Sweetgrass: Book Ii: Crimson

By Patricia Ann Kuess

When Johnathan Traver joined the Union Army in October of 1861, he imagined a glorious and noble death awash in crimson. Eight months later, a survivor of Shiloh, Johnathan is still alive, serving as a master sergeant. To the dismay of his superiors, he makes it his mission to update battle training techniques, even if it means becoming an outlaw. He believes modern weapons should dictate modern battle strategies, but the army still trains men as if they had muskets.

Johnathanthe disowned son of a wealthy Vermont Squire who endured an abusive childhoodmeets Esher, an illiterate orphan from the prairie, and they become warrior companions. Adventure is Johnathans word for their union; love is Eshers. Whats more, the vast difference in their backgrounds forms an obstacle for them. Esher belabors this difference; Johnathan doesnt.

Sharing a tale of the Union soldiers in the midst of the Civil War, Sweetgrass: Book II remembers them for their bravery and communicates a triumph of the spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475992700

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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Sweetgrass: Book II

Crimson

Copyright © 2013 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.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9269-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9271-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9270-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909650

iUniverse rev. date: 6/24/2013

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

To my writing group, Robin, MaryJo, and Mimi.

I am grateful for their unflagging support.

PROLOGUE

End of May, 1862, marching double-time

There is sudden pandemonium ahead, men dashing every which way, even bumping into each other. The abrupt absence of an orderly four-man abreast march can mean only one thing: we’re under attack.

Get off the road! I yell to my men. We scramble to a ditch, hunker down, and wait for the attack. Our rifles are ready, our nerves pulsate, heartbeats quicken. I look all around us. I listen with my whole body. Gunfire is distant and sporadic. It doesn’t sound like Reb Cavalry. They shoot like bullets are free and they have an inexhaustible supply. I yearn for information. Something is happening up ahead, but what?

The men behind us crouch in the road, uncertain what to do. They only see a ruined march formation. Our Lieutenant rides down the road and shouts at us to get back in line. We clamber out of the ditch, the men behind us stand. Within a minute we’re marching four abreast. Within a mile I see the cause of the disruption: six men draped over a fence post, dead. They’ve been relieved of their weapons, ammunition, boots, belts, and anything else deemed worth taking. One man has pure white hair, three are pewter-gray, and two can’t be more than fifteen. What possessed them to attack the Union Army?

I stare at them as I march by, and shudder. What an ignoble way to die. There is no glory in a suicide attack. You may as well just shoot yourself as I was tempted to do before I joined the Army back in October, 1861. An extraordinary vision of crimson rescued me from such a mundane fate. I realized I wanted a glorious and noble death awash in crimson. Crimson was the solution to the burden of my legacy, a burden I’ve endured since I was eight. I would be free of my mother’s blood that splattered me when my father killed her, spatters I stored in my heart because I didn’t want to forget, but now they are fetid. I would be free of her death screams that I stored in my bones because I couldn’t let them go, they were the last echoes of her life. I would be free of the unbearable cold left to me from my father’s touch, I was always cold when he finished with me. Freedom! That is my wish and crimson is my destiny. I embrace it. When we left Camp, a mere three days ago, I prepared myself for my crimson moment; I wrote my Ode to Crimson, my final poem. I experienced a surge of pride in my imagination, my best feature, for it enabled me not only to survive my boyhood, but to live with my horrid legacy, something I feel compelled to do. My ode is my paean to crimson. Writing it refreshed my soul. Last words matter, and I am pleased with mine.

Our Lieutenant rides by. I look up at him. This Lieuteant seems to worship the hierarchy that is the Army; he is keenly aware that he is above me, that I am below him in rank. The only words he ever expects to hear from me are ‘yes, sir.’ He leans down to speak to me. We break in five minutes, Sergeant. Tell your men there’s only time for a drink of water.

Yes, sir.

His salute is formal, mine is perfunctory.

Only time for a drink of water.

I sigh even though I’m in public. This march is interminable. I was ready for my crimson moment three days ago. I was refreshed three days ago. I felt free three days ago. In my mind and heart I released my mission to train soldiers in modern battle tactics, continuous fire rather than volley fire. I released my papers, We are the Adventure, the story of Esher, my Warrior Companion, my partner in adventure, and me. I released everything because I was certain that crimson was near, and I was close to being pure in body, mind, and spirit, cleansed in blood, mine. But this march has leached these glorious feelings from my depths, and the sight of those six dead men stretched over a fence post has left me feeling bereft, empty, and delusional, as though crimson glory will never be mine.

