Pink's Story - a Civil War Tale

I grew up seven miles from the state line of Louisiana, Texas, and Arkansas. My grandmother Dale and her second husband Hud lived on a 40-acre tree farm in the East Texas county of Cass. The little house where she and Hud lived encompassed about a thousand square feet but seemed much larger when I was young.

Grandma Dale had a picture of a man and a woman on her wall. They were her mother, Annie, and father, James Pinkney O’Rear. They were my great-grandparents.

Pink, as my great-granddad was called, was sitting in a chair, Annie, my great-grandmother standing behind him. Pink had a missing leg and a wooden prosthesis propped beside his dangling pant leg. Pink had lost his leg in the Civil War. A private in the 1^st Texas Infantry, Company D, Pink hiked home on his wooden leg, one good leg, and a crutch some 1200 miles to East Texas after the war.

People, it’s true, get caught up in wars that make no sense. Fighting on the wrong side of a war without awareness is possible. We are destined, right or wrong, to play the hand life deals us.

There is no emotion in Pink’s words, though I can’t believe he lived such an adventure without becoming changed forever. Draw your own conclusions.

Here is Pink’s story in his own words.

 

PINK’S STORY

 

W

e left Linden May 17, 1861, and marched to Jefferson, Texas, where we took boats for New Orleans. One of our men Henry Colley, was drowned here. We received orders to proceed to Richmond, where we landed on June 20. 1861. About the 10th day of July we were ordered to Manassas. On the way to Manassas we were in a railroad wreck. The Kentucky troops lost 32 men killed and wounded, but we escaped without the loss of a man. We did not get into the battle at Manassas, but here we saw the first horrors of war.

We camped there two or three days and our men went over the battlefield and saw the graves of the soldiers and the destruction of the battle. From here we were ordered to Evansport on the Potomac River, and remained in camp till March, 1862. We had a very pleasant time, as the winter was mild, and we had felt none of the effects of war. Occasionally a gunboat would pass and shoot at us, but nothing of note happened. We lost two men here of pneumonia, Henry Sanser and Charley Covey.

We were ordered to Fredericksburg where we joined Hood's Brigade, which at that time consisted of four regiments, First., Fourth and Fifth Texas, and Eighteenth Georgia. Here we lost two men, Henry and John Oliver.

About the 1st of April, 1862 we were ordered by Joseph E. Johnston to Yorktown where we met the enemy under Gen. McClellan. About the 1st of May we were ordered to fall back to Richmond and the next day Gen. Longstreet fought the battle of Williamsburg. We then went to Pamunky and fought our first battle and lost one man killed and two wounded. Our Colonel, Black, was killed and our Captain was promoted to Major.

We drove the enemy back to their gunboats and marched back and camped west of Chickahominy Creek. Here we reorganized and re-enlisted for the war. In a few days the battle of Seven Pines was fought. We were in line but not in the charge. The enemy was driven back across Chickahominy Creek. Gen. Johnston was wounded and Gen. Lee was put in command. We were ordered to take the train for Charlottsville, then to Staunton, and then back to Gordonsville, and on to Ashland, twenty miles north of Richmond. where we struck McClellan's pickets and drove them back.

The movement was made to surround McClellan, but it was reported that we were going to reinforce Gen. Jackson. When we came to McClellan's pickets we drove them back, and the next day Jackson fought McClellan's army from 10 o'clock till 4 P. M., when Hood's Brigade charged McClellan's army and routed them, and we continued skirmish fighting from there to Malvern Hill where McGruder fought McClellan, while Jackson was surrounding him. McClellan retreated that night to the James River under cover of his gunboats.

Then Lee's army went back to Richmond, arriving sometime in August, 1862. From here we were ordered to reinforce Jackson at Sudder Mountain, near Manassas, where Pope had joined McClellan, and the second battle of Manassas was fought. I was detailed to wait on the sick and wounded and did not go with the army into Maryland. I remained in the hospital about two months and rejoined my company when it returned from this campaign. We remained in camp seven miles south of Richmond for about three months with nothing of interest occurring and were then ordered to Suffolk, N. C., where we stayed fifteen or twenty days. And we then returned to Richmond and went from there to Fredericksburg where we were attacked by Burnside’s army.

