Chapter 13 -
Du Vall’s Bluff, Jacksonport & Ditch Bayou

(Hospital) Abbi sat with a stack of books in her lap. "What do you want to read from today, Mr. Hunter? How about Moby-Dick by Herman Melville? He's an interesting author. It says here he was born August 1, 1819, in New York City, and at the age of 22, he sailed on a whaling ship bound for the South Seas. The next year he jumped ship in the Marquesas Islands. And his adventures on the Polynesia islands were the basis of his first novels, Typee and Omoo. It says Moby-Dick is his masterpiece. It is both an intense whaling narrative and a symbolic examination of the problems and possibilities of American democracy." Abbi fanned the pages of the thick and added, "Wow, it's pretty long." She laughed and patted him on his shoulder. "You'll be long out of your coma before we could ever get to the end of this book. Let's find something else."

Patch took the book from Abbi and offered, “I read somewhere that Herman Melville went on scouting rides with Yankee soldiers in order to get a glimpse of the Civil War soldier's lifestyle before writing his book Battle Pieces and Aspects of War.”

“I don’t have that one, and Moby-Dick is just too long to read. Hunter will be back with us before that. I hope and pray.”

“Don’t we all? Don’t we all?” Patch put the book back into her lap.

Abbi looked through the stack of books in her lap and held one up. “How about Emily Dickinson?” She opened to the back of the book and read aloud, “Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was born December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts. She lives a mostly introverted and reclusive life rarely leaving her room and refusing to great family guest. Her neighbors called her the lady in white and a little eccentric. The world calls her a great American poet." Abbi closed the book and opened it to the first page. "Let’s read a poem and see why." She cleared her throat and read the poem’s title, “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back.” She took a deep breath and read aloud, “These are the days when Birds come back- / A very few-a Bird or two- / To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume / The old-old sophistries of June- / A blue and gold mistake. Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee- / Almost thy plausibility / Induces my belief. Till ranks of seeds their witness bear- / And softly thro' the altered air / Hurries a timid leaf. Oh Sacrament of summer days, / Oh Last Communion in the Haze- / Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake- / They consecrated bread to take / And thine immortal wine!”

Abbi paused for a moment to catch her breath and then turned to Hunter, “Hunter, I know it’s a little hard to understand, but this is what Miss Dickinson is talking about. This poem is about ‘Indian summer.’ And you know around here snow can be on the ground, but it’s so warm outside you don’t even need a coat. Miss Dickinson says all the birds have flown south for the winter, but the nice weather fools a few so they return. ‘Sophestries’ means something is plausible, but it is misleading. The ‘sophestries of June’ refer to this deception. And ‘a blue and gold mistake’ tells us that, though the blue skies are clear, it is winter because the golden grass is still dead. Mother nature is playing tricks that nearly cause everyone to believe the winter could be over until they see that ‘timid leaves’ are still falling. The poem is an overview of nature's unpredictability.”

Patch cleared his throat and added, “Miss Dickinson relates the changing of the seasons to the way we rush through life. Those who are old,” Patch paused and patted Peg on his good leg then continued, “are now taking a ‘backward look’ over our lives and realizing it was a mistake to rush through it so quickly. After all, when we are children, we want to be adults, but once we become adults, we want to become children again. It is too late, the ‘Last Communion’ or death is in the distance, ‘the Haze,’ and we are powerless to stop it.”

“Or even slow it down,” Peg grumbled.

Just then, a black orderly leaned his head around the tent door and cleared his throat, “Miss Abbi, your momma is wait’n for you’s in her carriage.”

Abbi jumped up and patted Hunter on his sleeping forehead. “I’ll see you boys later,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared out the tent door.

“’Oh Last Communion in the Haze,’” Peg moaned and shuttered. “Wow. Why do all the poems have to be so dark and morbid?”

“Not all poems are dark and morbid. Some are happy and full of merriment,” Patch said, thumbing through his new newspaper and not looking at Peg. “Life is like that. Sometimes it’s happy and gay and sometimes dark and morbid.”

“Well fill my cup full of that jollity stuff.” Peg said, spiting a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “And I’ll take a pass on the dark and morbid meatloaf.” He added, adjusting himself more comfortably in his chair.

