My Last Skirt by Lynda Durrant

Author:Lynda Durrant [Durrant, Lynda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

8 Digging

After three days' rest and nine good meals, we pick up our entrenching tools and commence to dig. Digging one long trench around Vicksburg is hard, sweaty work in this heat. The sun beats down on my head like a hammer. My hands are as rough and callused as Mr. Cleary's hands. But I prefer digging to fighting. So does everyone else.

After ten days of digging a trench all around Vicksburg, Major General Grant's Army of the Tennessee and General Sherman's Army of the Ohio are now a twelve-mile ring around the town, one regiment deep all around the ring. What Rebs remain alive in Vicksburg must be running out of supplies. Nothing can get in or out without our leave.

Robbie tells us that all those troops we saw marching near our camp the night of Champion Hill are posted in a second ring around Vicksburg on the Indianola Road. The Rebel General Pemberton can call for reinforcements until the cows come home. No one will get through to help him.

Our navy controls the Mississippi north of town, and south of town as well.

For the rest of May we dig underneath Vicksburg. We dig, then blow our way through rock with explosives. Meanwhile, our artillery, across the river in de Soto, blasts away at the town. We counted them once—two hundred cannon are firing at Vicksburg pretty much all the time, nights included.

Our fortifications are trenches with crisscrossed logs on top for extra protection. We plug the open spots in the logs with sandbags filled with Mississippi mud. When those bags dry out, they're as hard as stone. I can run the trenches without stooping over. It reminds me of running through the corn rows back on Mr. Cleary's farm. Taller soldiers are obliged to hunch over at the waist.

We're dirty as hogs and infested with vermin. We haven't had our clothes or boots off in four weeks. Trying to stay clean is so utterly hopeless that no one bothers. There's hardly any good water to drink; our coffee tastes like mud laced with gunpowder. The Mississippi is slick with whale oil from all our gunships. My canteen smells like rotten fish.

I try to remember to slouch, since my constant companion is no more. We're all so miserable, and I've lost so much weight, no one gives me a second glance.

On June 1 the storefronts on one of the back streets catch fire. We didn't do that. No Union troops or gunboats are within range. No artillery in de Soto can reach that far. The citizens are burning and looting their own town.

The Rebs are so close, we smell their bourbon rations when the wind is right. They gamble in card games and curse their bad luck.

Every evening Johnny Rebs stand in the parapets of Fort Beauregard and serenade the Union troops with war songs. They sing in fine voices and close harmonies. "You Can Never Win Us Back" is a favorite, as is "The Bonnie Blue Flag." Their way of showing us their opinions, I reckon.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.