferred spot to write because my tent is stifling. I’ve always dabbled in writing, even before this war began. But since surviving Shiloh, writing is now an essential part of me. Initially, I hoped to capture the war on paper, but I must admit that I have been unsuccessful. War is too big for mere words, so I’ve shifted my focus to my men. War is the men who fight in it. I want them to be remembered for all posterity. So I observe what my men do, and to the best of my ability I write what I see. I listen to their various dialects, mentally translate what I hear into recognizable words, and then do my best to put what they say on paper. It is a struggle, and some days I am better at this than others. I persist because of my conviction that it is their stories that are the heart of war, and that these stories are important. Yet here is the probable truth: my papers will disappear when I die. They may even find their way into my grave. I say this because there is no one to bequeath them to, no one who cares a fig about me, no one who even knows where I am. Regardless, I continue to observe, continue to listen, continue to write. Crimson is my fate; I embrace it. Crimson is the color of my death; I await it. Why I escaped a carnage like Shiloh unscathed, when so many men didn’t, baffles me.

I actually wanted to die when I was in New York, six months ago. Casimir had just died. My father had disowned me. Allan, my true love, had betrayed me. The money I had when I fled Vermont was gone; I was destitute. Death seemed the answer, yet I couldn’t lift my hand. I laid in Casimir’s stall, empty of him, though his smell lingered, and breathed in what was left of him. I was twenty-three and had lost everything the world says to hold dear. What I held dear, my friendship with Casimir, was altered forever: he was dead, I was alive. Why not die too? I laid in a stupor of misery, begging my hand to move, to reach for my pistol.

Then suddenly my eyes beheld crimson! Red, everywhere. I looked at myself. Had I a grip on my pistol after all? No. No pistol. It was a prophetic vision. I saw crimson surging over me, and bubbling under me. It was hot. Stunningly hot. And vivid as only crimson can be. I whirled in a crimson embrace. I sank and drowned in a crimson current. Or did I fly to a crimson heaven? I no longer remember the particulars, but lying in that bare, bittersweet stall, I knew I wanted my death to be heroic. Noble. And gloriously crimson! My heart, dead and bleak as it was, thrilled to the prospect. I immediately rose to my feet and enlisted in the Army.

So here I am in an Army Camp, my dramatic vision still unrealized. But I’ve learned a lot about war and this I can say for certain: crimson is near. I just have to be patient, though I confess that patience isn’t one of my strong points.

I look up and see my squad head off for supper. I won’t be joining them. I intend to skip supper so I can watch the new recruits arrive. I want a Warrior Companion to share my last days with, and I’m counting on spotting such a man tonight. I don’t want my crimson moment to be solitary.

Our Union Army is in a shabby state and these incoming recruits will bolster our strength considerably. Shiloh devastated us even though we won. I encircle the word with quote marks because I know that’s how history will record Shiloh, a Union victory, but that’s a moot point to anyone who was there. I was there. And I know what happened: we just stopped fighting. The Rebs had the strength to retreat, we Unionmen collapsed in place. It’s been nearly three weeks now and we are still exhausted. No one says it, but a grudging respect for Rebs is developing within our ranks. I can’t speak for officers. Whoever thought the Rebs would make this good of an enemy?

The recruits are arriving at our Camp’s parade ground, a newly-cleared field where we practice Army maneuvers, mainly marching in either lines or blocks. For some reason, the Army calls it a parade ground, though as far as I know, no parade has ever happened. The recruits, all Westerners, will bivouac there tonight. What a grizzled lot Westerners are. I appreciate them for the fierce fighters they are, but they’re also uncommonly hairy, to a man favoring untrimmed whiskers, they are hard-drinkers, and they regard spitting as the color in their conversation, if indeed conversation is the word to use. Spit as speech is more apt. I’m a gentleman from Vermont. I admire spirited conversation about politics, books, art, things foreign to Westerners. When they speak, it’s all gossip, games, and gambling.

