Chapter Twenty-Three
Hunter's A Powder Monkey

(Hospital) Doctor Dudley walked over to Patch and handed him a newspaper that was a lot less raggedy, creased and folded than the one Patch had been reading from. “Here, this is only a couple of weeks old. I have a later one in my tent. I’ll go get it for you in a little bit.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Patch said, folding and putting his older newspaper away in his back pocket.

“Here, Peg, you read something. I have to go to the outhouse, too much coffee this morning. Excuse me.” Patch said, as he handed the new newspaper to Peg.

Peg took the paper and flipped through it absently. "What the heck is the Pony Express?" He stopped and asked out loud. "It says here that this company proposes to deliver a message in 10 days from St. Joseph, Missouri to San Francisco, California, a trip that normally takes 25 or more days. Because of the Civil War and the need to stay in touch with the West Coast, they are going to start the service immediately. They say it will take nearly 20 riders changing horses every 10-15 miles to make the 2000 mile trip from the rail-head in St. Joe to Sacramento in 8 days." Peg paused and added. "Hum, interesting. It says the Pony Express will be phased out in about eighteen months, once the coast is hooked up with telegraph wires and telegrams.”

Peg stopped reading and looked up for a second and said, "Black soldiers?" He huffed but continued to read out loud. "Kansas Senator James H. Lane is recruiting and training troops from the growing number of black fugitives in Kansas who had voluntarily fled or had been forcefully liberated from their masters in Missouri and Arkansas. Once enrolled, they are outfitted in red silk pantaloons and wool jackets and drilled with real rifles."

“Senator Lane says, ‘Congress is expected to soon make it legal to enroll 'persons of African descent' into the Union Army. When they do, the First Kansas Colored Volunteer Infantry will be ready to go.’"

“Disgusting.” Peg blustered, “How can this be a gentleman’s war if they allow slaves to fight in it?”

Peg’s eyes moved over to the next column, “Look, that Yankee, Ulysses S. Grant was in Missouri. It says here that when Grant learned that Confederate troops had crossed the Mississippi River from Columbus, Kentucky to Belmont, Missouri, he left Cairo, Illinois with troops and two gunboats to intercept them. It says Grant landed on the Missouri shore, out of the range of Confederate artillery at Columbus, and started marching the mile to Belmont. The Federals routed the Confederates out of their Belmont encampment and destroyed the Rebel supplies and equipment they found because they did not have the means to carry them off.” Peg stopped reading and snorted, “Dabnab Yankees.” He paused for a second, then continued, “But wait. Look here. It says that the scattered Confederate forces reorganized and received reinforcements from Columbus.” Peg slapped his good knee joyfully and continued reading. “Once they were counterattacked by the Confederates, the Union force withdrew, re-embarked, and returned to Cairo.”

Peg danced his legs a little in his chair and snorted, “Tell me if our boys don’t know how to run off Yankees!” Peg flipped through the paper with a smile on his face. He stopped and read aloud, “Lewis Carroll publishes ‘Alice's Adventures in Wonderland’, Silas Marner is published by George Eliot, ‘War and Peace’ is published by Leo Tolstoy and the poem ‘Paul Revere's Ride’ is published by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.” Peg looks quizzically at Patch as he walks back into the tent and takes his chair. “Who are all these guys, anyways?” Peg snorted, “Tolstoy don’t sound American.”

Patch snatched the Doctor’s newspaper out of Peg’s hands, “He’s not. He’s Russian. And it’s about writers and poets, dig-don.” Patch answered. He cleared his throat as he folded the paper back to the front page. He read the headline out loud, “Lyon’s Army of the West Tired of Waiting – Moves Out.”

Peg, unfazed by Patch’s abrasiveness, busied himself instead by placing a cold rag on Hunter’s burning forehead as Patch continued to read, “The newly promoted Brigadier General Nathaniel Lyon’s Army of the West was camped at Springfield, Missouri, waiting for the attack from Governor Jackson, who had gathered under his command Pulaski’s Arkansas Battery, General McCulloch and his men along with General Price and the Missouri State Guard, about 12,000 men in total.”

“Finally, tired of waiting, Lyon, in two columns commanded by himself and Col. Franz Sigel, moved to meet head-on in a surprise attack the Confederates camped at Wilson’s Creek, about 12 miles southwest of Springfield.”