Sammet, my Corporal, suddenly appears at my side. We are marching double-time, but he manages to sidle by everyone with remarkably little effort. Sammet always seems to be in motion, even when standing still he looks like he’s moving. I can’t fathom how he does it.

Did he say what I hope—

But there’s only time for a drink of water.

Shit.

I agree with Sammet’s assessment, but say nothing. A drink of water sounds pretty good.

Halt!

I reach for my canteen strap and yank it loose from my pack. I unscrew the cap and drink the unsatisfying warm, metallic water. It rinses the road dust from my mouth. I swallow lustily, and imagine crystalline cool water tumbling into my innards, crystalline cool water that soothes, and yes, invigorates. This picture does the trick. Once again my imagination rescues me from the mundane. Hah! to the mundane. Double hah!

March! Ho!

We march on, double-time. I smile to myself. Hah! is a perfect attitude to have to face life. Double hah! is even better. I don’t have to brood because my crimson moment isn’t right this second. We are marching to battle and crimson is the color of battle. I’m not going to die by sniper fire in the middle of the road, shot by some zealot befuddled by patriotism. A glorious crimson death awaits me. My vision will prevail. I will experience freedom or my name isn’t Johnathan Traver.

CHAPTER 1

Last day of May, 1862, marching in eastern Tennessee

When we left our western Tennessee Camp a week ago I thought I was prepared to die, but here’s the actual truth: I’m not. I keep thinking of things I’d like to do. I want to add a few more lines to my Ode to Crimson. It lacks flair, I regret that. I don’t want to die with an incomplete Ode, it’ll niggle at me for all eternity, a burden I don’t intend to bear. I want to be free of burdens. That’s the whole point of crimson, freedom.

Then there’s my legacy to Esher, We Are the Adventure, the saga of a Yankee and a Prairieman, the story of us. So far it’s just an embarrassing mess of papers that I seem incapable of organizing. Anyone, even I, would falter at inheriting such a muddle of papers, much less Esher, who can’t read. Yet I deem it crucial that I write our story and that he inherits it.

I plod onward, making an effort to match my step with every bob of the rabbit skin that dangles from Hanson’s pack ahead of me. The delicate hide is cleverly stretched on a cross-hatching of sticks, and at some point Hanson will sew it into a coin purse. We’re a duet, the rabbit’s remains and I. Step, bob. Step, bob. Step, bob.

A new truth is wriggling its way into my brain and I can’t seem to stop it. This is it plain and simple: I need more time.

Step, bob. Step, bob. More time. More time.

There is so much I want to do. My Ode to Crimson only reflects the gist of my crimson vision, and that is not enough. I want to embrace the glory, the nobility, the ultimate freedom of crimson in my Ode, and I fear it falls short of these lofty aims. I cannot pass from earth with a dull, dreary, or worse, vapid testimonial to the beauty of crimson. My Ode is a tribute to my moment of death and it must glisten.

Step, bob. Step, bob. More time. More time.

It’s odd to think that within this splayed hide there used to dwell a bunny, but soon it will only be a receptacle for coins or matches.

Step, bob. More time.

It’s not that I’m not trying, I write every night. But for some reason words fail me. My Ode remains lusterless, and We Are the Adventure insists on unfolding in driblets and dabs. My brain, for a reason I can’t fathom, is refusing to cooperate with my heart, and I feel caught in an ugly siege. I’m at a standstill.

Step, bob. More time. Step, bob. More time.

Where do I mount an assault for more words?

And then there’s Esher. I’m teaching him to read so he can appreciate our story, but that’s not going to happen today, or tomorrow. More time is the answer to everything, but this is a fact: my days on earth are dwindling. I’m down to single digit numbers since this march leads directly to battle. That crimson awaits is a certainty.

Step, bob. Step, bob.

Sergeant!

I mime the bobbing hide’s lilting sway as I march, lulled to an overwhelming torpidity.

Sergeant, I’m speaking to you!

Step, bob. Ste—

An elbow suddenly rams into my side, it pierces my reverie. Sammet hisses, Answer ‘im er we’ll draw the worst watch.

Have you gone deaf, Sergeant?

Our Lieutenant, astride a boring brown horse, suddenly looms into view, his face red-splotched, his eyes wrathful. The unexpected appearance of his livid anger startles me. For a moment I stare stupidly, but only for a moment, Sammet’s elbow rams me again. I salute with precision. Sir! I exclaim, and instantly garb myself in my resplendent, full length Hunter green cloak. I bask in its verdant beauty, aware that it conceals perfectly my stupified lapse of attention.

