To The High Lonesome

(Civil War, 1865)(Too-drunk Henry, 56-years old)



Here there were dead men, their clothing dishonored amongst the mud, some buried under the mud, their cloths protruding, Too-drunk Henry, walked among the dead, the battle the day before, was indecisive, smoke of the battle was still in the air, the smell of death reeked, the falling rain was washing all the blood stained bodies clean, medics were looking among the lying to see if any of the infantry were alive, moving caps and overcoats and dragging one body after the other to see and feel his pulse for any king of life signs. Every inch of ground to Corporal Too-drunk Henry from Ozark Alabama, who had some Indian and white blood in him, was covered with repulsion. He was one of the oldest soldiers in his company, at fifty-six years old, thought he’d join and do something heroic before he crooked; the patriotic example of his countrymen. Like Charles Hightower of the Hightower Plantation did in the War of 1812.
He felt cowardly to-day though, not yesterday when the fighting was, but today. “This war is cold,” he murmured walking about the dead. “Well,” said his comrade in arms, “—yes, but its’ not suppose to be like that!” Said Captain Ritt who had joined the Army only a few months before this battle, as he pointed to the dead bodies, lying now in little hay like bundles here and there, the war all of a sudden had no meaning to Too-drunk Henry; His mind unengaged.
“The war is just about over Captain, under these circumstances I do not wish to be shot!”

Nothing could be plainer, and a day before the battle a Lieutenant had gone over the hill, meaning, he deserted. “Do understood sir,” said the corporal to the Ozark Captain, I might head on to the high lonesome tomorrow, please don’t send any troops looking for me?”
There was really no more to say, if anything, he had said way too much already. The Captain looked at him; he had his superior officer as well to be accountable to. Thus he remained silent on the matter. When the corporal had joined his company, he knew there might be a favor asked in the future by Henry and this was it, but he remained silent for a long spell.
“You have twenty-four hours Henry,” said Captain Ritt. “And then if no one has notified the General of your AWOL, or missing in action, I will have to.” He was discomforted by this, but he went along with it nonetheless. What he was really doing, and the Captain knew the corporal didn’t understand it fully was, the Army, any Army has an underbelly, with character, a make-up, some have even called it a personality, but what it really is, is the unit, pieces (one for all and all for one kind of thing). If the unit is a squad, of which twelve-soldiers are attached to it, then the unit has twenty-four legs and twenty-four arms, and twelve-heads, and twenty-four ears, and twelve-noses. Anything other than that, it would be less than a unit. That is what makes the unit, with its character of brute force.
In the morning, the Corporal was gone. It felt—to the Captain—in the long run, it was better for the unit as a whole, they didn’t need a coward in the unit, and he hopped he’d stay in the mountains, and never return to Ozark, if so, he’d have to stop being silent for a moment.

No: 506 (10-28-2009)