The Choice Was Gray

Chapter 1

(In the spring of 1861, as war clouds gathered, young men North and South flocked to the colors. In many states the cause was clear—to save the Union or to set up an independent Confederacy. But in a section of northwestern Virginia that eventually would become part of the new state of West Virginia, loyalties were divided. So much that many voted against the Secession Ordinance approved in April by a convention in Richmond. In Unionist-leaning Upshur County, recruiting for North and South took place simultaneously. Typical of youths there was Willis Cross, mustered into Virginia service May 7, ten days before his 18th birthday, in a Confederate infantry company called the Upshur Grays. Nearly a month later, Will lay in a tent at Philippi, little more than 20 miles from the Upshur County seat of Buckhannon, listening to rain pelting the tent he shared with five messmates. None was aware that, in the darkness of the stormy night, a Union force stealthily approached and lined up several cannon on heights across the river overlooking the Confederate camp.)

Thankful he had not drawn guard duty, Will listened to pellets of rain constantly striking the canvas top and walls of the tent he shared with long-time friend Charles Hodges, Clay Jackson, Perry Fish and the Hillery brothers. There was no thunder or lightning now, but sharp gusts of wind still whipped the tent flaps. The smell of wet canvas permeated the dark interior, and he wondered how long it might be before the tent started leaking. The others were sleeping, but Will’s mind still was active.

We finally have weapons now, even if only converted flintlocks. Weather permitting, we’ll have our first drill in firing techniques tomorrow. Can’t wait to try my musket before we meet Federal troops. What would it be like to shoot at another human being? Well, they shouldn’t be in Virginia anyway. They had no right to pass over the Ohio for other than peaceful purposes. I’ve slept in more comfortable places, but this is real soldiering, sure enough… . Wonder what Betsy did today back in Upshur? Pretty Betsy with her golden hair.

Drowsiness expunged all thoughts from Will’s mind as he dropped into a deep sleep. It seemed only moments before he was startled awake by a whooshing sound and a sudden blast of air. Another whoosh was followed instantly by a roar in the distance. Struggling out of his blankets, Will was astounded to see that a whole row of tents, his among them, had been partially blown down. Yet it wasn’t raining anymore and the wind had died down.

Federals! Federals comin’!

Scrambling for his musket Will saw Upshur Grays in various stages of dress hastily forming a line of battle in the murky dawn. Drummers nearby beat the long roll, calling troops to battle.

Come on, Will. This is it! Charles yelled, grabbing his friend by the arm and pulling him toward the ragged battle line.

Where are they? Will gasped as he reached his place in line.

Cannons up the hill ‘crost the river, Clay Jackson said, pointing toward smoke rising above and to the right of the long covered bridge crossing the Tygart Valley River. Them guns must of blew our tents down.

A courier rode briskly up to the Grays’ commander, Captain John Higginbotham, and saluted. Yankees this side the river, sir. Trying to cut us off. Colonel Porterfield presents his compliments and says retreat up the Pike toward Beverly double quick.

Higginbotham turned to his men as the courier galloped off. Teamsters, get those horses harnessed and the damned wagons moving, he shouted. On the double! Throw everything you can on the wagons, boys. Then double-time up the Pike after ‘em!

While horses were hitched, Upshur Grays hastily tossed into the vehicles everything they could, including blankets and even a few tents hastily ripped from their pegs. As the wagons rumbled up the road, the soldiers quickly fell in behind. Trotting up the Pike, Will was aware of occasional cannon shots and the rattle of musketry. Yelling came from all directions, and some Confederate units were fleeing up the road in no order at all. But where were the Yankees? Suddenly Will tripped and sprawled forward on the ground, his musket sliding into a roadside ditch. As men rushed by, Will regained his feet and scrambled to retrieve his weapon. The ditch was half full from the night’s rain and his musket was wet and muddy. Angrily, he began to wipe off the barrel with his shirt sleeve.