Your insolence goes too far, Sergeant. Our Lieutenant sits back in his saddle when he hears mere bravado in his voice instead of the superior officer tone he intended. A fretful frown eclipses his anger. He understands he’s lost some advantage, but how? He actually pats at himself as though searching for something, but whatever he finds it’ll be no match for my cloak. I shrug its luxurious folds in place as I march alongside his horse. The Lieutenant spurs his mount forward so he can look back at me. We break soon. You will meet with me and the Captain. Don’t be late. He canters off without waiting for a corroborating salute. I get back in line behind Hanson.

I don’ know how ya do it, Sammet says with a slight shake of his head. You an’ yer airs.

I say nothing. ‘Airs’ used to be a word that stung me. No more. I understand that to these Westerners, airs are synonymous with Yankee, of which I am, since I was born and raised in Vermont. Sammet peers at me intently, apparently expecting some reply. We break soon, I inform him.

Sammet’s naturally vigorous strides turn into little hops, a couple of jumps. I have riled him. I didn’t react to airs as he hoped. D’ya think I’m deaf? he shouts. I heard. I heard.

Tell the men, I order, hoping to be rid of him.

We break soon! he yells, nearly in my ear, then grins at me as though triumphant about something that matters. I pay him no mind. I’m arranging my cloak so it looks as elegantly as possible, flows flawlessly about me, and for a consummate touch, I add a hefty dose of shimmer to the lustrous green. Sammet blinks, his grin languishes in place. I ripple the folds of my cloak, reveling in their exceptional beauty as they radiate the rays of the sun. What a sterling day it was when I imagined this cloak, for it has never failed me. Sammet huffs off, shouldering past Hanson, who stumbles before righting himself. I fluff my never-failing cloak, grateful for the day I thought of it.

My eye catches sight of Esher as he marches arm-in-arm with Willem, his friend from Two-Bean’s squad in our Company. They are laughing boisterously. I see that they are trying to trip each other. I frown. Our pace is double-time. If either of them should fall he’ll get trampled, not to mention disrupt the entire line of men marching behind. I watch them, aware of envy at their stamina. I don’t recall ever having such endurance, even when I was as young as they are, nineteen.

Suddenly, Willem lurches forward and Esher yanks him upright. For a second they both stumble around, arms clasped, laughing, bumping into their neighbors who indulge their boyishness good-naturedly.

Ezekiel rights both young men, a brawny arm around each of them. My frown deepens. Ezekiel has his eye on Esher, which I don’t mind, it’s his hands that get my dander up, they’re all over Esher whenever possible. His hearty laugh bellows throughout the countryside, echoes off the hills. His laugh is as boisterous as he is. I gitten a song fer this, he says, as he hoists up Esher and Willem.

You name it, Willem replies.

All the men within earshot laugh and start applauding. Even I stop frowning and smile. Willem is our Company singer. He’s welcome at any campfire, and he usually comes to ours due to his friendship with Esher.

"Rally ‘Round. Ezekiel names a rousing popular song. An’ I wan’ it righ’ now."

Willem immediately starts singing. When he gets to the chorus, everyone joins in.

"Oh, we’ll rally ‘round the flag, boys,

We’ll rally ‘round the flag…"

I contribute nothing to the song. I am not a singer, I am an observer. I watch Willem’s infectious smile, note his rosy complexion, the sparkle in his Cornflower blue eyes, the jaunty angle of his cap on his flaxen hair. What a contrast he presents to Esher’s dark brown hair, deep brown eyes and swarthy skin. They are two farmers, Willem from Indiana, Esher from the Prairie. They love the land in a way I don’t understand. That love unites them as it does all these Westerners.

I smile at Esher and Willem’s exuberance, at their uninhibited youth, their unblemished, sweet natures. I was never like that, even when I was a boy. Sweetness is something new in my life, Esher introduced it to me approximately one month ago when we met. I say ‘approximately’ because time is elusive, just when you’re aware of time, it’s gone. Time is nothing to count on. Yet time is exactly what I need.

Step, bob. More time. Step, bob. More— I banish the word from my brain. Crimson prevails and that’s that. I stare at the bunny hide and march. Torpidity swamps me.

*   *   *

I shift my pack’s weight. At the beginning of a march our packs weigh in around fifty pounds. Within a few hours they weigh sixty pounds, then seventy, and thereafter they continue to accumulate weight with every passing minute on the road. I don’t think this is a fact that’s recorded anywhere, so I’m doing it now.