(Dream)

The old army wagon bumped and twisted over a dried rut in the road and shook Hunter awake. He was bone tired and didn’t bother to move. He just lay there half awake. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was.

When he did, he let out a silent sigh and relaxed back into the warm indentation his back had wallowed out in the feed sacks he was laying on. He smelled the night air and then tasted it. It was cool but refreshing, so he took a deep breath, held it for a moment then let it out slowly. That felt so good, he did it again, then again, then a couple a more times.

He closed his eyes, held his breath and lay quietly, not moving, just listening to the sounds of the night. With the exception of a horse or mule blowing their lips ever so often, the slow steady wagon ride was quiet and peaceful, bumpy, but quiet and peaceful.

He sighed quietly to himself again. But just as he did the old wagon wheels slid down a cake-solid mud grove, causing the wagon to slide sideways for an instant. His heart stopped. His eyes popped open. He tilted his head up slightly and listened from side to side. Nothing. The old wheels easily found another grove and moved along straight and steady once again.

Hunter laid his head back down and took another deep breath and held it for a long moment, as he tried to relax his tired bones. His spot on the grain bags stacked in the back of the open army wagon was comfortable, bouncy and bumpy, but comfortable. He finally allowed himself a little yawn and a secret stretch. His muscles felt exhausted, and his bones seemed to creak when he moved them. So, instead of moving, he just lay flat on his back and looked up at a sky full of stares. The moon was so big and bright it flooded the road and fields with bright silver light, bright enough to move a long column of men, wagons and supplies through the quiet night so as to be closer to the enemy by daybreak.

Hunter closed his eyes and thought real hard trying to remember where they were going so relentlessly. “Oh, yeah. Wilson’s Creek.” He said out loud to himself.

With his eyes still closed, he tried to remember why.

He remembered, after losing the battle at Carthage, Colonel Sigel fled to Sarcoxie. From Sarcoxie they were hotly pursued, by the Rebel soldiers, until they got nearly to Springfield. At Springfield, Colonel Sigel regrouped his men with Captain Lyon’s men, and now all of them were headed for a place called Wilson’s Creek.

Hunter let out a long sigh. Just as he did, the wagon stopped and someone tapped him on the bottom of his boot with a sword.

“How you feeling, measles boy?” A deep baritone voice asked.

Hunter raised his head up slightly and squinted at the figure on horseback. The huge moon hung squarely behind the horseman’s back, preventing Hunter from seeing clearly who it was.

“I said, how you feeling, measles boy?”

Just as Hunter realized who it was, the officer’s horse pranced around to the other end of the wagon, and Hunter could see general stars on Capitan Lyon’s uniform.

“I’m fine, sir. Just a little stiff, but fine.” Hunter was confused by the uniform but did not bother to ask about it.

“You better be fine. We are nearly to Wilson’s Creek, and I’m ready to knock Governor Jackson and his Missouri State Guard down a few pegs before dragging them off to prison again. No Reb or governor causes me or my men to retreat and lives to brag about it.”

General Lyon’s horse was unruly and had pranced back to the other end of the wagon and the general face and features were once again blotted out by the brightness of the moon over this shoulder.

“Get up. I’ve brought you my other horse. I need you to ride like the wind and deliver a message to Colonel Sigel for me.”

Hunter reluctantly got down off the mound of soft feed sacks and mounted the horse the general held waiting for him.

“I’ve sent Colonel Sigel with 1,200 men on a wide sweeping arch to the south to come in behind the Rebels. Tell him that reinforcements are on their way and to hold his line.”

“Yes, sir.” Hunter reluctantly got on the general’s big horse and headed up the road.

“I said ride like the wind!” The general hollered after him.

Hunter prodded the general’s horse with his heels, and the big horse instantly jumped from a leisure gallop to a fast run.

By the time Hunter got to the head of the supply wagons and then up a distant hill off to the south, the battle in the valley was raging full force and smoke filled the air. Hunter watched from the hilltop as the Federal troops overran several Confederate camps and started to storm up ‘Bloody Hill’.

Just as Hunter was ready to prod his horse to move out, someone jerked him off of it. He landed on the ground on all fours. But just as quickly as he was pulled off the horse, he was grabbed by the collar and yanked to his feet. Hunter’s heart sank. He had fallen into Confederate hands, and that darn Yankee forage cap had given him away again.

