Thanksgiving- A work of Fiction

November 26, 1863

Dearest Carrie,

I take some time to write and inform you that I am well as are all of the boys from home.

No skirmishing today except between the graybacks and fleas. Harper and Boyd are after each other hammer and tong as well. It is hard to say which is worse. At least the boys draw little blood and usually retreat after a spell. I can't say the same of the vermin. They are always in line of battle, charging and pawing for the best patch of ground, moving to and fro across the field. Only a little water and fire, strategically applied, deters them. Their casualties mount and they beat a hasty retreat until the fire and water are removed. Then they are back, with reinforcements and renewed vigor. I tell you the field is tinged crimson in places.

Today we are observing the day of thanksgiving as called for by Mr. Lincoln. The camp is still, hushed. The boys speak only in quiet tones, and now Boyd and Harper are in retreat, a handshake seals their truce. It is not melancholy that produces the quiet, for a smile plays around the lips of each man. They are not broad, but faint little curls around the corners, and each eye holds a far off gaze with small embers of happiness being kindled there, produced by fond recollections of home. It all seems long ago now.

The supper fires are all going now, and the smiles the boys wear are broadening. The smell of bacon, beef, and biscuits waft across the camp. Rations are plentiful. We have all learned to cook for ourselves but it is a poor substitute for the feast prepared by the loving hands at home. At least we suffer no ill effect from it. My table will have food foraged from the country. Schneider brought in a dozen squirrels and Boyd claims to have shot the deer Harper brought in, who says otherwise. I being a corporal was called upon to settle the matter. After inspecting the carcass, three bullet holes were in evidence but the boys were to busy arguing to notice. I declared someone else had shot the deer, perhaps a Johnny Reb. They seemed a bit shaken by that prospect. Boyd and Harper in fact had shot it but only as the deer was about to lay down and die. They went along with the verdict. Since I was the judge presiding, I also declared that they should take part of the meat to your brother Jimmy's mess as “punishment” for disturbing our day of thanksgiving with their bickering. Boyd, ever the fractious one, huffily declared that we did not need all of it anyway! The mess rang with laughter, including Boyds! The punishment benefited our mess as Jimmy sent back some tobacco, canned peaches, and an apple pie he had procured from a Secessh house. I felt bad for that household but I know Jimmy. He would not have left that family destitute. We ate our fill, and the boys are resting now. Boyd and Harper are still honoring their truce, and the company is content. All remains quiet. Our smiles continue but the fires in our eyes, once blazing, now burn low. The far away countenance resumes its place on each face. No, it is not sadness that places it there. Each man is lost in his own memory and contemplating what they are thankful for. And they are homesick, as I am homesick. We all long for the day peace is restored and we can return home but not a man in the company is willing to return until their duty is fully performed.

I must tell you what I am thankful for before I close. I am thankful for you, dear wife, and the home you keep ready for my return. I am thankful that you are in fine health and spirits which bodes well for our child you now carry inside you. I am thankful for the innumerable blessings that God has bestowed on us, a Kind Providence has seen fit to keep me this side of the sod, and has favored me with good health. His mercy has kept most of the boys in the company in the same order. We do mourn the loss of a few comrades but trust in His wisdom about such affairs. The assurance of His salvation and the abiding knowledge that those gone from us will rise at the final trumpets call is something we are all thankful for. I am most thankful to The Most High that holds the future in His hands and in His infinite wisdom and mercy we will all return home soon.

I must close now. It is nearing evening and the company has been assigned picket duty and I must see to details. Do not fret about your husband or your brother. We are watching out for each other. The skirmishing has broken out again but not in our front. I think the fleas are mounting a counter attack. Write soon.

Your faithful Husband,

Eben

Thanksgiving Day, 1863, probably did not produce many letters like this. The armies in the east and the west were rather busy for so late in the year. Grant and Sherman had their hands full just prior to November 26 while fighting Bragg in Tennessee at Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge and then pursuing him into Georgia. Burnside was also having difficulty with Longstreet at Knoxville. In the east, Mead was involved in crossing the Rapidan River and kicking off the Mine Run campaign.

It is unlikely that very many soldiers in the primary theaters of the war would have had time to “observe a day of thanksgiving as called for by Mr. Lincoln.” It is possible they mentioned the day, in passing, in letters home or in their diaries. This letter is a simple flight of my own fancy. It combines the staple fare of a typical soldier letter home: camp life, thoughts of home, family, and duty to the country. Thanksgiving days were common in the United States from its very beginning. The soldiers would have had fond memories of those days to reflect upon. Since many of them had never been more than a few miles from home, it strikes me that a national Thanksgiving Day in camp would evoke a lot of emotion, reflection, and produce the “faint smile” and “far away gaze”. It has been the same all throughout our history. Men and women have been far from home serving the country we all love. For those men and women past, present, and future I am thankful.

For the Most High God and the assurance of his salvation I am, above all things, truly thankful.

