I Stumbled in My Step

By Eben Ormston

Years have passed since my last wartime nightmares. My name is Sergeant Alfred (Al) Brown, I am seventy-two, and time has mellowed on me gently. But my dreams have returned as I read of Europe’s newest war—God, how those boys are suffering. And now, I watch with alarm as our boys, on our streets, clamor relentlessly to join that distant fight. Therefore, it is to you, our youth, our boys, that I offer this snippet of my memories so that, somehow, I might temper your bellicosity.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

In 1861, the first year of our nation’s War of Rebellion, I enlisted as a private in the 53rd Infantry Regiment of Ohio Volunteers. In the following four years, I fought at Pittsburg Landing, Vicksburg, Knoxville, Kennesaw, Atlanta, Savanah, Richmond, and points between. I was wounded twice, led my company once, was decorated once, was promoted twice, and marched six thousand miles.

I have many memories of the war, but whether it be our surprise at Pittsburg, our assaults at Kennesaw, or my wounds at Vicksburg and Atlanta, none stand out as awfully as my first day at Resaca.

In January 1864, during a furlough spent with my family on our farm in southeast Ohio, my beloved brother Harvey enlisted in my same regiment and company. I was both proud of and scared for him, for he was eighteen and raw, and I knew we sometimes pushed boys into battle with little or no training. Fortunately, he had chased Morgan’s Raiders and could shoot. Still, Mother made me promise to keep him safe, and by God, I would.

On May 1st, our regiment was assigned to the 2nd Division of Major General Logan’s XV Corps, under Major General McPherson’s Army of the Tennessee. On May 7th, General Sherman launched his Atlanta campaign.

In the dark torchlit predawn hours of May 12th, we twenty thousand of Logan’s corps left the fields near Chickamauga and marched south through the valleys of northwest Georgia. We cut across Gordon Spring, through Villanow, down the wooded ravines of Snake Creek Gap, and stopped where it opened onto the sparsely farmed lands of Sugar Valley. We marched twenty miles that day.

Late in the morning of our march, I woke from a daydream in which I had been thinking about Harvey and my promise to Mother and God. I resolved then and there to share my thoughts with him later. Meanwhile, the day was warm, the sun was nooning, and I took stock of my platoon. “You’re doing well, boys!” I called out. “Keep it up!”

Our road teemed with soldiers, cavalry, and artillery, and though we were restricted to one wagon per regiment, our progress was slow. West of Villanow we came to a halt alongside a creek and meadow of oak and hickory trees.

“Fall out!” our captain ordered. Our soldiers left the road, climbed the shallow grass banks, found shade, dropped their kit, and collapsed. Many had never marched such distances over so few days, and even our toughest found carrying their loads so far deeply tested their bravado. I visited with my men and sent one to our wagon for rest. Harvey was sitting in the grass with his head between his knees. I approached him last.

“Doing well, Brother?” I asked.

He looked up and pushed back his Hardee hat. His face was covered with dust and streaked with sweat. He smiled. “Yes, Sergeant, thank you.” I smiled at his formality and returned a wink. I looked him over and stopped at his low leather boots. I saw they were scuffed and broken in. Neither of us said a word—it was best not to ponder where the earlier owner, or owners, of his boots, might now be.

“Much farther?” he asked at length.

“Ten or so miles. We’re headed to a place named Sugar Valley.”

“Men are saying we’re going to take a hamlet named Resaca.”

“That’s right.” I noticed our talk had attracted attention and I spoke up. “Men, if we take Resaca and its railroad bridge, we might trap Johnston at Dalton. If we do, God willing, we could end this war.” I waved toward the creek. “So, fill your canteens. We’ll be moving soon.”

Our bugler called us to assemble, and we were on the road once again. Even for such an exhausting march, the pageantry of our regimental flags, the clank of canteens and tin cups, the clip-clop of cavalry, the rumble of wagons, and the heavy steps of confident men made us proud. But, yes, come dry summer, clouds of dust choked our throats, and in heavy rains, mud mired us so deep it sucked the boots off our feet.

Our march ended at sunset, and we were directed to bivouac on the hard ground between pine and chestnut trees. All night, the woods echoed with sounds of men felling trees, digging rifle pits, and building breastworks to our southeast.

Our camp was crowded with materiel and men from different regiments and companies. From them, we learned that on the 9th, elements of Dodge’s corps had crossed Sugar Valley, taken the opposite hills, and had come close to Resaca before General McPherson pulled them back to our position in this gap.