I pause to peruse my page of words, sigh, and continue. It is this lot, grizzled or no, that I expect to find my Warrior Companion. That I will, I’ve no doubt.

When I arrived at my first Camp last October, a Colonel spotted me. He commissioned me a Sergeant-Major when he found out I could shoot, ride, read and write, plus I speak standard English. He wanted to commission me a Lieutenant, but I hadn’t read the Army manual, had no intention of ever reading it, so failed a question and answer test given by the Lieutenant-Colonel of our Regiment. I should say they regarded it as a failure. I certainly didn’t. So Sergeant I became, and still am.

I learned about soldiering from my Colonel. He loved the Army. We had long, passionate discussions on war strategy that stimulated innate warrior sensibilities I never knew I had. But we did more than discuss war strategy, we devised new tactics. My Colonel saw that this was a modern war we were fighting and it required modern ideas. I concurred wholeheartedly. Yet no one else at Headquarters did. He, and perhaps I, were regarded as lunatics. He was ostracized by his fellow officers. His ideas fell on deaf ears, met with ridicule and derisive laughter. So we trained a squad of men on our own time. My squad. It was slow-going. Things that sound great in a tent in the middle of the night don’t always work in the light of day. But we persevered. And at Shiloh, we implemented our strategies. I can testify that these tactics save lives. I lost eleven men, a third of my squad, while whole Companies around us were wiped out. Hundreds of men gone in minutes.

Now my Colonel is home with his wife and children. There’s just me and the veterens in my squad. It is up to us to teach these new tactics, and we will. I’ve made teaching them a mission that inspires my spirit. Crimson may be my vision, but I need fire in my heart to thrive, and implementing these modern strategies is my fuel. I burn with fervor for my mission. This fire sustains me despite the lack of a Warrior Companion, a lack I intend to rectify tonight. Passion and fire will be the hallmark of my last remaining days. Can any man ask for more than dying with passion in his heart?

Tomorrow I hope to get eleven recruits to complete my depleted squad. Then, my veterans and I will train the new men in my tactics, in addition to Army maneuvers. Next we’ll entice the rest of our Company to join us. Then, our Regiment, our Brigade, and our Division. Then, the whole Union Army! That’s my plan.

I like working with foot soldiers. The weight of Army history, Army tradition doesn’t weigh on them like it does officers. Whatever works, let’s do it. Win the war so we can go home to our families, is their motto. My job is to convince them that my tactics are worth learning. As a Sergeant I can order the new recruits in my squad to train with me, but since my aim is to convert the whole Union Army, it’s better if all my men choose to learn these new tactics, and then spread the good word throughout the ranks. I know my plan will be headed for success when I have men begging to train with us.

Here’s what I want to change: simultaneous volley fire, simultaneous reloading, simultaneous defenselessness. Also, this I learned at Shiloh, officers can no longer lead their men on horseback. They make themselves a first rate target, they’re quickly shot right off their horses leaving their men to fend for themselves.

I can’t fathom why I’m alone in my crusade for change, but I am. So be it. I am.

I hear my men returning from supper. The evening is dribbling away and I haven’t even left my logseat. I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by words. A worthy distraction, nevertheless I must stop writing and start going if I’m to find my Warrior Companion tonight.

I look up at the golden-red sky. I love the colors that herald the day’s end, they presage perfectly the elegant entrance of the moon. But I can tarry no longer. I wipe my penpoint clean, stopper my inkpot, set my papers on the ground, rise, and leave.

I zigzag my way past tents, my cloak billowing about me. Not my Silver one, that’s reserved for flights to the moon, but my Hunter green cloak. Green is my best color for out-in-the-world business. Enfolded in my lavish green cloak I can do anything the world requires, even better, I can do anything I require. Also, green flatters my eyes and makes them more noticeable. My eyes aren’t really green, I just wish they were. But they are green when I wear my cloak, and then perhaps they become my finest feature. A breeze is essential for the perfect billowing of a full length cloak, so I create one. A flowing cloak is so impressive. My imagination really is my best feature, though of course, I don’t say that to my eyes.