Foot soldiers love and hate their packs, usually in the exact same step. They contain everything necessary to stay alive, plus personal possessions, that accounts for the love part. ‘Step’ is the prime word in the hate category. There are just too many of them. There’s nothing a foot soldier can do to alter the number of steps he must take, very little he can do about weight, so ultimately, packs and their contents become precious. Whatever a man lugs around for miles on end under unbearable conditions becomes by nature, precious, else he chucks it alongside the road. It’s not like we have unlimited choice in chucking or keeping. Mainly we must keep.

Our Army-issue Springfield rifles weigh twelve pounds, plus the forty rounds of ammunition allotted us in case of a surprise attack. Many men also carry the muskets they brought from home, regarding them as goodluck pieces, even though there’s no ammunition for them. I pack a pistol, and I treasure the bullets I have for it.

Our bedrolls consist of a rubber sheet and a wool blanket. They don’t weigh much, maybe three or four pounds, but they’re bulky. The rolled up bundle is tied to the top of our packs.

Food is the next precious thing. The Army issues three days of rations no matter how long the march will be. These rations are three pieces of hardtack, three blobs of salthorse, and a full three pint canteen of water. Hardtack is supposed to be a cracker according to the Army manual. In actual fact it’s a block of inedibleness. I have no idea who invented them, it’s painful to think how they’re made. Salthorse is supposed to be pickled beef, again, according to the Army manual. It’s really rotten slime. Even with my eyes closed I can’t eat it.

Believe it or not, this food runs out before three days are up. Then we’re on our own. Foraging is what the Army calls our next option. Picture this: ten thousand hungry men searching for food on the same roadside, since we’re not allowed to go afield. I’ve seen men scrape bark off trees and boil it for their supper.

I forgot to mention flour. The Army doles out a measure of flour per soldier. When we’ve finished our rations, supper consists of heating up water, sprinkling in some flour, stirring it into a paste, and if we’re lucky enough to have it, adding a pinch of salt and pepper. The addition of peeled bark, or even grass can bulk up the paste and turn it into a stew. It doesn’t fool our bellies though. Growling stomachs can be heard everywhere on a bivouac.

There is no mess on a march.

We also carry our eating utensils, a tin plate, bowl, and cup, a cooking pot, a frying pan and Army-issue candles. None of this can be chucked no matter how long the march, no matter how much weight our packs accumulate with each step.

Personal items are another story. It is not uncommon to see a discarded campstool or civilian clothes strewn along the roadway, or whatever else a man decides he can’t carry another step. These chucked things provide varying degrees of interest to the men marching behind. A prolonged gaze, a rumination, a decision to claim the item or reject it, that’s about all there is to do on a march.

I pack my writing paraphernalia, all my legacy pages, my Ode and a few other poems, two books, my shaving kit, scissors and tarp for haircuts, plus tea, soap and a towel. I also have a silk shirt from my civilian life. Esher has everything he arrived in, calling them too good to be thrown away, even though his heavily patched shirt still has holes in it.

In addition, at least in our squad, we carry Luther’s medicinals. He is our wizard. That’s what his previous Lieutenant called him before exiling him to my squad, and the word describes Luther perfectly. He is a tall, somewhat stooped, bony man with a gap-toothed smile, and he is always boiling or brewing something. Back at Camp, my squad and I doused ourselves with one of his concoctions, and I swear it did help to keep vermin at bay. Luther has an amazing number of bundles and packages. The scope of his wares is astonishing. Where do they all come from? I asked, when we were determining who carries what before the march. The mail. Luther gets at least two big packages from his wife every mail day. How he’s going to continue while we’re on the road or in battle, I can’t say.

Most men, including mine, pack hooch, tobacco, hemp, dice, playing cards and letters from home. Sammet packs three leather-stitched balls, plus a Feel-Good stone he’s saving for his young son, a legacy so to speak.

Hanson, a tall, lanky man with big feet that trip easily, is a craftsman at heart, though he calls himself a farmer. He packs an impressive array of hand tools which he clearly loves. It’s a fluke that he wound up as a farmer in Michigan for he can mend anything. He’s impressed me and I don’t impress easily.

There’s also a host of musical instruments. The simplest ones to pack are harmonicas and jew-harps, but there are also fiddles and stringed instruments

I’ve never seen before hanging from men’s backs. In our squad, Luther packs a fiddle, and it gets passed around as my men take turns carrying it. All musical instruments are worth their weight in gold to soldiers far from home.