Look at this mess, Will said as he slowly stood. Enough to make a preacher cuss.

My God! Look! Charles exclaimed.

Will glanced at the hill behind the Barbour County courthouse, now covered with figures heading in their direction. They were too far away to see faces, but the rising sun glinted off metal in a hundred flashes as more and more bluish-black figures started down the slope. Will’s blood seemed to congeal, freezing him to the spot by the side of the road. It was unreal, a nightmare. Then some of the figures in the vanguard halted to fire their weapons, puffs of smoke sprouting along the blue line. As rifle reports echoed through the hills, Will and Charles sprinted up the Pike toward their rapidly retreating comrades.

Chapter 2

(During the month following the skirmish at Philippi, the Grays came under command of Brigadier General Robert Garnett, who established a defensive line along the mountains near Beverly, 30 miles southeast of Buckhannon. There the Upshur Grays became Company A of the 25th Virginia Infantry Regiment.)

Gazing across the meadow toward a distant farmhouse, his piercing blue eyes focused intently, Will scanned the far edge of the woods for signs of movement. The mid-afternoon sun was high in the sky and was growing hotter by the hour. Will and Clay Jackson had been on picket duty since mid-morning and, while this was easier than working on fortifications, it seemed ridiculous to spend time on sentry duty here. No Federals were near. Moving a bit deeper into the shade of the thicket, Will leaned back against a smooth-bark birch tree.

Keep an eye out, Clay. Think I’ll write a bit while I have a chance. Reaching into his shirt pocket, Will pulled out a letter to Betsy Hodges he had started yesterday, describing army life and the experience at Philippi. As he unfolded it and began skimming the lines, visions of Charles’ younger sister filled his mind. Betsy, whom he had watched grow from a skinny, boyish child into a budding young woman with silken honey-colored hair. A young woman with whom he had shared a good-bye kiss at her family’s farm at Sago when he and Charles paid a visit just a week before the Grays set out for Philippi.

Rummaging through his haversack, Will found his pencil, then picked up a reasonably flat piece of wood nearby and placed it under the letter. He wrote:

"July 4th. I’m on picket duty with little to do, so I’ll add a few lines. The companies in the 25th with us are mostly from the western part of the state. We make up a good ‘band of brothers,’ as the song goes. A regiment is supposed to consist of 1,000 men but ours has no more than 600. Several boys joined up with the Grays since we came to Camp Garnett, as we call this place. Dick and Willie Wingfield signed up June 30 and replaced the Hillery brothers in my mess. The Hillerys wanted to go into another mess anyhow and since Perry and I have known the Wingfields a long time, we were happy to have them join us. Our regiment’s short a lot of men because of sickness that’s swept through our ranks, mostly measles or fever. The sickest were transported up the road to McDowell, or to a hospital farther on at Staunton.

Life in camp’s dictated by the drum, sometimes accompanied by bugles. There are a dozen calls a day, starting with reveille (usually 5 o’clock in the morning). The final call is taps, which means all lights out and no talking. We’re happy enough to turn in because General Garnett has kept us busy and we’re right tired. I’ve never worked harder in my life than these past few days—cutting trees and digging entrenchments. But our breastworks at Camp Garnett ought to stop any Yankee attack.

A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees around the pickets and Will closed his eyes and enjoyed the fresh, sweet smell of the meadow. It reminded him of peaceful days at home not long ago when he lay back and watched the clouds after completing a tiring task. After inhaling another big lungful of fresh air, he inquired, Clay, think the Yankees really are spending July 4th parading in Buckhannon like Lieutenant Brown said?

Most likely. Damn ‘em! They’ve no right to be in Buckhannon, or anywhere else in Virginia!

We’ll drive ‘em out, once we’re reinforced and General Garnett’s ready to move.

I cain’t wait to get at ‘em, Will. They’ll wish they’d never heard of Buckhannon or anywhere else ‘round here. I’m agoin’ to kill a damn Yankee and cut out his heart and roast it!