I stride briskly; I have an appointment with Fate. Hah! What a creature, that Fate. She has a cloak too; we understand each other.

Chapter 2

Shortly after

The first thing I notice is there are not many officers present, who also may be sizing up the new men. I move away from a small group of them, idly standing, lazily looking at the bustling scene of incoming men and supplies. A dozen or so officers are on horseback, supervising. As a Sergeant-Major, my prospects are good, only a few men can beat me out should I spot someone. I assume a pose of confidence and arrange my cloak to my best advantage, I’m certain that Fate is smiling upon me.

I look around, the parade ground teems with men. I change my position numerous times, look and look more, until the sun dims and soon it will be dark. I spot no one. I ruffle my cloak dispiritedly, I dread returning to my tent alone.

A tap upon my shoulder! I jerk around, I see no one. I keep looking. That was a definite tap.

The scene around me is chaotic. Wagons choke the roads and threaten to clog the field. The recruits mill about waiting for orders. Curses jangle the air. Gradually I notice a man standing apart from the milling recruits. I’m immediately impressed by two things: one, his isolation; two, he has no whiskers. I stare at him. When he’s forced to move, it is carefully and self-consciously executed, then he seems to wrap himself in stillness. He stands among pandemonium, a one-man oasis of silence.

The officers in charge shout orders to line up and the recruits attempt to do so. It is a pitiful attempt. It doesn’t appear that forming lines of ten across is a natural thing for men to do.

When they’re dismissed, he remains in place. I approach him. He toes the dirt nervously, and stares at the resultant piles of earth so intently I’m half tempted to look myself. I don’t though, I can’t take my eyes off him. He glows with color, as though lit from the inside. I’ve never seen embarrassment so acutely manifested. His quick glance my way reveals a burst of abundant shyness. Is he my tapper?

I can think of nothing to say. I experience a void of words, as if none are known to me. He presents a curious contrast: he blazes forth high color, but also stands shrouded within the stillness I first noticed about him, so he appears both vulnerable and impenetrable, radiant, yet hidden. It baffles me how he can do this. I ruffle my cloak with a timely shrug, some action is called for. He looks at me then, a sideways glance, overall shy, but with a discernible tinge of brashness I find exhilerating. Yes. He’s my tapper.

I look him over. He’s a plain-featured man, shorter than I am, but more muscular. His eyes are dark brown, his hair is dark brown and worn in a Western fashion, shoulder length. It’s his mouth that makes him remarkable; his lips are both sensual and carnal, all in all, exceptionally captivating.

His clothes are shabby and ill-fitting. His shirt has innumerable patches, cleverly sewn, yet there’s still a few holes showing. His coarse wool britches hang on him shapelessly. His boots don’t match. Only his hat seems to suit him, one of those broad-brimmed ones that Western men prefer. He notices me looking at it and immediately snatches it off his head. His hair tumbles about his scarlet face and he tries to brush it back, but he uses his hat hand. All I see is his hat. He holds it in front of his face as though hiding behind it. I frown. He doesn’t seem like a tapper, much less one capable of doing it long distance.

What’s your name, soldier? I ask, grateful I’ve finally thought of something to say.

He lowers his hat, looks around. All the recruits are wearing their hats. Slowly he puts his on, but looks ready to whip it back off should the occasion call for it. Whatever that occasion may be, I can’t imagine.

What’s your name? I repeat.

Esher Coley, sir.

Sergeant. I’m a Sergeant, I inform him.

Yes, sir.

No. Say Sergeant.

He freezes in place. He stands so still he doesn’t seem to be breathing. I feel an urge to touch him, as though my touch can fill him with air. I speak rather than yield to this urge. How old are you?

Eighteen, sir.

We both jump clear of a freight wagon that’s backing into us. We’re among a clutter of supply wagons. We should leave, it’s only going to get worse.