Patch, not listening or watching Peg, said absently to himself, “Hum, this is interesting. The Rebels flush with their crushing wins over Bank’s failed Red River Campaign, and Steele’s failed Camden Expedition started moving out of their little pocket in the southwest corner of Arkansas and began getting busy with the business of war again.” Patch sipped his coffee and continued, “At Augusta, on the White River, 25 miles south of Jacksonport, Confederate Brigadier General Dandridge McRae was busily recruiting Rebel troops in the area. To stop these activities, Colonel Andrews and 220 Yankee soldiers arrived at Augusta on the steamboat Dove. Andrews left 60 men to guard the boat and took 160 to go looking for McRae. They found him watering his horse at a stream near Fitzhugh Plantation. Unfortunately for the Yankees, when they found him, they also found 545 Rebels soldiers. And the fight was on. The Yankees fought their way back through the Fitzhugh's Woods and back to their boat in Augusta, losing 27 soldiers while the Confederates lost nearly a 100 men. Even though this news severely hindered General McRae's recruiting abilities in the region, harassing Yankees all over the state escalated.” Patch sipped his coffee and continued. “An import Yankee supply line goes by rail from Little Rock east to Du Vall’s Bluff on the White River, then down the White River to the Arkansas River, then down to the Mississippi Rivers, then to Memphis. Our man Shelby and his men love to harass and disrupt the flow of supplies along this 100-mile route. And when General Steele emptied out Jacksonport and moved those Yankees down to Du Vall’s Bluff to stop the harassment, Shelby moved our boys back into Batesville and Jacksonport, where the Black River joins the Whiter River.”

“That sounds good,” Peg chuckled.

“Not too good,” Patch corrected.

(Dream) General Shelby grabbed the cigar out of Hunter’s mouth, angered at how long the young boy was taking to light it. He popped the cigar into his own mouth, stormed over to the fireplace, found a thin piece of hot kindling, picked it up by the cool end and put the burning end to the tip of his cigar. As he puffed, he looked suspiciously over the tip of his cigar at a nicely dressed sutler.

“Hunter, get this cotton speculator a chair,” Shelby said around puffs at getting his cigar lit.

“General, I’m not a cotton speculator, sir. I deal in fine drink and tobacco products.”

The general took a deep drag on his cigar and coughed a little as he exhaled. “Not too fine of tobacco products, sir.” The general offered as he sat down behind his desk and coughed a little more. He cleared his throat and added, “With the taste of these things, maybe you should consider a career as a cotton speculator.” He coughed again. “What’s your problem?”

“That’s my problem, sir.” The sutler took the chair Hunter handed him. “With all the thugs and Bushwhackers roaming the country side, it is hard to make an honest living selling good products.”



“Honest?” General Shelby laughed. “The citizens are complaining that butter is five dollars a pound. Coffee is six dollars and eighty cents a pound. Corn is ten dollars a bushel and calico, which sold for a dime before the war, is now selling for five dollars a yard.”

“That’s the problem. Us sutlers depend on a precarious transportation system that is victimized by roving bands of outlaws and guerrillas. Therefore the citizenry has to pay dearly for what flour, sugar, tobacco, and similar goods that do get delivered.”

“Well, all of that is about to end.” The general motioned Hunter over. “Read to this fine gentleman the announcement we were just drafting. This, sir, will be nailed to every tree and fencepost at every crossroad through out the region. I’m giving notice to every Texan, Missourian and Arkansan roving through northern Arkansas they have 30 days to report to this army.” The general looked at Hunter and ordered, “Read.”

Hunter cleared his throat and read, “Hear ye, hear ye. Able body persons, you shall fight for the North or the South. I will enlist you in the Confederate army, or I will drive you into the Federal ranks. You shall not remain idle spectators of a dream enacted before your eyes.”

(Hospital) “Partisan Rangers.” Peg spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon. “That is just plain dumb. Who came up with that stupid idea?”

“Your buddy General Hindman who replaced Van Dorn.”

“He ain’t no buddy of mine or any other Arkansan.” Peg spit another stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “And Van Dorn, that’s the clown who, after marching our soldiers and cannons off to Tennessee, left us nothing to fight the war with.” Peg was getting worked up. “Once they crossed the Mississippi River, they disappeared into the Eastern Campaigns, and Arkansas was left high and dry.” He rubbed the palms of his hands together furiously and then threw them open, palms up. “Nothing! That’s what Van Dorn left us with. Nothing.”

“He left us enough ‘war machine’ to give the Yankees fits, especially on the Mississippi.”

“Oh yeah! Like what?” Peg twisted his nose at Patch and waited.

“It seems that down near the Arkansas and Louisiana boarder, in the southeastern tip of Arkansas, there is a particular nasty twisting portion of the Mississippi River called the Greenville Bends. In this portion of the river, ships have to navigate long river-bends separated by narrow necks of land. Steamships moving slowly upriver, with a top speed of thirteen miles per hour, make good targets. Confederate batteries wait until the ships have passed before firing at their sterns, where they are most vulnerable. When the vessels being attacked are out of range and continuing up river, the Confederates quickly move their artillery across the narrow necks to attack the same vessels coming around the river bend.”