I hope you enjoyed my letter even if it might not be totally accurate historically. I also hope it reminds you to be thankful today and every day.

Thanks for stopping by! I am always thankful for that!

The Picket

A Christmas Conversation

“Hey Johnny!” the blue clad soldier shouted across the river to the man in gray. Merry Christmas!”

“Whats that ye said thar Yank?” the man in gray said loudly, gruffly as he instinctively turned his rifle in the direction of the voice.

“Aww, put down that gun ya dern fool!”, called the Yank as he stepped from behind large rocks, his own rifle shouldered, nonthreatening. “I said, Merry Christmas! It's Christmas Day, don't ya know.”

The Reb relaxed, grounded the butt of his rifle, and scratched his chin. “I reckon I know what day it is. What of it?” the Reb spat a mighty stream of tobacco after the words.

The Yank studied the Reb for a minute or two, the Reb slowly worked his quid, and glowered at the Yank. He could not understand how this man in blue could be so friendly, so cheerful, standing picket out here in the cold, and only weeks after one of the hardest fights the Reb had ever been in. He had seen a lot of fighting and dieing since the Spring of '61. He had joined the Army of Virginia even before Virginia had cast its lot with the Confederacy. He scratched his chin again, puzzling over this blue clad stranger.

“I got nothin' to trade with Yank. 'Sides, my mess mates are tradin' with some of your fellers down the river a piece.” The Reb decided that was why the Yankee was being so friendly. He had heard they would trade for just about anything, but most times it was to their advantage.

“That's all right, Reb. I ain’t lookin' to trade. I just wanted to talk a spell. It beats slingin' bullets at each other don't it? And after all, it's Chri...”

“I know what day it is! But what has that got to do with all of this? It doesn’t matter to them that lay up thar 'neath that stone wall, or behind it. Just because it is Christmas will those fellers be celebratin'? No! And it durn sure don't mean we'uns ain't goin' to be killin' each other come sundown, or tomorrow, or the next day. And it sure ain't keepin' me warm!” The Reb pulled his coat closer to his neck and blew on his hands. He had never been so cold so far as he could recall. “Blamed fool.” he muttered. “How long you been in Mister Lincolns army anyway?” the Reb asked bitterly.

The Yank smiled. A quiet face, slightly cherubic, a look that never changed. No stain of anger, or arrogance rested there. It was peaceful yet resolute, and the smile it bore was sincere. “I been in since August this year, but we didn't join the brigade until October. What regiment are you with Reb?”

The man in gray leaned on his rifle, scowled, and sent another stream of tobacco juice into the river. “Blamed fool.” he muttered. Shouting now he said, “ Yank, I don't believe I need to be tellin' you thet!” The Reb was certain now the Yankee was a scout, putting up a dodge to get information. The question was innocent enough, but the Reb still was wary. “All I can tell you is I fight with General Lee! But I reckon you already know that, and that's all you need know.”

The Yank chuckled. “All right then. Just trying to be friendly. It being Christmas and all. How many messmates do you have?”

At this the Reb quickly hoisted his rifle to his shoulder and took steady aim on the man in blue.

“Now look here, you no good scoundrel! I've had a belly full of your questions and about all I can mortally stand of you and the rest of you black hatted fellers! If you don't move on down the bank I'm of a mind to plug you, Christmas or no! Now git!” He cocked his rifle to emphasize the point.

The Yank, still smiling, said calmly, “ Alright Reb. No offense intended. I will be on my way. Merry Christmas, Reb.” He then strolled down the river bank, whistling merrily, and disappeared.

The man in gray spat. “Peculiar feller that one.” He lowered his rifle and began to trudge down the river. Thirty yards this way, thirty yards that way. He would pause occasionally to listen for sound coming from the far bank. He heard nothing in the chill air save for someone singing “Silent Night” somewhere in the distance. He could not tell from which bank it came from or if it was just hanging in the air indifferent to the men that heard it. It sounded as if it came from nowhere and at the same time from everywhere at once. “As if the very angels of heaven are singing.” the Reb muttered as he shivered. “Cold. I never been this cold.” He cursed; the army, the cold, Jeff Davis, and that blue clad soldier.

He thought about the Yank. “ That feller sure was peculiar. Never quit smiling even when I had him in my sites. Nary a flinch either. Merry Christmas he says. Thunderation it's cold! Christmas again and me nowhere near home. I want to go home! I'm sick of the cold, I'm sick of death. I want to go home! But I can't rightly see how I can go.” The Reb shivered again and wiped tears from his eyes. “Blamed fool. Christmas! Bah!”

A clear, cheerful voice called across the river. “Hey Reb! Catch!” It was the same Yank, wearing the same smile on his face as before. He was kneeling at the waters edge, holding a small, sturdy boat filled with goods.

“Now hold on there , Yank! I told you to git! Whats this?” the Reb questioned angrily. “ I told you I got nothin' to trade!”