Let’s go, I say, surprised to hear it sound like an order.

He nods, shoulders his gear. I find I’m still staring at him. If he’s my tapper, is he my Warrior Companion?

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We eat by starlight side by side on my logseat. Only hardened cornmeal mush was left, and he had to scrape the sides of the pot to get that, but he heaped these remains on his plate, then to my surprise he scraped off a plate for me. I have no appetite for cornmeal bricks, but I accepted the plate from him anyway. Now I scuff through the bits with my fork, seeking the least charred. He doesn’t bother with a fork, just stuffs his mouth full using his fingers. In a trice he’s wiping his plate clean with the side of his hand, and he scoops the little pile of crumbs directly into his mouth.

I venture a question. You like this food?

Yes, sir. He smears the back of his hand across his alluring mouth as he speaks. I imagine his delicious lips on me and suppress a shiver of anticipation, then notice that he’s staring at my plate. Wordlessly I hand it to him. He flinches and colors, his blush evident even in the dark. Shrugging, I indicate it’s all right, and keep my plate extended toward him. He takes it and politely hands me back my fork.

Thank you, sir. He has the broad Western dialect that usually hurts my ears, but tonight I let my eyes overrule my ears. My skin chimes in too. The side of me closest to him prickles with fire, as though I’ve suddenly developed a rash.

I watch him swipe the scattered remains of my supper and ram it all into his mouth. I’ve never seen anyone eat like Western men. We Easterners sometimes refer to them as barbarians. It’s clear to me that whoever devised that word must have observed them eating.

He hands me back my plate. Thank you, sir, he says again.

Esher, I’m a Sergeant, and all Sergeants are called that and nothing else. If an officer heard you call me, ‘sir,’ I’d be in big trouble and so would you. Do you understand?

His breathless stillness has returned. It’s quite fascinating. He reminds me of a deer listening for danger, standing motionless, as if to blend into the landscape, perhaps becoming invisible. The actual effect, however, is to draw the attention of the hunter, and he has mine completely.

When we’re together like this, you can call me Johnathan. My name is Johnathan Traver.

He blushes to his hairroots and stares at the ground between his legs. I can’t fathom where he gets all that color. So? Say my name.

He raises his head and looks at me. I immediately sink into the brown depths of his eyes. His beautiful lips move and I hear him speak my name. With his accent, it sounds like Johnnythan.

I smile and he looks away. I continue to look at him; I’m trying to figure him, figure his tap, but figuring is not one of my strong points. He’s not acting like a tapper should.

I touch his arm, indicate my tent with a slight move of my head. He nods. We both stand. I collect my inkpot, pen and papers, he gathers his pack and gun, and we walk to my tent. In a single graceful move, he enters. I realize I don’t have to figure anything, soon I’ll know. I’ll see. I follow him into my tent.

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Candlelight is romantic, I’ve lit two of them. I am ready for him, but is he ready for me. He lies quietly on his frayed bedroll, staring at the ceiling. He’s removed his boots and hat, his movements strained and oddly anxious. He doesn’t look like he intends to take anything else off. His face is flushed, his features taut with nervousness. His stiff manner unnerves me. Has he withdrawn his tap?

I feign a languid stretch, just for something to do, and manage to move closer to him. I lean toward him and start to unbutton my shirt.

Only his eyes move in my direction, the rest of him stays rigidly centered on his bedroll. I came here to be a good soldier, he says, his voice cracking with sudden hoarseness.

I stop unbuttoning my shirt. He wants conversation?

He touches his rifle, an old smooth-bore, which is by his side next to the tentwall. I can shoot. I can work all day. I’m strong. His words bewilder me. He speaks as though trying to convince me of something. But whatever that is, right at this moment I’m not interested.

I shrug and my cloak instantly evaporates. Maybe if I let him see me, he’ll relax. The moment my cloak disappears, he blinks, but he remains hunched, all bunched into himself, looking at me with nearly fearful anxiety. I