Nan Ryan (40 page)

On May 22, Hunter could see the Federals massing their forces, preparing for a charge. The line of bluecoats extended as far as the eye could see and at 11:00
A.M.
the signal went up and the entire Union line charged. The blue masses rolled forward in a gallant manner, coming in two lines. Hunter gave the order for his Confederate artillery to fire as the charging Federals approached the breastworks. The infantry, their rifles raised and ready, began firing as soon as the enemy was in range.

The firing was deafening and Hunter watched in horror as the bluecoats dropped like flies in the bloody, desperate fighting. They made their attack on Hunter’s right, but suffered terrible injuries. Undaunted, they still advanced. Hunter and his men of the 3rd Mississippi watched with admiration and wonder as just to the right of their position, the brave, noble regiment of the 2nd Texas Infantry repulsed and slaughtered the advancing Union soldiers streaming in untold numbers in their assault.

Union gunboats steamed up the river, but were quickly fired on and turned back, badly damaged. Finally, the beaten Federals were commanded to fall back under a hail of lead from the Confederates. The bloody fight ended with the northern soldiers unable to penetrate the breastworks. Hunter joined his Mississippians and the men of the Texas regiment in cheering and congratulating each other in turning back the mighty Union army.

On May 25, the rotting bodies of the Union soldiers who had died in the attack were still lying where they fell just outside the breastworks. The putrefying smell was horrible and the decomposing remains were dangerous to the health of the Confederates so near to them. General Pemberton sent out a flag of truce and offered the Union army the chance to bury their dead or even to have his own men do it.

Cheers went up from the men on both sides as a three-hour truce took place and the cannons and muskets were stilled. Confederates and Federals alike hoisted flags and rose to crowd the breastworks, cheerfully chatting with each other.

Hunter stood atop the breastworks and gladly accepted an invitation from a Union officer to come over for a talk. Men streamed over the works to visit the Union lines, where they were welcomed and entertained. Hunter walked across the ground where the horrible massacre had taken place three days earlier.

“Colonel Hunter Alexander, 3rd Mississippi,” he extended his hand to the dark Union officer.

“Captain Alex Ward, 113th Illinois Volunteer Infantry,” the man shook his hand warmly.

Captain Ward offered Hunter a drink and the two sat on the ground in the warm May sun, drinking whiskey and smoking their cigars, discussing tactics and the possibilities of the war’s end. They laughed and chatted in easy camaraderie, both gentle and intelligent young men. Under different circumstances, they could have been friends.

Two young men, not ten yards away from Colonel Alexander and Captain Ward, were embracing and laughing loudly. Tim and Jim Manning, eighteen-year-old twin brothers, natives of Missouri, were delighted to see each other again. Confederate soldier Tim said, “How’s your wife?”

Federal soldier Jim replied, “Guess what, you’re gonna be an uncle, she’s having a baby in August!”

“That’s great, hope it’s a boy.”

“How’s your girl? You two married yet?”

“No, not yet. Kate’s fine, she’s in New Orleans with her folks. How’s Mom, you heard from her lately?”

“I had a letter about two weeks ago, she’s fine, did you get a letter from her?”

“Nope, not for a month or so.”

When the welcome truce drew to a close, Colonel Alexander rose to his feet and shook hands with Captain Ward. “Let’s hope we meet under better circumstances someday, Captain,” Hunter smiled.

The friendly man from Illinois returned his smile and said, “May this horror end soon, Colonel Alexander.”

Tim and Jim Manning hugged each other goodbye and as Confederate Tim turned to leave, he said, “Jim, you know I‘ll be trying to blow your head off tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Sure, Tim, no hard feelings. I love you.”

By May 26, the hardships of the siege began to be felt and the Confederate soldiers had to remain behind the breastworks and in the rifle pits, unable to raise a hand or a head as the Union parrot guns shot all day. Colonel Alexander worried about his men as day in and day out they remained in the pits, never leaving even to bathe, change clothes, or eat their meals. Food was prepared by details of men and brought to them. Through heat and drenching rains they remained, as their clothes rotted on their tired bodies and still not a word of complaint was heard from them. Hunter remained with his men and, although he did not become ill as so many did, he grew slimmer each day and the once crisp grays he wore hung on his slender body in dirty tatters. The most disheartening of all the hardships he and his men were forced to endure was the lack of ammunition to fire back. It had to be saved for repelling assaults. Hunter, like so many of the men, felt helpless and discouraged.

