A Mississippi Soldier
Jordan Shaw marched around the perimeter of the contraband camp, holding his rifle tight against his breast.
Shaw. It was still hard to think of himself as Jordan Shaw instead of Jordan Gardner, the slave of old massa Richard J. Gardner. But he didn’t want to remember that man, the man who had robbed him of his freedom and sold his daughter down the Mississippi even as he boasted of how he was kind to his Negroes. Well, now he had neither Negros nor land! All of the people he enslaved had been liberated by the Lincoln soldiers, and the Bureau had confiscated the plantation when old man Gardner failed to show up to prove his loyalty. Of course, Jordan smirked, he was a traitor so the result would have been the same either way.
Jordan Shaw continued to walk around the camp. He had chosen Shaw as his new surname because it was the name of the colonel who led the Heroes of Union Mills. Doubleday, Lincoln and Reynolds were options too, but those names were too long and Jordan wanted something he could spell. More importantly, those gentlemen were alive. It felt correct to honor the Colonel’s sacrifice, so when the Yankee officer asked for his name, Jordan proudly said Jordan Shaw, not Jordan Gardner. Others still called themselves Gardner, others took new names as well – there was a wealth of Grants and Eatons in their camp. In their home.
Maybe it was naïve to think that the Pleasance Plantation would become theirs. It had never felt like a home to Jordan, what with the whips and the overseers. But now, with schoolhouses for their children and payment for their labor, it finally felt like a home. Besides, weren’t they the ones who built it up with their labor? Weren’t they the ones who sweated under the sun and bled under the whip, planting the cotton and building the houses, while massa sat in the shadow and complained of their laziness? If they asked Jordan, massa was the lazy one! Giving them land was the least the Yankees could do, but maybe it was naïve to think that White men would try to do the Negro justice. But when he heard Mr. Lincoln’s speeches and declarations, and when he remembered Colonel Shaw’s noble spilt blood, Jordan could not help but have hope too.
The sound of horses interrupted his musings. His sweat turned cold and his heart threatened to blast out of his chest. His legs carried him even if his mind was frozen in terror. The rebels were coming, he knew it. No Union cavalry would advance with such speed in the middle of the night. Jordan ran to the nearest outpost, and soon the alarm went forth. In minutes his regiment had assembled. Pride momentarily shone through the fear, as Sergeant Major Jordan Shaw saw his men, all in blue uniforms, all ready to lay down their lives. Captain Forbes came quickly too, and organized them to defend their home against the marauders.
Yankee soldiers talked of seeing red mist when going into battle. When General Grant’s army had liberated his plantation, some of the soldiers chatted with the contrabands and told them of seeing the elephant at such glorious battles like Dover and Corinth. It was strange for the Union soldiers to be kind, even stranger for them to welcome Black soldiers into their armies. Only later did Jordan and the rest of the men learn about Union Mills, and that’s what had inspired them to ask for a blue uniform. Their regiment, the 24th Mississippi, US Colored Infantry, was posted in Pleasance to protect the plantation against rebel raiders, allowing White Yankees to go with Grant and take Vicksburg. As the cotton grew in the home-farms of Pleasance, Jordan and others could not help but being jealous of the Colored Soldiers that Grant had taken with him, because they too wanted to strike a blow for their freedom. Then came news of the Battle of Liberty, and instead of coming home covered in glory the survivors of McPherson’s USCT corps came home limping or in caskets.
That hadn’t dissuaded Jordan. He still hoped to go into battle, but as days passed, as the children learned their letters and the women started to sing without fear, as news of Forrest’s bloodthirst and the massacres inflicted on other colored people arrived, Jordan and the rest concluded that they were needed more at home. Thank the Almighty for that, for Jordan was now sure they needed all the men they could get. How many rebels were there? A hundred? A thousand? How long would it take to reach the headquarters and bring in reinforcements?
How many women and children would be murdered or kidnapped before those reinforcements arrived?
The sight of the gray and the blood curling rebel yell stopped Jordan’s thoughts. He wondered briefly whether the Heroes of Union Mills had felt such terror when they faced the feared Stonewall. And then he saw red. Bullets poured out even though Jordan couldn’t remember reloading, and he thought of nothing but a desperate need to
keep moving in order to
keep living. James Grant fell bayoneted besides him (“do you think the Yankees will help us find our families?”, he had asked once while they drilled), but Jordan could not pause to feel horror or sadness when the murderer was still there. Jordan only saw red as he brandished his bayonet and pierced his heart.
Finally, a cannon thundered, drowning out even the chilling rebel yells that had been resounding since the beginning of the battle. A small piece of artillery, all General Eaton could spare for Pleasance. The fire fell from the sky into the rebels that had retreated and regrouped (“He has loosed the fateful lightening of his terrible swift sword!”, as the Yankee song said) and scattered them again. Then the regiment went forward and the marauders had no choice but to retreat. Jordan still saw red when a second roar parted the skies and an explosion sent many rebels flying. It was only when they fled, screaming out of pain or out of fury, that the world came into color again. And with that horror came, as Jordan saw the burning buildings and corpses strewn around the camp.
The next day he and Abe Jones cleaned the bodies. “This here is Dick Hinds”, Abe said, kicking a young man, not older than 18, who could have seemed to be peacefully sleeping if not for the red wound that covered his throat and had turned his gray uniform into a red and brown rag. “His father owned me. He was an angry man, but Dick Hinds was worse, oh yes”, Abe said as they lifted him and dropped him alongside a comrade. They did that because they knew nothing would offend the rebels more than being buried alongside the Colored troops that had bested them. “It would break Ol’ Missus’ heart to see her boy like this, oh yes it will. She had paid for a substitute, you sees, but Dick Hinds wanted to fight still.” Jordan just nodded, not really caring.
They took another corpse. It was John Sumner, who had a little girl and two boys. How would Jordan explain to them that papa would not come back? “You know,” Abe started, “Massa Hinds was the sheriff here. I knows Massa Hinds fled when the Lincoln soldiers come, so we need a new sheriff. You think we could get someone who would do us coloreds justice?” “Maybe I’ll run”, Jordan mussed, and Abe laughed. Jordan did not blame him. They had given the Colored men the vote in Maryland, he knew, but thinking of Black sheriffs and Black legislators and Black congressmen seemed ridiculous. Then again, thinking of Black soldiers and Black free laborers would have seemed ridiculous just a couple of years ago. “Maybe I’ll run”, Jordan repeated, and this time Abe did not laugh. “I’ll vote for you and Mister Lincoln,” he said finally. Then they moved to the next corpse.
The battle, which had seemed so terrible and so hard-fought, had actually only involved at most a hundred men on each side. It wasn’t worth mentioning to General Eaton, much less report to General Grant. They had lost 15 men and had 28 wounded; their blood had resulted in 22 corpses in gray. But, even if their battle hadn’t involved hundreds of thousands of men over hundreds of thousands of miles, Jordan knew that it was important, for without them instead of burying 15 men they would be burying 300 women and children. The schools of Pleasance would remain open, their children would remain with their mothers, their wives wouldn’t have to suffer under the whip. They still had their hopes and their futures, and it was because of Jordan the rest of the 24th Mississippi. Perhaps the Battle of Pleasance wasn’t as big as the Battle of Union Mills, but Jordan was still sure they were heroes too.