Chapter 3

(Four days after a July 7 skirmish with Federals at Middle Fork bridge near the Upshur-Randolph County line, the Upshur Grays were detailed to join other units two miles up Rich Mountain from their base camp near Beverly. There they were to guard the Staunton-Parkersburg Turnpike in an area where Union forces might try a flanking movement. The men were uneasy, knowing that immediate reinforcement was impossible if a strong attack came. General Garnett had moved three-fourths of his army to Laurel Hill, more than 20 miles away across muddy mountain roads.)

Will wiped his dirty hands in a clump of wet grass and returned to his place in line between Clay Jackson and Charles Hodges. He sat down wearily, removed his hat and brushed back his light brown hair, then draped arms over knees, closed his eyes and savored his first moments of rest since early morning. He was soaked to the skin, tired and hungry. Most of the morning had been spent dragging and setting up logs and fence rails to form a temporary breastwork just off the turnpike. Nearby was a brass six-pounder cannon brought up the mountain a short time ago by the Lynchburg Lee Battery.

Opening his eyes, Will took in the bleak surroundings. Heavy showers had fallen intermittently all morning, making both the march up the mountain and construction of the breastwork difficult and uncomfortable work. At least it had cut down on the heat. It was surprisingly cool for July and was not raining at the moment, but low-hanging leaden clouds obliterated part of the mountain above. Water dripped from tree leaves behind the Grays. Looking toward the cannon, Will felt some reassurance. It was doubtful the Federals could bring artillery up here over mountain trails. Still, Captain Higginbotham had pleaded unsuccessfully with Colonel Pegram to send at least two cannon to this area, convinced the Yankees would make a major assault here.

Better check muskets and ammunition, boys, orderly Sergeant William Fichett said as he walked behind the breastwork. Keep ‘em dry. If the Yankees show up, we want to give ‘em a nice, warm reception.

Joining the knot of men near Will’s place in line was Lieutenant Daniel Brown, a quiet, conscientious man who appeared older than his 23 years. The men in the ranks valued his judgment and often went to him with personal problems.

What do you think of that so-called Restored Virginia Government they set up in Wheeling, Lieutenant? asked Sergeant Bill McFadden.

I doubt they speak for many ‘round these parts, Brown said evenly. It’s just politics. That Pierpont’s worse than Lincoln. I can understand Lincoln. Or his position, anyhow. He’s from Illinois, after all. But Francis Pierpont’s a Virginian. Tell you who I think’s the worst of the bunch, though—Arch Campbell and his Wheeling Intelligencer. That newspaper … .

The Lieutenant’s comment was terminated by the crackling of muskets across the field. They’re coming! Brown shouted, jumping to his feet. Load and be ready! He turned and ran down the line as Fichett ran in the opposite direction, repeating the officer’s order.

Picking up his musket, Will stood and took a cartridge from his pocket. As he awkwardly began the intricate loading process, the firing grew heavier. Looking in the direction of the sound, Will saw puffs of smoke against the dark green trees. The breastwork he was standing behind came nearly to his shoulders and he felt reasonably secure, but his heart beat rapidly as he strained for sight of the enemy. Some distance to his left, Federal troops burst from woods into an open field, their uniforms black under the rapidly darkening sky. Will jumped as a heavy boom to his left joined the rattle of musketry; then joined in the cheering as he realized the cannon had come into play. Two or three Upshur Grays fired their muskets at the advancing enemy.

Hold your fire! Sergeant Fichett yelled, posting himself behind the line near Will. They’re too far away. Hold your fire till the Captain gives the order.

It was all Will could do to keep from pulling his trigger. He watched, fascinated, as the cannon fired a second time into the Union lines. Some dark-clad soldiers fell and the line wavered. Will could hear Federal officers urging their men onward. With the crew working feverishly the Confederate cannon got off a third shot in less than a minute and the Union troops retreated to the relative safety of the woods. Will sucked in a deep breath of relief and leaned his musket against the breastwork.