On May 27, their spirits picked up considerably when the ironclad
Cincinnati
, one of the fiercest of the Union fleet, was penetrated by a Confederate ball. The gunboats were to engage and silence the upper batteries, while General Sherman assaulted the works on the extreme left. The plan failed and the sinking of the
Cincinnati
brought out the ladies of Vicksburg to wave handkerchiefs and cheer as the ship went down. The despondent soldiers in the trenches saw the ladies cheering and gained renewed hope from them.

On that night, Hunter felt he could no longer stand being in the pits for another minute. He strolled through the dark night to the top of the breastworks. His head visible over the top, a bullet from a Union rifle whizzed past him, barely missing its target.

The report of a rifle not six feet from him answered the Union sniper, quickly quieting him. A young sharpshooter from his perch atop the works shouted at Hunter, “If you want to keep your head, soldier, you’d better keep it down.” The sharpshooter looked down at Hunter then and said, “Sorry, Colonel, I didn’t see the insignia in the dark.”

“That’s all right, soldier, thanks for the advice,” Hunter smiled to the young man. “I’m Colonel Hunter Alexander, 3rd Mississippi.”

The young man lowered his rifle, “Pleased to meet you, Colonel. I’m Private William Henderson, 62nd Tennessee Mounted Infantry.”

“Private Henderson, let me take this opportunity to commend you on your sharpshooting. I’m told we have some of the best in either army.”

The slim young man from Tennessee grinned and said, “Aw, it’s nothing, Colonel.”

“I think it’s something, Henderson. Get down for a second and let me shake your hand. Thing’s are pretty quiet right now.”

Obeying his superior, the tall guard lowered his rifle and climbed down to shake hands with the tall colonel. The two southerners fell into easy conversation and Henderson told the colonel his home was Sweetwater, Tennessee, “the prettiest part of the beautiful state.” Hunter smiled and said, “I’ve always heard that is lovely country. Perhaps when this is all over, I’ll have the opportunity to visit.”

“If you do, sir, look me up, Mama’s the best cook in the county. Where’s your home?”

“We’re standing in it, Private. I was born and raised right here in Vicksburg, Mississippi.”

“Well, sir, I know it must be sad to see your home being surrounded by the Yankees. Maybe we can hold them off long enough for reinforcements to come and help us out. I’d hate to see what the Union soldiers might do to Vicksburg if they get in.”

“Henderson, what do you think? Is there a chance we can continue to hold them off?”

“Sir, I can’t say it’ll be easy. We’re already on half rations and the ammunition is getting pretty low. But as the 3rd Louisiana likes to say, ‘it’s pretty tough, but we can take it’”, he smiled at Hunter.

“You’re right,” Hunter returned his smile. “I must get back, keep up the good work, Henderson.”

“Yes, sir, Colonel,” Private Henderson shook his hand and added, “We won’t let ’em take your hometown. As far as I’m concerned, we’ll hold ’em off until kingdom come!”

Twenty-nine

By early June the beleaguered city of Vicksburg was a shadow of its former splendor. The women and children still in the city had moved from their homes to live in hastily-dug caves in the soft earth, taking with them furniture, rugs, and bedding. The houses they left were dilapidated, torn up by the constant shot and shell penetrating their walls. Streets were barricaded and defended by the artillery. They were deserted except for starving and wounded soldiers. Palatial mansions were standing in ruins, walks torn up by shells and the gardens trodden down by hundreds of marching feet. Fences were dismantled to use for firewood.

The spectacle of the lovely residences now falling down once would had brought wails of despair from the lovely ladies who had dwelled inside. But there were no tears for their lost homes, the caring gentle women of Vicksburg shed tears only for the brave, starving men who fought against all odds and daily gave up their lives amid the deep-toned thunder of mortars and the whistle of the never-ending rifleshot and shells. Many a gaunt, sick soldier breathed his last while holding to the hand of a fearless Vicksburg lady bending over him, heedless of the danger of whizzing minie balls. A delicate hand on a clammy brow, soothing words whispered low, and tender glances escorted many a dying Confederate soldier to the other side.

Hunter’s slim frame was growing gaunt and the high cheekbones sunk further in with each passing day. The soldiers were now on rations so drastically cut that each man received only a mixture of ground cow peas and meal and four ounces of bacon. Exposure to the merciless Mississippi summer sun bronzed Hunter’s delicate features and bleached his blond hair almost white. In spite of the changes in his appearance, he remained a handsome man, though all the hardships and hell of real war turned the drowsy brown eyes to alert, knowing eyes of a man who had seen the cruelest realities of life and refused to break under the strain.