“I need a powder monkey. Mine is dead.” A Federal Lieutenant screamed into Hunter’s face.

Hunter looked over at the smoking cannon and saw a young boy lying crumpled up on the ground back near the caisson.

“Pulaski’s Arkansas Battery is hammering our advancing troops and has almost stopped them in their tracks.” The lieutenant pushed Hunter toward the caisson. “Go get black powder. We need to hammer Pulaski so that our boys can go ahead and capture Bloody Hill.”

“But I’ve got the measles. I don’t know how to be a powder monkey.”

“I don’t care what you’ve got.” The lieutenant roughly pushed Hunter toward the caisson again. “My cannoneers don’t have black powder and they need it, so move it.”

Hunter was honest. He did not know what to do. So he just stood there.

“Look, go over to the caisson. Get a bag of black powder. Take it over to the guy on the left of the cannon. He’ll take it from you, and you run back to the caisson and wait for him to turn around with outstretched arms again. That is your signal to get another bag and run it up to him.” The lieutenant pushed Hunter toward the caisson. “Now, get a move on. We need to start shelling those Arkansans now.”

“But I’m a messenger from the…”

“I need black powder, boy.” The lieutenant screamed and grabbed for his pistol. “I don’t need measles or messages.”

Without another word, Hunter scrambled over to a thing that looked like a big box perched on top of a pair of wagon wheels. He looked inside. It was filled with cannon balls and bags. He reached inside and grabbed a bag of black powder. It was heavy, ten pounds or more, but he quickly muscled it up to the out stretched arms of the man standing to the left of the cannon.

The man grabbed the bag from Hunter, spun around and put it into the barrel of the smoking cannon. Another man with a long stick rammed it down the barrel. Hunter noticed that this man had a missing thumb. Another man lifted a ball about the size of his head into the cannon’s opening, and Mr. Missing Thumb rammed it also down the barrel with his long stick.

As these men stepped back from the barrel, a man in back of the cannon took what looked like a long darning needle and rammed it down a small pinhole on top of the cannon. Once he pricked the black powder bag, another man put what looked like a horseshoe nail with a string attached to it down the same hole. Everyone took a step back. The lieutenant, who had yanked Hunter off his horse, looked down the aiming sights and waved his right hand, behind him, a little to the right.

They picked up and moved the tongue of the cannon slightly to the right. The lieutenant stood up, put his hands on his hips and took a step back from the cannon. The man holding the string quickly jerked it and the cannon exploded, belching fire and burning ash for ten feet or more out the front of the barrel. As it did, the cannon bucked a foot or more up into the air, landed on its wheels and bounced as it rolled back against its wheel chucks.

The noise of the explosion was so deafening. Hunter just dropped to his knees with his hands over his ears. Suddenly, he was jerked up off the ground once again by his collar. The lieutenant was screaming and waving his arms at Hunter, but Hunter could not hear what the lieutenant was screaming. No one had told Hunter when to cover his ears, and now the ringing was so loud in his ears that he could not hear what was being said to him.

The lieutenant pushed Hunter toward the caisson and continued screaming and waving his arms. Hunter ran to the back of the caisson, got a bag of black powder and ran with it to the same man he had given it to the first time. He stood there looking at the man, who was now screaming at him.

Hunter finally realized what he was saying and ran back to the caisson, stood behind it and waited for the next signal.

This time when the cannon went off, Hunter held his hands over his ears. It did no good. His ears were ring so loud he could only see people moving around, doing this and that and screaming at him. Hearing what they were screaming at him was out of the question.

From his position on top of the hill, Hunter could see the battle that raged on for Bloody Hill. It went on for five hours. He watched as fighting was often at close quarters, and the tide turned with each charge and countercharge.

Suddenly, while Hunter was standing behind the caisson watching the battle out of the corner of his eye, he was knocked out of his boots and thrown twenty feet through the air by a humongous explosion.

Frozen in time and space, he lay face down on the grassy hillside for a long moment, dazed. He could not hear or feel anything. His mouth and nose was filled with the rank taste and odor of black gunpowder and dust. He blinked his eyes several times until the blades of grass in front of his face came into focus. Instead of trying to get up, he just lay there taking shallow, short nervous breaths for a long time.

