Recollections of Hell and the American Civil War

January 8, 1862 – As the new year dawns, the USS San Jacinto, a Union ship commanded by Captain Charles Wilkes, intercepts the British mail packet Trent and removes two London-bound Confederate diplomats, James Mason and John Slidell. The British government takes immense offense to this capture and demands the release of the diplomats. Stubborn Union officials – not grasping the true severity of the situation – refuse to comply with Britain’s demands. British forces begin to amass in Canada; war looms.​

Captain Charles Wilkes​

January 2, 1862: Bosworth Battlefield Hospital, Maryland
She stood over me and was as an angelic figure trespassing in hell. Delirious from the pain of recent injury and a raging fever, I perceived around her an aura of harmony, of healing light. My dark and dingy world, which had been confined to a fetid medical camp for some weeks, seemed brighter and more hopeful during the moment that she stood above me. Then – as suddenly as the angel had appeared – it disappeared into the darkness.


He was remarkably tall and largely built. I imagined that in youth his body was held taunt by finely honed muscles. Though his gut had been amply filled in the years since retirement from the army, he remained an imposing sort of fellow. Towering above any man who dared to cross swords, Elijah Fitzhugh spoke in a slow and succinct southern drawl. A mere glance from the revered old general would send even the most brash commissioned officer running for cover.

Old Elijah came to visit Bosworth Medical Camp on a whim; he wanted to see some of the wounded troops. He did not, as things happened, actually get to see any of us injured soldiers. Elijah took one look around the encampment upon arrival and left promptly. As I found out in later year, the retired general traveled straight away to visit a high-ranking military friend in Washington. After having a drink with his commrade, Old Elijah told his friend rather directly that the Bosworth Camp was a disgrace to proper military men and that the folk in charge of running the place ought to be dispatched to Hell with the Confederates.

Moved into action by the respected retired general’s criticism, the army promptly took what little steps it could to spruce up conditions at Bosworth. For his part, Old Elijah volunteered to take some of the facility’s injured soldiers onto his nearby plantation and provide personally for their recuperation. I was among the lucky souls to fall under the benevolent general’s purview.

Transferred to a plush bed in Old Elijah’s expansive manor house, which sat picturesquely upon a verdant estate of prodigious acres, it was as though I had awakened from a long nightmare. The terrors of my past ordeals slipped away like the morning’s fog is dispersed by the sun’s gentle rays. My body – though ravaged by the pain of a gaping wound – was given a chance to relax after months of strenuous labor in the service of the army.

Removed from the filth and sordid condition of the army medical camp at Bosworth, my fever gradually dissipated. It is a frightful fact that, had I not auspiciously been extracted from that dismal place, my body would probably have soon succumbed to the ravages of disease. I thank God every day for delivering me from suffering.

I found myself in a more comfortable bed than I had ever known, in a nicer home than I had ever seen, and among some of the best-born folk ever bred in the Americas. All of these circumstances came to be mine by virtue of being shot; the irony was unbearable. My situation could – it seemed – not become any more extraordinary in its comfort. Then I met her.

… And yet, soldiers were fighting, people were dying, the war continued without me …​

Comments:

coz1: I tried my best with the description of James (our hero) getting shot. However, I've never personally been shot. Thus, I'm not sure what it feels like. I hope the abstract approach I tried to use conveyed some pain and fear.

TheExecuter: Ow! I hope I never have to have an infection cleaned.

As to how long the hero will be out of combat: I don't think he can avoid war for long. I've pulled him out of the medical camp because if a soldier went into one of those places with an open wound, then he usually died quickly from infection. How long he will stay out of harm's way is up in the air right now....​

February 1862 - After a long and bloody campaign, Union general McClellan seizes control of the Confederate province of Richmond. Rebel officials are forced to flee into the Deep South. Trouble, however, looms on the horizon. Partisans copiously spring up in the Virginia countryside. Angry separatists fiercely resist Union occupation of their land.