In the spring of 1863, Gen. Lee reorganized his army and we went to Culpepper Court House where we had a general review and inspection and then to Gettysburg, crossing the Potomac River at Williamsport. As there was no bridge or ferry we had to wade the river, which was about 800 yards wide. We reached Gettysburg on the first of July and lines were formed and the battle began about 1 P.M., continuing till about 4 P. M. Here was some of the hardest fighting which I saw or was in during the war. I visited one of the hospitals where the sick and wounded were being taken care of. It was a horrible sight. Men were wounded in every conceivable way and the intensity of their suffering was heartrending.

We marched from here to Hagerstown where we formed a line of battle, but the enemy would not attack us and we crossed the Potomac River at Fallingwater. We retreated back into Virginia and established picket lines along the Rappahannock River till in September when Longstreet's Corps (our Corps) was ordered to Georgia to support Gen. Bragg. We landed at Dalton Sept. 19, 1863, and went from there to Resaca, where we attacked the enemy and drove them back to Chickamauga Creek. There we fought that battle and drove them back to Chattanooga. We remained here a month and I was detailed to help wait on the sick and wounded and rejoined my company at Lookout Mountain. About the 1st of November we were ordered to Knoxville, Tenn. Here we drove the enemy into their forts and kept them there till Gen. Grant sent reinforcements to our rear and compelled us to retreat across the Tennessee River. We spent the winter at Morristown.

Here we suffered for food and clothing. In February, 1864, I was detailed to collect supplies for the army and gathered up beef, cattle, sheep, hogs, goats and corn, or anything that the army would need for food. The first of April the army was ordered back to Virginia where we arrived on May 7th and fought the battle of the Wilderness. Our company lost heavily here. I was not in the battle but rejoined the company soon after the battle was over.

After this we continued skirmishing until Oct. 7, 1864, when we attacked the enemy's bulwarks ten miles east of Richmond. Here a Yankee bullet struck me just below the knee, breaking the bone. I was captured, taken to the field hospital, and my leg was amputated. Was then taken to the Federal hospital near Petersburg where I was well treated by good, kind nurses. Was taken to Fortress Monroe where I remained seven months before I was able to travel.

While in the hospital, I saw the horrible side of war. Although I was kindly treated I suffered much and the groans of the wounded were never out of my ears day or night. Then came news of the surrender with thoughts of home and the lost cause, and of my condition, being 1,200 miles from home and in the hands of the enemy. I don't see how I lived through it all. I got my discharge on the 27th of May, 1865, and arrived home on the 17th of October of that year."

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 Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

 

Old Bones - a short story

 It’s a gray day here in Oklahoma, my two kitties, Buster and Buttercup, searching for even a scant patch of sunlight in which to bask. The gloom reminds me of a search I made many years ago that resulted in an eerie discovery.

A chill weekend in November found Gail, my ex, and me deep in a pine forest in southwest Arkansas. A graduate student in geology, my thesis concerned long-forgotten mineral deposits in a sparsely populated corner of the universe. Years before the invention of GPS tracking devices, we relied on a very old Brunton compass to navigate through the stark loneliness of the southern Ouachita Mountains.

Tall trees, mostly pines, covered the rolling terrain. While the Ouachitas aren’t high, rapid elevation changes of several hundred feet are common. We were moving slowly, picking our way through the undergrowth as we traversed an east-west trending ridgeline, looking for an old lead mine hidden deep in the forest.

Gail was short, had green eyes, dark hair and an olive complexion inherited from her French-Acadian parents. Though raised in the New Orleans’ metro area, her athletic legs carried her through the forest as smoothly as if she’d been born there. She was walking ahead of me, and I bumped into her when she halted abruptly.

“How do you know where we’re going?” she asked. “There’s no trail. I think we’re lost.”

I was holding an old topo map in one hand and the Brunton compass in the other. “We’re following an azimuth. The mine should be just up ahead.”

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” she said.

