A Gothic Ghost story by Jennifer Bohnhoff,
based on the Characters in
her Historical Novel, Where Duty Calls
They lined up now, in three long rows behind the low sand hill. The front line, all 200 of them, prone against the hill while the back two lines, the second wave of 250 and the third wave of 300, squatted on their heels. Behind them, sergeants walked up and down, shouting at the men to make sure their guns had a priming cap in place, to shoot low, and not until they were within effective range.
The whites of their eyes, Jemmy thought, then wondered where he’d heard that before.
Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
He glanced right, at Jaspar Jones, whose hands trembled and whose eyes looked as round as a rabbit’s. Plenty of white showing, all the way around. Jones’d make a fine target if the Abolitionists were looking for the whites of his eyes. Jemmy looked past him at the line of men. Some twitched in anticipation of the fight to come. Some used the backs of their hands to wipe tears from their faces. Some prayed, their hands clutched together as their lips moved with the earnest intensity that only the doomed can know. Some men lay so still that he wondered if they’d gone to sleep.
Behind him, Colonel Green called for the men’s attention. The line quieted. Everyone trusted “Daddy” Green to do right by them.
“Boys,” he called, “I want Colonel Canby’s guns! When I yell, raise the Rebel yell and follow me!”
All along the line, men affirmed the Colonel, some with cheers and others with quiet “yes, sirs.” Jemmy felt his resolve harden into a knot in his throat. Afraid his voice would come out in a squeak, he nodded his assent.
He looked left and noticed Wee Willie squatting close by, his drumsticks clutched in his fists, his jaw set with a gritty determination that made the boy look old beyond his years. Willie’s pale skin looked even paler than usual, his black eyes sunken into his face. He was a curious one, that Willie: so small that Jemmy couldn’t look at him without wondering how his Mama could have let him run off to war. Some said he was an orphan, but that was just a rumor. Willie never spoke. He hung around the edges of the camp, eating what others offered him, sleeping on the floor of the Colonel’s tent like a pet pup.
Just beyond Willie, John Norvell and Frederick Wade hunkered shoulder to shoulder.
“Fred, we are whipped, and I will never see my mother again!” John said in between wracking sobs.
Jemmy closed his eyes, trying to wipe the image of Norvell’s tears from his mind. He raised one shoulder and then the other, lessening the tension in his back. The shoot low part bothered him. Sure, it was just fine if he did it. He was in the first line of men and there’d be nothing in front of him except blue coats. It didn’t matter if he hit them in the head or the kneecap. Shot was shot, and a Yank with a ball in him wouldn’t be trying to return the favor. But Jemmy wasn’t so sure he wanted the second or third waves of men, the men who came behind him, to be shooting low. He didn’t cotton to taking a ball in the back. Not from one of his own. Not when it might be mistaken as a mark that Jemmy was running from the Federal line instead of toward it. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a coward.
The ghostly sun, a pale disk behind thin, gray clouds, hung high overhead, a little past the apex. Snow had started again, tiny dry pellets brought in almost horizontal that it bit his cheeks and made his eyes water. Why did the wind have to come from the west today? Why couldn’t it be at his back, pushing him on towards victory? It seemed like God himself was against him.
He stretched his neck, thrusting his chin forward so he could look over the top of the hill without exposing the crown of his head. There, not 800 yards from him, Federal cannons pointed directly at him, their open muzzles looking like astonished mouths. Soon, he knew, they’d be belching fire at him. Fire, and deadly chunks of metal.
Jemmy shook his head hard. He had to stop talking scary to himself or he was going to end up like Norvell or Jones. Shaking his head didn’t dislodge the images that swirled around in his head like ghost stories. He knew he needed to hear the sound of his own voice, to talk himself calm like he did with his mules.
