The Picket

By Virgil C. Moon, III

The thoughts, hopes and reality of a private in the American Civil War are brought to life in the book. The author, a Civil War re-enactor, has through his experiences gained insight into images and emotions of a soldier in the conflict.. With accurate details of the soldiers equipment, camp life and battlefield action, the reader travels with the soldier as the war unfolds around him. Dealing with and understanding the reality of life and death are struggles of the mind that a private must face quietly and alone. Realistic images added with humor and mystical themes, the novel becomes an entertaining journey into the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Mar 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781478787693

Virgil C. Moon, III

As a United States history teacher for 23 years, the author has studied and taught about the war. As a Civil War re-enactor for 30 years, he has marched, camped, and battled: experiencing as close as possible the life of a soldier of the American Civil War.

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This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Picket

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2016 Virgil C. Moon, III

v5.0

Cover Photo © 2016 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4787-8769-3

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1

The voice calling Private Moon, picket duty! interrupted my dreaming. Sergeant Smith’s harsh voice shook my mind awake. Despite his gruff voice and rough exterior, Sergeant Smith was a good man who cared for all of his men. His bearded face was an all too familiar sight in an existence I wish I had never known. What we endured seemed at times to have been my entire life. A warm pillowed bed, the soft feel of a woman’s voice, and the aroma of freshly baked pie were all parts of a former life.

The pleasure of viewing all of these images in my mind slowed me from responding to the Sergeant’s order. While slipping from under my blanket, I muttered, Coming, Sergeant. My nose and toes were the first to feel the chill of the night air. Quickly finding my boots in the straw, I hurried to put them on. They were cool, too.

I had worn my clothes to bed knowing I would have to rise later to attend to my post. After pulling up my trousers and slipping my suspender straps back over my shirt, I gathered my gear and ducked out of the mild warmth of the tent and headed to the weapons stack. The campfire, although almost all coals, cast a yellow glow that was reflected in the wooden stocks of the rifles. I removed my jacket from the top of the rifle stack where it had been covering the open ends of the barrels to prevent any nighttime moisture from forming inside the weapons.

There was little moisture in the air, for which I was thankful. My coat was dry and felt comfortable as I buttoned up the front. I had carried my cartridge box, waist belt, canteen, and haversack with me from the tent. Hurriedly, I placed them on the topside of my coat in their proper arrangement. Dressed, with all my equipment ready and rifle in hand, I headed to my post.

A new path had been formed through the woods over the last several days, trodden down by private after private reporting to do his time as picket. The path made it easy to find the position. A lantern would have assured a walk without stumbling, but light in the darkness focuses the eyes of the enemy upon you. Although my eyes had grown accustomed to moving in the dark, I still almost fell over when my right boot heel hung up on an unnoticed tree root. The picket position was along the side of a road that was about one hundred yards from our company street.

The night sky was clear except for a white, slivered moon, which seemed to light the treetops with a silver shimmer. I looked ahead of me to where the path neared the end of the woods and disappeared into the dirt road. The dark shadow of a picket appeared ahead. He looked like a lead soldier, stiff and