He felt cold even though it had been a hot day. Shivering, he lay there for a long time, stretched out in a field of grass with his left shoulder buried in the soft ground and his face pressed against the soft grass. From the corner of his eye, he could see the blue, blue sky as thin ribbons of smoke wafted over him and disappeared off down the hillside.

Finally, he tried to move his left shoulder, but it was painful. His head felt like it weighed a ton. He tried to roll over on his back, but it was almost impossible. His body weighed even more than his head, ten tons. He slowly shifted his legs and rolled over onto his back. He was exhausted. It took all of his strength to do that, and he fell asleep or passed out.

(Hospital)

Patch stopped reading for a second and motioned for Peg to do something. Peg dipped a rag into a pail of water and rung it out.

Sweat was rolling off Hunter’s face as he lay in his cot shivering. Peg pulled the covers up over Hunter’s shoulders and carefully placed the newly dipped cold wet rag onto his boiling hot forehead.

(Dream)

Something cold, wet and slippery crawled across his face. His eyes popped open involuntarily and focused on a huge black figure towering over him. It was his horse. Its wet nose nudged his dirty face again. He smiled and tried to lift his left hand to rub the gentle beast’s long nose but couldn’t. “I don’t know why the captain has such a hard time with you, Dancer.” Hunter said out loud or maybe he thought it. He was not sure.

The horse, glad to see that Hunter was finally back from the dead, pushed his big wet nose against Hunter’s dirty and grass stained face again.

Slowly, Hunter rolled over and got up on one knee. When he did, he got dizzy, fell over onto his side and lay there looking out across the grassy hillside and off into the royal blue sky with its puffy white clouds. His eyes grew heavy again as he fought to hold them open.

Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he didn’t. He could not remember. He slowly opened his eyes and watched as the puffy cloud patterns in the sky mixed and mingled with the dark gray ribbons of smoke on the ground that drifted over him and the grassy hillside. He lay motionless on his side for a long, long time. Slowly, he rolled over onto his belly and tried to get up on one knee again. He succeeded. Then two knees. Yes. He slowly stood up, cautiously, not trusting his legs, but they did not fail him. He was bone tired and ached all over.

He looked down, and his boots were gone. He looked around, and everything and everybody was gone, all but the caisson. He teetered around in a small circle for a moment, testing his new legs and trying to figure out where everything had gone.

Then, he saw a big crater where the cannon had been and rubbed his eyes. Everything was gone, everything but smoke. Little wafts of it curled up from the center of the big hole and off the clumps of dirt strewn all around its rim. He looked for the lieutenant to scream at him, but he was gone. Mr. Thumbs was gone. The man with outstretched arms was gone. Everything and everybody were gone, just gone. He teetered around in the same spot for a moment not knowing which direction to go or what to do next.

He slowly started to collect his senses and stopped teetering. He looked out from the hill, down into the little valley and over to Bloody Hill on the other side. He saw Colonel Sigel’s colors down in the valley next to a small farmhouse, he would learn later was called Sharp’s farm, and it quickly came back to him what he had been sent to do.

He turned around to tell the lieutenant where he was going and then remembered that there was no lieutenant. Saddened deeply, he dropped his head and prayed. After a long moment of reverence, he turned away from the smoking crater and staggered off down the backside of the hill to where his horse was calmly standing and eating grass.

As he approached, the horse looked up and blew his lips, as a greeting, and stepped toward the staggering Hunter. “Easy boy.” Hunter said softly. “How you doing, big fellow?” Hunter started to pet the big horse’s nose but grabbed the saddle horn instead. He hung onto it trying to overcome his dizziness, as the horse stood steady waiting for Hunter to get on.

Instead, Hunter pressed his cheek against the smooth leather of the saddle and revered its strong masculine leather aroma. The pull and squeak of the smooth leather as it strained on the big horse’s back was somehow reassuring to him. The reassuredness of a constant was what his dazed mind and buzzing head needed. He braced himself that way for a long moment, while the horse waited patiently.

Finally, after a long while he felt able to ride without falling off. He got on the horse’s back, squared himself in the saddle and moved off down the hill in a slow walk. At the bottom of the hill, he cut left and rode around toward Sharp’s farm.

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