After our suppers of salt pork and hard tack, we walked among our men, acknowledged each, and inspected an occasional rifle and bayonet. Come quiet evening, most men had gathered in small groups to talk, pray, and sing softly to the accompaniment of the occasional harmonica and banjo. It was best not to be alone on the eve of battle.

I found Harvey among the men of his section. He was on his blanket, with his boots off, and resting on his haversack. “Harvey,” he raised his head, “put on your boots and follow me.” In the moonlight, we crossed the road, climbed partway up a nearby hill, stopped, turned, and faced east.

I pointed. “Do you see the distant campfires?”

“Yes, barely. Not quite campfires, more like a glow.” He steadied himself against a tree, stood on his toes, and craned his neck. “Those hills are in the way.”

“Those are Rebel camps,” I said. “Johnny’s there in Resaca and in those hills to the north.” We climbed again and stopped below the hill’s crest line. “Hold on.” I caught him by the arm and glanced up. “It’s only a quarter moon, Harvey, but still plenty bright. Remember, never expose yourself on a ridge like this. Don’t stand out like a shadow puppet . . . any sharpshooter could strike you down, and a Whitworth’s a dead shot at a thousand yards.” We found a rock, sat, and looked across the valley floor to the glow of the enemy camps some five miles away.

I clasped my hands between my knees, breathed deeply, and began the talk I had prepared on our march that day. “Harvey?”

“Yes?”

“You know I promised Mother and God to keep you safe?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, I’ll do my best. I will. I’ll not let any man take your number, but I can’t always be at your side.”

“I know that.”

I paused. “Yes, sorry, that’s not really what I meant. I mean, while I can’t always be at your side, I can help. I can tell you what I’ve learned and what I know.” I studied his young profile. “So, Harvey, here’s what I know. Wash when you can and keep your socks dry. And, while I admit we’re no Bible company, I say, stay away from the bark juice and prostitutes. Finally, do what you’re told and learn from the best of your comrades. Watch and copy what they do, especially your corporals and sergeants. They have experience, Harvey. They’ve earned their rank.”

“I will.”

“Good . . . and don’t take risks. Don’t be a berry picker, either, but I mean don’t be foolish. Harvey, a man who’s fought and survived and now helps others is far more revered than any glory seeker.”

“Al?”

“Hold on. One more thing. Write to Mother daily.”

“Yes, I will. But Al, will we be fighting tomorrow?”

“I think so, and likely no small affair.” I raised my arm and pointed southeast. “Resaca and the Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge are behind those hills.” I pointed a little farther to my right. “Yonder’s where the Oostanaula turns south, near Lay’s Ferry. If we don’t cross the river at Resaca, we’ll cross it there.”

We were quiet before I spoke again. “Do you see the hill line there, the one in front of Resaca?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, tomorrow, we’re going to take it—that’s Bald Hill.”

“Are the Rebels there now?”

“Yes, and like us, they’ll be sleeping on the ground beneath their feet.” I chuckled and slapped his arm. “Be thankful it’s warm. I nearly froze in Knoxville.”

“I am thankful,” he said. “But Al, D Company say Dodge’s men already captured Bald Hill. Says they captured it a few days ago, but that McPherson pulled ’em back.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“So, Al, we’re going to take those hills again?”

“It looks that way.”

“But why? Why did McPherson pull ’em back? Why are they here, back with us, and not there, or better yet why aren’t they already in Resaca? Surely, they weren’t there to amuse the enemy.”

I shook my head and spread my hands. “Harvey, I don’t know, and be careful of scuttlebutt, but some are saying McPherson was right not to risk his men—that he didn’t know what he was facing. And yes, others are adamant he became unnerved and lost his chance to take the town, the bridge, and win this war.”

“He should have.”

“Difficult to say, Brother. I wouldn’t have wanted you captured only for you to waste away in some prison stockade. But don’t worry tomorrow we’ll come on booming—it will be your baptism day.”

We stared east, watched Jupiter rise over Resaca, and thought of home.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Reveille woke us before dawn, and the clear eastern skies promised good weather. More troops had arrived in the night, and later, as the first rays of sunlight bathed the valley, I spotted two batteries positioned to our left. I heard footsteps and glanced over. “Morning, Lieutenant,” I said.