Lastly, we pack our tents. This is a new addition, gratis the Army High Command. Sibley’s, huge, awkward tents capable of housing a dozen men or more, mostly more, and had to be ferried by teamster-driven wagons from Camp to Camp, are being phased out. Dogtents, called so by soldiers who must live in them, have replaced Sibley’s. Dogtents house two men, and can be transported by foot soldiers, greatly reducing the number of baggage wagons. Less impedimenta make logistics easier, and easy logistics ensure a successful march. This is the way the Army thinks, but you can bet no foot soldier does. A dogtent weighs twenty-five pounds. Even divided between the two men who share it, that’s a lot of extra weight. Multiply that by doubletime, a piece of hardtack, a swallow of warm, metallic water, and I’ve described a foot soldier’s attitude perfectly— shit on this.

Of course we don’t go into battle lugging fifty-plus pounds of stuff. Everything is stacked according to Company in the rear echelon, to be reclaimed later if we’re alive to do so. All we carry into battle is our Springfield rifle and allotted ammunition, three days of rations stored in our haversacks and strapped to our waists, a full canteen of water, and our bedroll tied across our backs.

Halt!

The command is a welcome one. It’s definitely time for a piss and a swallow of water.

*   *   *

We’re lost, our Captain announces without preamble. His handsome face is taut with worry.

I blink my surprise even though it’s not the first time this week I’ve heard it. How can ten thousand men be lost?

I called it, Two-Bean mutters as though to himself, but I manage to hear.

What’s that, Sergeant? the Captain demands. He glares at Two-Bean, challenging him to repeat his mumbled aside.

Don’ pay ta lissen ta a shifty-eyed, no account hayseed, Two-Bean says, then adds a belated, Sir.

The Captain frowns, studies Two-Bean impatiently. Perhaps the Commandant should have asked you for directions, Sergeant. Where would we be then? Ohio?

Two-Bean flushes with anger, the Captain stands stiffly, suffused with the same emotion. I say nothing, but Two-Bean made a good observation, as is his wont. He’s a nearly infallible judge of character, he can see the odds in anything, make the appropriate bet, and nine times out of ten, he wins. In our Company, you can always find a card game at Two-Bean’s, gambling is his specialty.

Danny, the third Sergeant in our Company shifts his weight restlessly, I can even say menacingly, and it won’t be an overstatement, as everything about Danny is tinged with danger. Even standing next to him, as I am, feels risky and perilous, but I’ve had time to get used to him, my hair no longer stands on end when he’s around. I watch Danny unscrew his canteen and take a swig. He grimaces after he swallows, teeth bared alarmingly before he belches. I immediately know his canteen contains hooch, not water. Danny runs the Company still. He has unlimited access to his wares.

The Captain starts to pace in a tiny circle. Our Lieutenant stands at rigid attention. All the Sergeants from our Regiment stare impassively except for George, who strains to make eye contact with Danny. He wants a swig from the hooch canteen. Danny ignores him. I use the time to gaze uninhibitedly at the Captain’s horse, Midnight Blue. What a beauty! He takes my breath away. I yearn to touch him, to hug his sleek, muscular neck, to smell him, perhaps get my fill of magnificent, ebony horseflesh. No such luck. To get my fill, I need more than a single hug.

The deuce of it is, there are a confounded number of roads that go nowhere! The Captain yells this as if one of us has upbraided him for such a folly.

Here’s our problem: the maps we have of eastern Tennessee are inaccurate. When we set off from Camp in southwestern Tennessee a week ago, no one suspected this. It wasn’t until we marched to a gully, with not a trace of road in sight that we understood our maps were useless. The next natural thing to do, we did: we asked local inhabitants for directions. That’s when we found out that the locals are hostile, they are Reb sympathizers. We have been directed all over Tennessee and are still far from our mission. It is critical that we reach Virginia to bolster our troops there. The Army of the Potomac is under attack. I hate to say they’re losing, so I’ll say they’re not winning. But with reinforcements, the Shenandoah can be ours. Richmond is next. When Richmond falls, this wearisome war, which has dragged on for over a year now, seven months longer than anyone thought possible, will be over. That will be cause for jubilation, but I won’t be around to witness it. I’ll undoubtedly be dead. I’ll know my crimson moment in the Shenandoah. A shiver passes through me even though it’s hot.

Suddenly George charges into me, and knocks me against Danny. Danny raises his canteen-holding hand to steady himself. In a trice, George snatches the canteen. As we stagger, he takes his swig, and by the time Danny and I have righted ourselves, he graciously hands it back. His huge smile is beguiling, full of teeth and good will. I mention his teeth because it’s always seemed to me as if George has more of them than everyone else, they spring from his mouth in profuse abundance, and it’s all anyone can do not to