Hunter shook his head, sadly thinking of the men, so young and brave, who were in his command. Night and day, they remained in the trenches through scorching heat and drenching rains, while their bodies grew filthy and weak and many were infested with vermin. Malaria and dysentery claimed many a starving soul and through it all they fought gallantly on, determined to hold their ground until the Angel of Death, constantly sitting on their shoulder, tapped them lightly and told them it was their turn to go. With unbelievable courage, these brave, uncomplaining men held their positions, danger no longer causing any fear. Exploding shells and whistling bullets were commonplace and even the death of a comrade brought little more than indifference. Death became so familiar the daily occurrence of bloodshed hardly changed the expressions in the tired, sick eyes of the duty-bound men.

Some things in life never changed. The high-spirited and loveliest of Vicksburg’s young ladies looked on the young officers as heroes. Hunter, one of the handsomest of the officers, found it embarrassing, yet amusing, to be catered to by the lovely young women, some of whom were children of six or seven when he left Vicksburg to go to college, now quite grown up and ready for adventure. Their unceasing attentions were enjoyed by most of the officers and having their socks knitted and their handkerchiefs hemmed by delicate hands was appreciated almost as much as the blossoms placed in their buttonholes when they started for the batteries. Smiling young faces were there to welcome the men back in the evenings and, in the cave dwellings after dark, the handsome young officers, brave and godlike to the girls, forgot the war momentarily while eating homemade candy and singing songs amid freshly-cut flowers and candlelight. The happy festivities of the gay evenings replaced the harsh realities of the gloom-filled days.

Hunter never went to the caves, though he was invited often. When it was impossible for the officers to leave their posts, the daring young ladies, brave as they were beautiful, made up riding parties and carelessly rode through the setting sun amid the falling shells to the eager young officers in the trenches.

Hunter, though known to all as a married man, was irresistible to several of the girls. More than one eager young face turned up to the charming, blond Vicksburg native’s in the moonlight to smile and flirt and remind him that “there’s a siege going on, Colonel. We’re cut off from the rest of the world and a stolen kiss or two would never be missed by me or your wife back in Natchez.” Hunter, flattered by their attention, grinned sheepishly when presented with a new pair of socks by a fair, flirtatious young lady and stood rigidly while a soft pair of hands thrust a blossom into his tunic while the sparkling eyes of the flower’s presenter looked up into his, a hint of promise shining brazenly behind thick lashes.

Not once did Hunter seek out the promise held in those eyes or give any of the girls reason to hope for more than a smile of appreciation for their giggly attentions, a fact that proved to make the tall, blond officer more attractive than ever because he remained so maddeningly unattainable. The heart inside his chest sometimes beat faster at the sight of a fair young face openly admiring him, but never rapid enough to make him forget the beautiful wife in Natchez he loved still, though she’d betrayed him with another.

In an upside down world, romance flourished and conquered the gloom. Lasting relationships were formed between single officers from Tennessee, Missouri, Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, and Texas and the fair, fearless young girls who worshiped them for holding off the despised Yankee battalions who threatened to occupy their homes and take away their gracious life.

Colonel Alexander enjoyed seeing and talking to the young girls, for their loveliness and laughter helped him to recall all the precious things he was fighting for, but he felt guilty to receive so much of their attention when the poor souls under him received no such pleasant respite from the rigors of war. Even with a sweetly-scented, silky-haired young belle sitting close to him, raising her voice in melodious songs, Hunter found himself worrying about the brave young men in the trenches who had no such compensations. Youths who were sunburned and blistered, sick with malaria for which there was no cure, half-starving, afflicted with fevers and dysentery, lonely and afraid. Boys whose homes and families were far away, longing for the sweethearts and wives they’d left behind, not knowing if they would ever see them again. Desperately lonely, red-blooded young men who craved and needed attention from pretty-faced young ladies, but received only aid from the kind women of Vicksburg, women old enough to be their mothers and intent only on healing their physical pain and nursing their shrapnel-torn bodies back to health. One smile from a pretty girl could have eased their loneliness, banished their nightmares, and soothed the lonely ache in their homesick hearts. If Hunter Alexander could have transferred all the attention he reluctantly received from the girls to the affection-starved men under him, he would willingly have done so.