“Morning to you, Al,” he replied, stopped next to me, and hooked his thumbs on his holster belt. We studied the valley together and he nodded at the batteries. “Those are Landgraeber’s Missouri and Ohio boys.” He jerked his thumb back toward camp. “Ours arrived last night.” A moment later, the Missouri and Ohio Parrotts opened fire, and we followed the arc of their shot into the trees of a creek flowing down the valley center. Puffs of smoke and dust rose along the creek, birds flushed, and the canopies of a couple of trees toppled gracefully. “Clearing Rebel skirmishers, I suspect.” The cannon crews loaded and fired another round. “Well, they’ve got the distance figured.”

“They should,” I said. “They were there the other day.”

“True enough, Al. True enough.”

We heard our bugles sound and returned to camp together.

Once our company was assembled, we walked among our men and checked their kits carefully. We uncorked canteens to catch those with whiskey, and we inspected cartridge boxes, cap pouches, and rations—sixty rounds and two days rations, each.

“No extra weight!” our lieutenant barked up and down our line. “Do not let me catch you carrying claptrap! And strap your bedrolls tight—we sleep in Resaca tonight!” He spotted our captain approaching and shouted, “Company, attention!” We snapped to order, and our captain stopped before us.

“Company, at rest,” he said in his deep, clear voice, and began to pace. “Men, we have been together since Pittsburgh.” Our veterans murmured with agreement. “And, we have fought with honor in every battle.” They rapped their rifle butts on the ground. He waited. “Today,” he pointed east, “we will take that hill and bring yet more honor to our regiment!” They rapped their rifles again. “Men, follow your officers, follow me, and follow your colors! Let there be glory to Ohio and our God almighty!” They cheered loudly. He drew his sword, brought its pommel to his face, paused, and swept it sharply down in crisp salute. “Officers!” he commanded. “Move! Us! Out!”

With our regimental colors flying proudly and our band playing smartly, we fell into column and marched down Sugar Valley. We halted, faced left, formed our battle line, and marched for another mile to where we stopped west of a creek one good mile from Bald Hill. And there we stood for hours, under sporadic fire, and swatted at flies in the growing heat of the late morning sunshine. We were alone with our thoughts.

I took off my hat, wiped my brow, and looked up and down our battle line. One company was to our left and our skirmishers were well out front. My section and captain stood straight ahead. Harvey stood near his left, and this worried me as our captain would draw fire. Our colors and the balance of our regiment were aligned to our right and rear. Directly behind me, by some ten to twenty paces and aligned along our line, our lieutenants and mounted officers waited. Finally, our artillery was positioned on our flanks, from where they maintained an incessant fire on distant enemy targets.

Judging by the cut of the sun, it was past noon when I started to hear an increase in the number of riders galloping up and down our line. I glanced back and saw our colonel talking to an orderly from Lightburn’s staff. Soon our cannons stopped firing, our band fell silent, and save for the neigh of a restless horse and the cry of a soaring hawk, all was quiet. My heart began to thump, and I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and prayed. Our drums started a steady roll, orders were issued to load rifles and fix bayonets, our band struck a march, our bugles sounded, our cannons fired, and we stepped forward.

Our men marched with a steady step, elbow to elbow, thirteen inches between each rank. I worked to keep my section straight and pushed my stragglers forward.

We moved through brush, crossed the creek, and there, less than a mile from Bald Hill, the Rebels met us with a murderous fire. They fired on us with muskets and cannons to both our front and from stockades across the river to our right.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Our last several hundred yards were our worst, and through concussive explosions and swirling smoke, I caught glimpses of Bald Hill. We were close when over the roar of the musket, rifle, and cannon fire, I finally heard our bugles and officers’ whistles call us to charge. With my sword raised high, I yelled repeatedly, “Charge, men, charge! Forward, Ohio!” And that is when I saw Harvey fall.

I saw him hesitate and tumble to the ground. My men charged on, but my legs gave out. I stumbled in my step and fell to my hands and knees. I was dizzy, distant, and removed. But after seconds, maybe more, I regained my senses and looked up. Harvey was a few feet away, prostrate, and still. I crawled quickly to his side and turned him gently. He was alive and his eyes looked about with shock and confusion. I turned him more and saw that the right canvas of his coat and the grass beneath him were wet with blood.

He focused on me and tried to talk. I leaned close. “I’ve been hit,” I heard him say. He coughed once. “Brother, I haven’t fired a shot.” I kneeled back on my haunches. He tried to smile but winced and closed his eyes.

I shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. I leaned forward and shouted into his ear. “Harvey, you’re hit, but it’s not bad!” I turned my head and saw soldiers helping others to the rear. Then I looked back at him and his wound, and I froze. I had never done so before, and yes, my training screamed for me to stand, to advance, to move forward, and to retake my position among my men! But my love for Harvey, my love for my family, and my promise to Mother and God turned me to stone, out there, in that field, among many fallen men.