“You ain’t got nothing to be scairt of,” he told himself in as convincing a manner as he could muster. “The men behind you is there to support you, not shoot you in the back. And the snow and wind? It done mask our sound. It’ll confuse the Federals into thinking there’re less of us than there are. An’ grapeshot and canister’s aimed at the generals and such. Them cannons ain’t interested in a little guy like me.”
Jemmy gave his head a firm nod, but ghastly, terrifying images kept pushing his convictions from him. He frowned. If he couldn’t be brave from himself, perhaps he could be brave for someone else. He grabbed We Willie’s shoulder, pulling the drummer boy into a side embrace.
“This here’s your first fight, son, but you got nothing to be scairt of,” Jemmy said, more to himself than to Willie. “God’s on our side, sure as shoot’n. He ain’t going to let us down. When we let go our rebel yell, them Abs’ll skedaddle back to their fort with their tails between their legs and we’ll take possession of those fine guns. So don’t you worry none. It’s on to San Francisco for us.”
Jemmy pounded the drummer boy into his side with a series of encouraging whacks. He didn’t know if he had said anything to calm Wee Willie, but he was beginning to feel better already.
Willie pulled away from Jemmy. He scrambled back to his feet. He held up his fists, the sticks ready to beat the advance, sending men over the hill and into the cannon’s line of fire.
“You are mistaken, Private.” Willie’s little voice lilted as high and light as birdsong. The sound of it surprised Jemmy. He was sure this was the first time he’d ever heard the drummer boy speak. “This is not my first fight. I have been leading men into battle since time immemorial. It was I who beat the advance at Waterloo. I who beat at Yorktown. At Agincourt. And Thermopylae. But you are right in one respect: I have nothing to be afraid of.”
The boy pulled back his lips in a grin that was more grimace, and the two rows of teeth gave his pale face a skull-like appearance. Jemmy swore that his eyes gleamed a bright and burning red. Jemmy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but before he could draw breath, Colonel Green’s voice filled his ears.
“Up, boys, and at ‘em!”
Wee Willie beat the advance and two hundred men bellowed the rebel yell and clambered over the hill.
The whites of their eyes, Jemmy thought, then wondered where he’d heard that before.
Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
He glanced right, at Jaspar Jones, whose hands trembled and whose eyes looked as round as a rabbit’s. Plenty of white showing, all the way around. Jones’d make a fine target if the Abolitionists were looking for the whites of his eyes. Jemmy looked past him at the line of men. Some twitched in anticipation of the fight to come. Some used the backs of their hands to wipe tears from their faces. Some prayed, their hands clutched together as their lips moved with the earnest intensity that only the doomed can know. Some men lay so still that he wondered if they’d gone to sleep.
Behind him, Colonel Green called for the men’s attention. The line quieted. Everyone trusted “Daddy” Green to do right by them.
“Boys,” he called, “I want Colonel Canby’s guns! When I yell, raise the Rebel yell and follow me!”
All along the line, men affirmed the Colonel, some with cheers and others with quiet “yes, sirs.” Jemmy felt his resolve harden into a knot in his throat. Afraid his voice would come out in a squeak, he nodded his assent.
He looked left and noticed Wee Willie squatting close by, his drumsticks clutched in his fists, his jaw set with a gritty determination that made the boy look old beyond his years. Willie’s pale skin looked even paler than usual, his black eyes sunken into his face. He was a curious one, that Willie: so small that Jemmy couldn’t look at him without wondering how his Mama could have let him run off to war. Some said he was an orphan, but that was just a rumor. Willie never spoke. He hung around the edges of the camp, eating what others offered him, sleeping on the floor of the Colonel’s tent like a pet pup.
Just beyond Willie, John Norvell and Frederick Wade hunkered shoulder to shoulder.
“Fred, we are whipped, and I will never see my mother again!” John said in between wracking sobs.