“I didn't ask you to trade, Reb!” the Yank shouted as he launched his boat. “You can keep the boat if you want. I won't need it again.”

The Reb scratched his chin and glared at the Yank. “Obliged to ye Yank. But why?” he said coolly. “Tomorrow will be the same as yesterday or the thirteenth. You remember the thirteenth, don't you Yank?” The Reb expected to anger the blue soldier with this last question, delivered maliciously, but it drew no response. The Reb was perplexed. Any soldier would have answered angrily at this intended insult, but not this man. The Reb spat.

“I remember it well, Reb.” the Yank said gently “ You boys sure gave us a time that day. I will never see another day like it.”

The boat was at the Rebs feet in seconds as if it were guided by unseen hands. It contained five pounds of good coffee, a good wool blanket a handful of buttons. “Hurumph! Federal buttons!” the Reb growled. Then he smiled as he looked at the empty places on his coat where those Federal buttons would help close it against the winter chill.

“ I thought you could use those.” called the Yank.

“Mighty kind, Yank. But you still ain't told me why you are doin' this.” said the Reb, his words softening a bit. “You are a perplexing feller. I can't see rightly how you can be so all fired friendly in the middle of a war, especially after...” The Reb stopped abruptly at this, his mind returning to the scenes of that day, a scant two weeks before . He had not been in that fight, there at the wall, but he had had plenty of fighting on his end of the line, and had seen plenty of the Yankee boys fall. Rebs too. The following day he was detailed to carry a message to the left, and he had to travel near the spot. The scene he beheld was so frightful that he was sickened by it. The men in blue lay so thick in front that the ground appeared, in places, to be a solid mass of blue, and in other places the rows of dead looked like stalks of corn laid low by a scythe. He felt a chill sweep over him, and he had not been warm since. Tears flooded his eyes, and he could not speak. The Yank was watching him intently, still smiling. He uttered not a word in reply but nodded his head slightly, knowingly.

“You don't suppose they will make us fight today, do you Yank?” the Reb asked with trembling voice.

“Today? Naww. I don't believe they will make us fight today.” the Yank said. “Tomorrow, next day, maybe. Not today.

For unto you is born this day, in the City of David

a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude

of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace,

good will toward men. [1]

There will be no killing and dieing today, Reb.”

“That is if the generals go along with what the Good Book says. Sometimes I wonder about 'em.” grumbled the Reb.

“ I think they will heed the scripture today of all days.” the Yank said cheerily. “I suppose I should be getting back to camp. Again, Merry Christmas Johnny!”

“Merry Christmas Billy Yank. Lets both hope for a blessed new year!” said the Reb as he turned to renew his lonely tramp along the river. Thirty yards this way, thirty yards that way. He could not help thinking about the Yank. He still could not understand how anyone, of either army, could be so pleasant and cheerful in this cold, in this war and so far from home, but that smile the blue clad soldier bore haunted him. It was always there, never a trace of bitterness removing or even diminishing it. Peculiar.

Suddenly he heard voices singing “Angels! We Have heard on High!”, many voices. Then it struck him. The face of the Yank could have been that of an angel! He laughed at himself, then shivered. He turned to the opposite bank and laughing, called out, “Hey Yank! Do you believe in angels? Yank?”

There was no reply.

December 1862 would go down as one of the bloodiest months of the Civil War. On the 13^th, the Battle of Fredericksburg in Virginia would leave 1,284 dead, 9,600 wounded and 1,769 captured of Major General Ambrose Burnside's Federal Army of the Potomac, many of whom fell in front of that stone wall on Marye's Heights. Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia fared better, receiving 608 killed, 4,116 wounded, and 653 captured. [2]

December also saw major fighting in the Western Theater, seeing Major General William S. Rosecrans and his Army of the Cumberland pitted against General Braxton Bragg and his Army of Tennessee at Murphreesboro, Tennessee. This battle would ring out 1862 and herald the beginning of 1863, being fought December 31^st, 1862 and January 2^nd, 1863. The casualties here were as terrible for both sides as Fredericksburg, the Federals losing 1700 men killed, 7,800 wounded, and 3,700 captured or missing.

The Confederacy lost nearly one third of their forces engaged with 1,300 dead, 7,900 wounded, and 1,000 missing and presumed captured. [3] December was a very bleak month for both sides.

The story related here is, of course, fiction. But the fact is fraternization between the armies was commonplace. It seems to me that this would more readily occur during the holiday season, when men would feel the effects of homesickness the worst. Longing for hearth and home but only having an enemy to talk to while standing a lonely post in the cold could have happened anywhere.

                                                                 Sources

The Gospel according to Saint Luke, chapter 2, verses 11, 13-14, King James Version
Marye's Heights- Fredericksburg, Brooks, Victor D., 2001, page 122
The Battle of Stones River: The Soldiers' Story, National Park Service, retrieved from  http://www.nps.gov/history/NR/twhp/wwwlps/lessons/40stones/40facts1.htm December 21,2011