“Sergeant?”

His voice broke my stupor. I looked at him and could not resist a smile—my brother, even wounded, was still my comedian. “Yes, Private.”

“We were here the other day. We shouldn’t have had to come back.”

“You’re right, Harvey. You’re right.”

A cannon shell exploded and showered us with dirt and stone. I ducked my head and covered him as best I could. I saw that our line was already some twenty rods distant, and then with a great and swelling hate, I snapped. “Stay here,” I shouted, “I’ll be back.” I grabbed his rifle, stood, and ran after my men. I left Harvey in the grass.

I was consumed with a rage that day that grew fiercer the more I fought, and I fought with a fury I had never experienced, neither before nor since. With shouts and yells and tears streaming, I fought and killed with fanatical hate. With my revolver, I shot men point blank, with my sword, I eviscerated, and with Harvey’s rifle butt, I crushed men’s heads savagely. I killed many men that day.

The fighting stopped at four. We had pushed the Rebels off Bald Hill and back to lines near Resaca. In the quiet sunlight of that late afternoon, I searched the fields for Harvey until soldiers told me they had moved him back.

I found him on a stretcher, near bushes, alongside the creek. Soldiers were loading wounded men onto ambulances, but they ignored him. I knelt at his side. His face was ashen and still and his hand held a bloodied shirt to his chest. Gently, I pulled back the flap of his coat. He opened his eyes and saw me. I wiped blood from his cheek and gave him water. Soldiers were still loading the wounded onto ambulances, but none came for Harvey. A tall doctor was standing at the tail of a nearby ambulance. I stood and approached him directly.

“Doctor,” I said. He looked first at my dirty, gun-powdered face and then at my stripes.

“Sergeant?”

I pointed at Harvey. “Why are your men not loading that soldier?”

He looked over. “Sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do. He’ll not make it through the night.”

“He most certainly will,” I countered. “You need to load him up.”

“Look Sergeant, we have many wou—”

I cocked the hammer of my revolver and raised it to his cheek. “Doctor, let’s not have trouble.”

He studied me longer. “Very well,” he said.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Our regiment fought on for the next two days, and although we took more casualties, the worst of the fight had moved three miles north. By the evening of the 15th, we had won the battle and my captain let me be with Harvey. On the 16th, we were ordered to cross the river down near Lay’s Ferry. With an anxious fear and a tearing conflict of loyalty between my men and Harvey, I left my brother there among other wounded men.

Three days later, on the 19th, in the crowded streets of Adairsville, fourteen miles south of Resaca, I spotted the tall doctor whom I had threatened the week earlier. He saw me too and walked over.

“Sergeant,” he said grimly, his arms akimbo, “I’m sorry, but that soldier you urged me to take did not survive.” He paused. “He passed on the morning of the seventeenth.” The doctor paused again. “He was brave, and for a time, I thought I might have been wrong. Did you know him well?”

“Yes,” I said, “he was my brother.” He nodded slowly. I dropped my eyes, said thank you, and walked away before I shed my tears.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

So, boys, here is where I end my story and speak to you directly, to you who agitate to join Europe’s latest war. To you I say, nothing can prepare you for such a fate—to march in the face of enemy fire and to hear the slicing sounds as grapeshot rounds cut through grass and men. To you I say, nothing can prepare you to smell the searing stench as red-hot rounds cook dead men’s flesh. And to you I say, nothing can prepare you to advance through clouds of blood mist and falling body bits. Finally, by God, nothing, nothing, I say, will ever fill the hole in your heart left there by the death of a much-loved brother and friend. Boys, I beseech thee, put away your innocent exuberance—there is no glory in war.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Private Harvey Brown (1845–64) was mortally wounded by a musket shot to his right chest at the Battle of Resaca, May 13th, 1864; he died in hospital four days later, May 17th, age 18; he is buried in Chattanooga National Cemetery—Section K, site 9775. His older brother, Sergeant Alfred Brown (1841–1933), is buried in Glenwood Cemetery, Palmer, Nebraska. While elements of this story are fictionalized, their records are true.

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Eben Ormston is the parent of three, a resident of Longmont, Colorado, and a member of the Steering Committee of the Boulder Writers Alliance. His first short story, “Fair and Square,” was published this spring in the Plains Paradox Literary and Arts Journal, and his first poem, “Blessed,” was published this summer in the Sad Girls Club Literary Magazine.