“It’s hard staying in a straight line with so many trees and boulders in the way.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Let’s keep walking,” I said. “We’ll find it.”

I was about to give up when we reached a slight clearing that led down the slope to a roaring stream. There was something anomalous about the rounded pile of dirt located in a bend.

“That has to be it,” I said.

“That pile of dirt?” she said.

“Someone dug that dirt out of the ground and put it there. I think it’s the mine we’re looking for.”

“Doesn’t look like a mine to me,” Gail said.

“Quit bitching and let’s investigate. Even if it’s not the Davis Mine, we can at least take a break.”

Gail had endless energy and rarely ever took a break. As I sat on a fallen log and tossed pebbles into the roaring water of the creek, she climbed up on the pile of dirt and began exploring it.

“This hill’s bigger than it looks,” she said. “It follows the river for at least fifty yards.”

“I’m sure it was built by humans,” I said.

“Hell yeah,” she said. “Look at this.”

Glancing up the hill, I could see Gail had something in her hand.

“What is it?” I asked.

“An old bottle.”

“How old?”

“Real old,” she said. “Looks like something from a museum.”

I left my perch on the stump and followed her up the hill. The bottle was faded green and crusted with dirt. I was still examining it when Gail called again.

“Check this out,” she said, holding up something for me to see.

“What is it?”

“What’s left of a Confederate soldier’s shirt.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s a brass button still attached with the letters C.S.A.,” she said.

The weathered hill was the talus pile of an old mine. A scar, roughly a half-acre in size, was all that remained of the old mining operation. Vertical shafts had collapsed or were filled with standing water. We soon began digging beautiful ore specimens out of the talus pile strewn with old bottles, broken timbers and a few faded signs of the men that had worked it.

“How did anyone ever find this place?” Gail asked when she finally stopped for a break.

“Prospectors searching for silver in the 1830s found lead and antimony instead,” I said. “This particular mine used horses and slave labor to mine lead for the Confederacy.”

“The old man at the truck stop told us we’d never find this place, and that it’s haunted,” Gail said.

“Well, we did find it. Don’t know about any ghosts, though the accounts of operations at the Davis Mine refer to abuse, torture and even murder of Union prisoners of war conscripted to work here.”

“Then maybe it is haunted.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “The shadows and silence are starting to creep me out.”

“Me too,” Gail said. “I keep looking around, thinking someone’s behind me.”

It was already past noon when we found the old mine, days short and our time limited before we needed to start back to the truck. We took photos and collected specimens, all the while feeling as if there was something present other than ourselves, even if it was only fleeting shadows. The distinct sensation that we were disturbing a place where something terrible had happened was unmistakable. I felt it, and so did Gail.

I jumped when she said, “Oh, shit!”

“What is it?”

“You better come see. I’m not touching this thing.”

She was standing on the top of the pile, nudging something with the toe of her boot. Though mostly covered with dirt, it looked for all the world like a human skull.

“Shit is right,” I said, digging the skull out of the earth with my pick hammer.

“Is that a bullet hole?” Gail asked as I held the skull in my hand.

“Looks like it to me,” I said. “But hell if I know for sure.”

“What are we going to do with it?” Gail asked.

I tossed it into the creek, staring at the rapidly rushing water a moment before answering.

“Forget we found it,” I said.

“Can we do that?” Gail asked.

“I have a thesis to write and no time to participate in a murder investigation. I don’t intend to ever return to this place except maybe in my nightmares.”

“I hear that,” Gail said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before it gets dark.”

Twilight draped the forest when we finally made it back to our old faded green Ford truck, waiting for us on a muddy dirt road. When we returned to Fayetteville, I sent some of the ore samples to the U.S. Geological Survey in Denver for analysis. The results surprised me as I’m sure they would have the prospectors that discovered the Davis Mine. The ore wasn’t just lead and antimony; there was silver present, and it was richer even than ore from the Comstock Lode.

Many years have passed since Gail, and I felt the presence of ghosts at the remote Davis Mine, hidden deep in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. Today, as an overhead cloud cast a shadow on my kittens, sleeping on the hood of my car, I remembered in vivid detail.

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page.