Jemmy closed his eyes, trying to wipe the image of Norvell’s tears from his mind. He raised one shoulder and then the other, lessening the tension in his back. The shoot low part bothered him. Sure, it was just fine if he did it. He was in the first line of men and there’d be nothing in front of him except blue coats. It didn’t matter if he hit them in the head or the kneecap. Shot was shot, and a Yank with a ball in him wouldn’t be trying to return the favor. But Jemmy wasn’t so sure he wanted the second or third waves of men, the men who came behind him, to be shooting low. He didn’t cotton to taking a ball in the back. Not from one of his own. Not when it might be mistaken as a mark that Jemmy was running from the Federal line instead of toward it. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a coward.
The ghostly sun, a pale disk behind thin, gray clouds, hung high overhead, a little past the apex. Snow had started again, tiny dry pellets brought in almost horizontal that it bit his cheeks and made his eyes water. Why did the wind have to come from the west today? Why couldn’t it be at his back, pushing him on towards victory? It seemed like God himself was against him.
He stretched his neck, thrusting his chin forward so he could look over the top of the hill without exposing the crown of his head. There, not 800 yards from him, Federal cannons pointed directly at him, their open muzzles looking like astonished mouths. Soon, he knew, they’d be belching fire at him. Fire, and deadly chunks of metal.
Jemmy shook his head hard. He had to stop talking scary to himself or he was going to end up like Norvell or Jones. Shaking his head didn’t dislodge the images that swirled around in his head like ghost stories. He knew he needed to hear the sound of his own voice, to talk himself calm like he did with his mules.
“You ain’t got nothing to be scairt of,” he told himself in as convincing a manner as he could muster. “The men behind you is there to support you, not shoot you in the back. And the snow and wind? It done mask our sound. It’ll confuse the Federals into thinking there’re less of us than there are. An’ grapeshot and canister’s aimed at the generals and such. Them cannons ain’t interested in a little guy like me.”
Jemmy gave his head a firm nod, but ghastly, terrifying images kept pushing his convictions from him. He frowned. If he couldn’t be brave from himself, perhaps he could be brave for someone else. He grabbed We Willie’s shoulder, pulling the drummer boy into a side embrace.
“This here’s your first fight, son, but you got nothing to be scairt of,” Jemmy said, more to himself than to Willie. “God’s on our side, sure as shoot’n. He ain’t going to let us down. When we let go our rebel yell, them Abs’ll skedaddle back to their fort with their tails between their legs and we’ll take possession of those fine guns. So don’t you worry none. It’s on to San Francisco for us.”
Jemmy pounded the drummer boy into his side with a series of encouraging whacks. He didn’t know if he had said anything to calm Wee Willie, but he was beginning to feel better already.
Willie pulled away from Jemmy. He scrambled back to his feet. He held up his fists, the sticks ready to beat the advance, sending men over the hill and into the cannon’s line of fire.
“You are mistaken, Private.” Willie’s little voice lilted as high and light as birdsong. The sound of it surprised Jemmy. He was sure this was the first time he’d ever heard the drummer boy speak. “This is not my first fight. I have been leading men into battle since time immemorial. It was I who beat the advance at Waterloo. I who beat at Yorktown. At Agincourt. And Thermopylae. But you are right in one respect: I have nothing to be afraid of.”
The boy pulled back his lips in a grin that was more grimace, and the two rows of teeth gave his pale face a skull-like appearance. Jemmy swore that his eyes gleamed a bright and burning red. Jemmy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but before he could draw breath, Colonel Green’s voice filled his ears.
“Up, boys, and at ‘em!”
Wee Willie beat the advance and two hundred men bellowed the rebel yell and clambered over the hill.
Where Duty Calls is the first book in a trilogy of historical novels set in New Mexico during the time of the American Civil War. It is written for middle grade readers and adults who want to learn about the war in an immersive way. Published by Kinkajou Press, a division of Artemesia Publishing, a free, 100 page teacher's guide is available on the publisher's website. Teachers, ask about special discounts for class sets. The author, Jennifer Bohnhoff, is available for in person and online meetings. presentations, and discussions.