(Dream) “Hunter! Hunter!” General Greene hit Hunter on the back with the broad side of his sword to get his attention. “Pull the lanyard, and fire the cannon quickly. We have to move it over there to catch the steamer as it comes around the bend.”

Hunter froze. He wanted to follow orders, but he didn’t want to shoot anybody. “General I’ve got the measles and have been kicked in the head by a mule,” Hunter whined.

“Ah, shut up.” The general snorted as he jerked the lanyard himself. The 8-inch, 65-pound ball, in a whirl of smoke and sparks, whooshed out of the end of the cannon in a deafening boom. Everyone watched as the cannon ball, in a sweeping arch, slowly raced toward the tail end of the fleeing Yankee troop transport. The ball whizzed by the big groaning wooden paddle wheel and slapped the river hard, sending a spray of muddy water all over the side of the lumbering steamer, trying desperately to get beyond the rang of the angry cannons.

The General spun around and grabbed Hunter by the face. He leaned in only inches from the tip of his nose and sputtered angrily, “In less than two weeks, I have inflicted heavy damage on river traffic. I engaged 21 boats of all descriptions, of which five gunboats and marine-boats were disabled, five transports badly damaged, one sunk, two burned, and two captured. My loss was only five privates slightly wounded. No guns or horses were hit.” The wheezing general took a deep breath and all but spitting into Hunter’s face, hissed, “The river is mine, Hunter. Mine!” The general’s thumb and index finger dug into Hunter’s cheeks, as his red blustery face, now only inches away, turned even redder and more blustery. “But no thanks to you - now get this cannon over to the other bank. Set it up, and when it’s time pull the lanyard.” Squeezing Hunter’s face harder the general screamed, “PULL! And that’s an order!”

(Hospital) “Well, it seems General Canby has had it with what he calls a ‘Rebel nuisance at the Greenville Bends’ and has diverted two Yankee divisions en route to join the Army of the Tennessee. He has asked General Smith to pause long enough to ‘clean out the Rebels’ in Chicot County.”

“Two divisions to run off our boys from Pee-ko County?” Peg grumbled.

“Close. Chicot County and yes. It says twenty-eight steam vessels quietly landed at Sunnyside Plantation. On board were 6,000 men, including a portion of Colonel Currie’s Mississippi Marine Brigade, all under the command of General Andrew Jackson Smith.” Patch took a sip of coffee and continued, “But our Colonel Greene got word of it and moved his troops down to Red Leaf at the south end of Lake Chicot and took a stand. When he realized how many Yankees there were coming at him, he pulled his 600 troops and six cannons across Ditch Bayou, burned the bridge and set up his cannons. When the advancing Yankees got within range, there was no place in the open ground for them to seek shelter. They were easily chewed up by musket fire and canister shot, consisting of tin cylinders filled with iron balls packed in sawdust which, when fired, turns a cannon into a giant shotgun. The Rebels kept shooting while some of the Yankees headed downstream looking for a place to cross over and get behind Greene’s position. It says that along with the Yankees was Old Abe, a bald eagle carried as a mascot by the Eighth Wisconsin.”

“Chew’um up, Mr. Mean Greene, and we’ll have Old Abe over for supper,” Peg laughed and slapped his good knee.

“General Greene was running low on gunpowder, so he pulled back the ten miles to Lake Village in an orderly manner before the Yankees could outflank him.” Patch sipped his coffee and added, “It says by the time the Yankees got to Lake Village, the Rebels had scattered and disappeared.”

“They can’t kill Johnny Reb if you can’t find him,” Peg snickered.

“Well, Johnny Reb didn’t stay hidden for long,” Patch said, folding back the newspaper. “After the Ditch Bayou encounter, the Rebels soldiers harassed the Yankees soldiers all over the state. The Action at Wallace’s Ferry saw a 1,000 Rebel cavalrymen raid and burn plantations around Helena that were being operated by the Yankees. The Action at Massard Prairie saw 600 Rebels fall on 200 Yankee soldiers camped eight miles out from Fort Smith as an advanced guard providing early warning for the Union troops garrisoned there at the fort. Later, The Action at Fort Smith saw the same Rebels boldly attack the fort itself. The Action at Ashley's Station, near Du Vall's Bluff, saw 2,500 Rebels swoop in wearing Yankee uniforms and swoop back out after destroying ten miles of railroad track, burning 3,000 bales of hay and twenty hay-cutting machines and capturing hundreds of horses and small arms weapons.” Patch sipped his coffee and added, “It says these kinds of harassing hit and run raids, for the Rebels, have replaced the massive battles of earlier war years where row upon row of soldiers would face and fire at row upon row of soldiers.”

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