Karl Bacon by An Eye for Glory: The Civil War Chronicles of a Citizen Soldier Page A

comes down, I have resolved to do my duty and let God determine the outcome.”
    “God—He’s nowhere in this army.” Once again Jim spat in the street.
    “You’re wrong, Jim,” John said. “He’s all around us working out His purposes.”
    Jim ignored John’s words. “So, Michael, you’ll obey orders tomorrow, whatever they are, even if it kills you?”
    I was taken aback by Jim’s bluntness. I looked at John and held his steady gaze.
    “Even so,” I finally said, “even so.” But even as those words escaped my lips, I shuddered at the implication of them. Were my words an expression of a sincere, childlike trust in my Heavenly Father? Or did they give voice to resignation, indifference, and acceptance of a fate yet to be determined?
    Later that afternoon the three hundred and fifty men of the Fourteenth Connecticut, along with the rest of the brigade, were ordered away from the river into the next street parallel to the river, Caroline Street. Tens of thousands of Federal soldiers, now transient citizens of the city, occupied the substantial brick and wooden houses of the city folk, as well as the public buildings that, until a few days before, had been the exclusive realm of the Southern gentry of Fredericksburg. Most of the citizens had fled, preferring to wait out the impending storm behind the lines of Lee’s army rather than remain in their homes to face the invading Vandal horde of Yankees.
    Several dwellings in the city had been set ablaze by the shelling; Confederate or Federal, it would matter not when the owner finally returned to the smoldering ruin. Clouds of gray smoke hung lazily over the city. When the wind came from the direction of the river, I could sit quietly and breathe in fresh, clean air. But when the wind changed, it was all I could do to draw a breath. My eyes burned and teared; acrid smoke filled my lungs. I gasped and coughed and finally buried my face in the folds of my greatcoat, using the thick cloth to filter the smoke from the air.
    “Hey, nutmeggers,” a sergeant from the 108 th New York yelled from a few houses up the street. “We’re building fires in thecellars here for coffee. You boys should do the same.” The army had been ordered not to build any fires for fear that the Rebel gunners would see them, but a soldier could be an extremely inventive character, especially when it comes to coffee.
    “Let’s go,” yelled Sergeant Holt. He waved us toward a large house that appeared deserted. It was a fine and stately brick structure that had no doubt housed a fine and stately family before the tide of war had driven them out. “Find a way to the cellar. Take some wood, slats from that picket fence will do. Furniture will burn too—lots of wood in a house like this.”
    With great bravado Holt led the way in this domestic assault and in no time at all, smoke began drifting upward from the chimney. Knowing it would be a long night, John and I waited until the initial rush passed. We went around to the rear of the house and down a short flight of stone steps into the cellar. The cellar was divided into two main sections, a storage room, the shelves of which had been picked clean to prevent the foodstuffs from falling into our hands, I assumed, and a kitchen area with a fireplace for cooking during the hot summer months. Harry Whitting stood quietly next to the fireplace, warming himself and savoring his coffee.
    “Hi, Michael. Hi, John.” Harry tried to give us his gap-toothed grin, but his eyes told another tale; he was obviously unwell. “The men have been using the fire hooks or one of these long spoons to hold their cups over the fire.”
    “Thanks, Harry,” John replied. “How are you feeling?”
    “Not well. I still feel so weak, and I find breathing difficult. The smoke makes it worse.”
    “I’m sorry,” said John. “Perhaps a warm and dry place to sleep tonight will do you good.”
    Harry shrugged. “Jim and Charlie Merrills came through a while