March 1862 - While General McClellan and a greatly depleted Union army attempt to battle numerous rebel insurgents in Virginia, diplomatic tensions flare between the Union and Great Britain. The Trent Affair has caused a significant rift to form between the two states. Even though the parliamentary leaders of Great Britain do not condone the Confederacy's policy of slavery, they consider interceding in the American Civil War on behalf of the rebels.​

The largely incompetent Union General McClellan leads his army against insurgents​

Love, my older sister once told me, is not a joyful sensation. To be in love is not to feel profound pleasure when in the company of a particular person. Rather, it is to feel profound pain when not near the said personage. It is to be consumed and embroiled with nagging feelings of inadequacy, to be plagued by stress and aches of the heart. Thus, all in all, love is a powerfully depressing condition.

Never the less, I fell deeply into the trap of passion during my stay upon the plantation of Old Elijah. Her name was Gabriella, and she was a niece of the aged general. During the first days of my residence within her uncle’s house, she helped to bring me – as well as the other soldiers recuperating therein – back to a condition of health. The latter days of my stay upon the expansive Fitzhugh Estate brought us closer together. We established a pleasant relationship upon the foundation of long conversations about the war. She fretted much about the encroachment of Confederate troops. I told her (oh, woe!) many times that the rebels would never tread upon the hallowed Union ground of Maryland.

Weather and my health permitting, we walked around the plantation – where Old Elijah, a benevolent but never liberal man, kept about fifty slaves. I liked to talk about the bluebirds that nested near the manor house. They reminded me of home, of Massachusetts. Never having traveled the world beyond the immediate county, sweet Gabriella hungered for my descriptions of the greater land. She, for her part, told me many stories. She spoke in subtle verse of ancient heroes I had never heard of: Odysseus and Achilles and others of their ilk.

Alas! The center cannot hold; even the best of things fall apart! Thus, news began to come to the plantation of rebel victories to the near south. We heard of blunders by McClellan. Old Elijah became withdrawn, less friendly than usual. He rode off the plantation every other day to speak with fellow military men. Trouble was coming; I could feel it. And yet, somehow I did not care what devil was approaching. Gabriella was nearby, and my thoughts were filled turbidly with love.​

coz1 - You were very close. I hope I'm not being predictable or trite! ​

April 1862 – While McClellan wages a largely unsuccessful campaign against rebel insurgents in Virginia, Union forces in the west suffer successive defeats in three key battles. In the wake of these failures, the Confederacy gains essentially unhindered control of the Mississippi River. This strategic advantage will allow them to make devastating strikes into Ohio, Indiana, and beyond. Meanwhile, Great Britain and the Union remain precariously upon the edge of war.​

Union General Grant struggles to defend the West​

Darkness was settling in over Old Elijah’s plantation. Upon the distant horizon, streaks of majestic purple and deep red were being quickly engulfed by the greedy blackness of night…. From where I stood upon the plantation house’s broad and open porch, I could faintly hear a group of slaves singing spirituals as they walked in from the fields;
Old Elijah – seated comfortably upon one of the porch’s antique rocking chairs - looked pensively off into the darkness and smoked idly upon his pipe; puffs of blue smoke wafted lazily off into night. Though the rest of us men assembled upon the veranda were full of anxiety and fear, the aged general seemed utterly serene. It was as if nothing could disturb his inner calm.

Removing the pipe from his mouth and looking away from the darkness, Elijah spoke quietly to a young man seated nearby, “How long ago?”

The young man remained silent for a extended moment. His gaze was fixed upon a sundry point in the darkness beyond Old Elijah’s porch. Eventually, still peering intently off into the mysterious night, he spoke, “A week at the least, suh. Can’t be sure with these things though; news ain’t traveling very fast these day, I expect.”

“Indeed,” agreed Elijah grimly. His usually placid face was now marred by streaks of worry, of fear. The old general slowly rose from his chair. He looked solemnly around at the assembled company with a strange glint in his dull gray eyes… An uncomfortable silence settled over the meeting.

