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River's Bridge Reenactment: Photo by
Jerry
Durgan | | | |
A Helluva Way To
Grow Up
(You Skeered?)
Jerry
Durgan
Bamberg, SC
29003
803-245-4445
Fiction
"You skeered, Cornbread?"
Johnny asked, trying to swallow hardtack down a dry
throat that kept restricting.
"Yup," Cornbread answered in a
harsh whisper. "You been in this before?" he
asked.
"Nope," Johnny said in a nervous
quiver. "Fust time ever. Whut's it like?"
"Ain't like nothin' you've never
seen. Ain't somethin' you want'a see 'gain, neither.
It's hell, you betcha. It's hell comin' 'n
goin'."
"How old you be?" Cornbread
asked, looking at the dirty, worn and frail body dressed
in a ragged heavy gray wool coat at least two sizes too
large, poking a dirty finger in the torn sleeve of
Johnny's coat.
"Tore that comin' through them
bramble bushes this mornin'," Johnny whispered. "I be
twenty," he responded.
"Twenty my ass," Cornbread
snickered. "You be twenty then I be Abe Lincoln. You
ain't twenty by a damn sight."
A tear started to roll down
Johnny's cheek only to be quickly wiped away on a grimy
sleeve. "Don't tell nobody," he said. "Don'cha dare tell
nobody. Turned seventeen yesterday," laying his musket
against the palmetto log barricade and rolling over on
his back. "Sure wish't I war'nt here."
"Watch that musket, man,"
Cornbread warned. "Get that powder wet an' you be dead
meat, that's for sure. Damn it's cold. What'cha
doin'?"
"Jus' wan'na show you somethin',"
Johnny said, reaching underneath his coat and pulling
out a dog-eared photograph of two women. "That there be
my mom and my woman," he said, handing the photograph to
Cornbread.
Taking it and wiping it against
his knee, "Which be your momma and which be your woman?"
Cornbread asked, snickering.
"That be my mom," Johnny said,
jabbing his finger at the older woman in the picture.
"That by my woman. Her name's Janine," he said, pointing
to a pretty young girl of sixteen or
seventeen.
"She's purty," Cornbread said,
"they both be purty," handing the photograph
back.
"Want you to keep it," Johnny
whispered. "If'n I don't come out'a this swamp, want you
to tell 'em I loved 'em. Do that for me, will
you?"
"Billy Yank ain't gonna get you,"
Cornbread said. "Sure. I'll do it. But them yanks ain't
gonna get you. Just keep you're powder dry an' you be
okay. Look's like it's gonna rain again. Damn, it's
colder'n a witches tit," Cornbread shivered, hunkering
deeper into his coat. Peering through the overhanging
trees, "Sun's goin' down. "Won't need to worry much
'bout them yanks 'till mornin'. They don't like the idee
of wadin' through them Salk swamps at night. Snakes 'n
alligators scare the snuffin' out'a 'em. 'Sides, the
rains've filled them rivers an' swamps. They'd have to
wade waist deep. Try to get some shut-eye, Johnny. Going
to be a long day tomorrow."
Suddenly, through the twilight
darkness, hidden by the cypress and swamp oak, a voice
range out, taunting, "Johnny Reb. Johnny Reb. We comin'
to get you Johnny Reb."
Rolling back onto his stomach,
snatching his musket and hunkering deep behind the earth
and log barricade, Johnny whispered, "Holy mother of
god, what was that?"
"Don't pay them no nevermind,"
Cornbread whispered. "That be the yanks' advanced guard.
He just trying to get us to show our positions, that's
all. Don't pay him no attention. Jus' keep quiet. He'll
go away."
"Eeya," the voice cried. "Eeya.
We comin' to get you, Johnny Reb."
Looking over the parapet,
Cornbread pointed to the front right. "He be 'bout a
hunnert yards over there," he said, pointing. "If'n it
warn't gettin' dark I could pop that little skunk," he
said, slapping his musket. Turning on his side, he faced
Johnny. "How long you been in?" he asked.
Johnny, rolled up into a soggy
bundle of gray coat, said in a muffled whisper, "Four
months come March. Not long."
"I been with General McLaw for
nigh on three years now," Cornbread said. "He's a good
man, but I'll tell you, Johnny, we be outgunned this
time for certain. Them yanks probably have five, six,
maybe seven thousand troops out there. We gonna have a
real fight on our hands. You can bet your butt on that.
You sure ain't had no time to get ready for this. Four
months. That's a lot of growin' up to do in four
months."
Dark clouds covered the February
stars, night pitch black as bullfrogs in the
Salkehatchie began their throaty songs as if all was
right in the world. "Listen, Johnny, hear them frogs? If
they quit, then you know somethin's amiss. They be good
night sentries," Cornbread whispered. "Just keep you're
ear tuned to them. You c'n sleep so long as they be
croakin'. If they stop, it'll wake you right up. Take my
word."
Suddenly one long, drawn out wail
of a bugle squealed through the darkness and out of the
swamp followed by a heavy beating overhead and a
high-pitched scream that seemed to float overhead
through the dark air.
Two hearts skipped a beat then
pounded so heavily each could hear the heartbeat of the
other. "Oh my god," Johnny whispered with the only
breath he could muster.
"Just their damned yankee be
damned bugle," Cornbread answered, his heart still
racing. "An' a screech owl scared out of his wits."
Rolling over on his back, his
face turned to the light cold drizzle of rain that began
to settle on his scruffy beard and ashen face, Cornbread
muttered quietly, "A helluva way to grow up!"
Note:
We did not edit out the graphic language in
this manuscript in order to present
this
unbiased view of the reality of
war for the Confederate Soldiers. It
has
been quoted that "war is hell", and agreeing, we
have left it in. We do not condone
nor
endorse graphic language as Christians, but it is left
here
to show the ravages and harsh reality of
war.
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River's Bridge Reenactment: Photo by
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