There were about twenty men gathered around on the veranda, every one of us hanging on to each brief word uttered by Old Elijah. Standing on the manor house’s front lawn was a small assemblage of the plantation’s male slaves. They too waited intently for the master to speak. A look of decision seemed to gradually emerge from the worried creases upon the general’s face. He spoke with a tone of assurance, though I doubt he was sure of his choice, “We’ll have to move fast… If that fool McClellan really has lost his army, then the gray-coasts will be here right fast. I doubt they’ll take kindly to us… We need to run, not everyone: just the men that might get their necks lengthened… Maybe we can make it to someone safe.”

The general’s words were an order. We jumped into action. What weapons and supplies could be found and carried were collected. Several of the male slaves - after being told that they were freed from thier bondage - volunteered to come with us. With the heavens dark as pitch, we, the military men. prepared to set off.

Gabriella stood beside Old Elijah's wife: both ladies calm and collected. The general reminded his wife how to load a pistol, and I stepped up to Gabby. I put my arms around her in a hug. Speaking softly in my ear, she said merely, “Do try to come back, James.” I could only bring myself to nod. Then I disappeared into the night, fleeing into the unknown from the unknown.​

Executer - Indeed, our hero has been torn away from his first love... I'm really starting to feel bad about how I'm treating him... Still, it's possible that Gabriella and James will fare better than Romeo and Juliet. ​

May 1862 - British leaders, profoundly insulted by both the Trent Affair and the inept attempts of Union diplomats to rectify the situation, decide to authorize a retaliatory campaign against the United States. On the eve of the British invasion, only one major Union force remains upon the battlefield. Surrounded on all sides by larger Confederate armies, the northern force is located in Santon, VA.​

Confederate troops close in on the last major Union force​

We crawled through the night. Everything was silent except for an owl hooting in the distance; not a sound betrayed that we were creeping toward the Confederates. They – a small detachment of ten men - sat around a camp-fire leisurely talking. No man had been stationed on watch: a tactical error that facilitated our easy approach.

It was a quick skirmish. Within ten minutes, all of the grey-coats were lying silent upon the cold ground. An impartial observer of this attack might deem it unjust – somehow repulsive to the rules of war. Perhaps, these criticisms would have had validity in Europe or some-other civilized place. However, at least so far as I was concerned, the rules of war had been carelessly thrown out with the baby and the bathwater. In the Virginia hinterlands there was no such thing as honorable combat, and men taken captive during battle were given no quarter.

The Civil War had changed drastically. As the unbearably hot summer of 1862 began, the North was upon its knees – suppliant before the lucky Confederates. Having destroyed McClellan’s army in a triumphant battle during February, the secessionists had secured the upper-hand. Confederate leaders might have then asked for an amiable separation from the Union in return for peace. Their offer would have been accepted. However, like all great men, the rebel leaders desired more of everything: power, land, and wealth. They began an offensive campaign into the north.

Of course, I had no idea any of these events were transpiring at the time. In the summer of 1862 I was roaming the scenic Appalachian hills with a small and rag-tag band of Union soldiers. We were malnourished and armed poorly. We engaged in brutal guerilla combat against the Confederates whenever we came across some of them. For the most part, however, we just wandered the land looking for a safe place to rest for the night. Seldom was there a moment that the threat of being captured was not very real within our minds.

Why, you ask, continue to fight under such atrociously hopeless circumstances? Not a man in our force would dare think of giving up for two reasons. First, we all believed fervently in the righteousness of the Union and the folly of the Confederates. Second, our leader - Old Elijah Fitzhugh - would never have allowed sedition among his ersatz army. Elijah bound us wearied troops together through hard, starving times. Though some of our pitiful number fell to bullets – there were only twenty-five among our company when we entered the wilderness – Elijah would not allow us to falter.

Creeping through the hills of Virginia, we waged a crude sort of total war. We burned whatever farms we came across and took whatever supplies were to be found in defenseless communities. Thus, we were a small nuisance for the grey-coats. We did all we could to distract them from their massive campaign in the North.

Though bedraggled and tired, I might have been content to continue on in this way indefinitely. A bullet that a rebel fired true at Elijah’s head during one of our raid’s, however, changed my course of action. With my proud leader fallen upon the ground, his blood a vibrant crimson against the sun-charred grass, I felt a great stirring of anger with my breast. Running to the fallen general, I wept tears of tortured grief. Then, drawn back to the reality of battle by a bullet that flew close by my head, I quickly toke from Elijah his revolver and wedding band. With the fallen general’s gun held steady in my hand, I advanced coldly upon the enemy. My time of following bleakly the orders of other men had ended. I revenged my friend death, and then disappeared into the wild hinterland hills with my fearless band of fighters in step.

We – and others like us - haunted the dreams of Confederates families upon the frontier for many more months. The secessionists had successfully seceded. However, in their greed, they had taken over the North and made would-be secessionists of us loyal Union men.​

Out of the darkness came light. Though, the Union quickly crumbled beneath the heel of Imperial Britain after invasion in 1862, all was not lost. In peace negotiations, the British were uncharacteristically gracious toward the defeated northerners. A leading political figure in England summed up the reasons behind his country’s unusual benevolence at the bargaining table by saying, “Britons are civilized people; we do not condone the slavery of our fellow men.”

Thus, Great Britain made it clear that they did not support the Confederacy’s labor system. By the end of joint North-South-British peace talks, international sentiment with regards to human bondage was made clear: such a transgression against mankind could not be tolerated. Such harsh reprimands of the Confederacy need not have been made, however, for the slave system was crumbling at the very moment that the secessionists were celebrating victory.

Stoked up into a frenzy by the Union’s fall from greatness, the massive slave population of the south suddenly rose up into violent revolt. The kind of chaos plantation aristocrats had feared for over a century tore apart the countryside. An overt state of warfare seemed to exist between whites and blacks. Meanwhile, Europe and the Union watched the violence with contempt and horror.

After perhaps a half year, the turmoil in the Confederacy began to subside. Desperate to appease rag-tag armies of dissenters – for disgruntled poor whites had inexplicably taken up arms alongside the black slaves they professed hatred toward – rulers granted valuable rights to blacks.

Ultimately, the process of reconstruction in the Confederacy and Union can not be summarized with ease. Let it suffice to say, none the less, that the majority of blacks in the south – after forcibly securing their liberties – proceeded to flee the country that had oppressed them. This exodus of former slaves lasted for over a decade and scattered the seeds of their race within the Union, the unsettled west, Latin America, and beyond.

For my part, I survived the horrible bloodshed of the Civil War; many other fine men did not fare so well. With a bullet wound in my leg and a battered emotional core, I left the army as soon as I could. Returning to Maryland in hopes of finding Gabriella Fitzhugh – the only woman I have ever loved – I found only burned plantations and dead bodies. Though sweet Gabriella was not among the corpses I examined, and I looked at many, I was never able to find the dear woman. After some weeks of making inquires about the lady in Maryland, I abandoned my search and began a trek back toward my father’s home in Massachusetts.

The farm of my birth had been little changed by the war, for no army had passed through the quiet granite hills. Seeing my father and sisters well, I departed a mere two months after arrival on the modest Harper estate. A desire burned in my heart to see the world properly. That is to say, I wanted to find my own place in the wilderness. My very soul seemed shattered by the war; I had no desire to put it back together.

So I wandered the world. By and by, I ended up in the place cartographers now call Montana. Here I have established a rude farm but not a family. I’ve seen many strange things in my travels and formulated a couple of ideas about existence and life. Mainly, my time fighting for the Union taught me that life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.​

The End.​

Executer - Yes, my game went that bad. I'm not sure whether the Confederacy was particularly well played by the computer, or if I was just a really bad tactician. In the end, I got rolled over. Never the less, I hope to try another game as the Union soon.

Director - Thank you, sir! I can't tell you how much the compliment means coming from you. I've been admiring your writing for some time.

All Readers – I just want to extend my gratitude to anyone that read my short-story. I really enjoyed writing the piece, even if my game did not go very well.​