Looks like we stopped ‘em, Clay.

Only I wish we’d gotten a shot at ‘em. Hell, I ain’t never goin’ to get me a chance to kill one. And I even wore my cravat for the occasion.

Will glanced at the black tie around Clay’s neck and chuckled. No one else in the company was wearing a cravat.

They’ll be back, Charles said, looking directly at Clay. You’ll get your chance before this day is over. Guaranteed!

Just then the clouds opened up again and sheets of water poured down. Curses rent the air as soldiers up and down the line grabbed blankets and pieces of clothing to try to shield their weapons and ammunition. It was difficult to see more than 30 feet. The rain had slackened but was still falling 20 minutes later when Union skirmishers appeared again, advancing through the underbrush and trees at the far side of the field. As they came into open territory, Will could see a battle line advancing slowly behind them. The Federals fired a volley into the Confederate breastwork and began to run forward.

Steady, boys, steady! Fichett called out. Let ‘em get a bit closer.

Some of the Federal soldiers were no more than 100 yards away now. Will saw several drop to their knees and aim in his direction. Puffs of smoke spouted from their rifles and Will heard the thunk of missiles hitting the logs in front of him just as Sergeant Fichett yelled Fire! Will pulled his trigger, joining the volley of fire from the Grays. The Federals pulled back slightly and Will felt exhilaration as he dropped to his knees to reload. After ramming home a new charge, he glanced to his left and saw Clay Jackson sprawled across Charles McFadden’s back. Will dropped his weapon and sprang to his friend’s side.

Clay! Pulling Jackson off McFadden, he rolled him over onto his back. My God!

A chunk of Clay’s throat was gone. His cravat had been sliced neatly in two and blood drenched the front of his shirt. He was obviously dead. Will’s stomach churned and he felt the blood rushing from his head. He dropped to his knees, shut his eyes and sucked in air. Opening his eyes again, he saw McFadden sitting up groggily. His shirt was bloody where Jackson had fallen across him, but he seemed to be only stunned.

Cross! A strong hand gripped Will’s arm. Back into line! Sergeant Fichett ordered.

But, Sergeant … Clay … He’s … .

Into line!

Fichett shoved Will toward the breastwork and moved on. Picking up his musket, Will looked back at Clay, then averted his eyes and fell to his knees as his stomach began churning again. His eyes came to rest on Clay’s musket. The cap was still neatly in place. Clay had never fired a shot.

Cross! Dammit, get up in line! Lieutenant Reger ordered, clapping the Private sharply across the back with the flat of his sword.

The stinging blow brought Will to his senses. Moving back behind the breastwork, he leveled his musket across the top and fired at the blue-black figures now crouched behind bushes and lying along the ground. Will’s hands trembled so badly he could hardly reload, but he forced himself to think about the business at hand despite screams and cries of wounded men amid the roar of musketry and cannon. He fought a strong urge to flee.

After several minutes the rain increased in intensity and the volume of fire died to scattered shots. Some Union troops began to withdraw under cover of the heavy shower and cheers of victory were raised on the Confederate side. Will did not join in the cheering but sank down behind the breastwork, exhausted and depressed. He consciously avoided looking at Clay Jackson’s body. In a short time the rain eased and the firing began again.

Up, boys! Sergeant Fichett yelled. Up! They’re comin’ again.

Peering over the top of the breastwork, Will was shocked at the sight greeting his eyes. Many blue-clad soldiers had moved into view opposite the Confederates, and the cannon near the stable was already in action as the Union forces charged. Hearing the buzz of minie balls overhead and the whine of ricochets off nearby boulders, Will fired and reloaded as quickly as possible. Rain still pelted the combatants, though it was not so heavy now.

As Union troops moved closer, Will became aware the cannon fire was slackening. Glancing toward the stable, he saw bodies all around the six-pounder. Looking ahead, he saw Union soldiers approaching the breastwork to his left, so close he could see faces distinctly below the dark visors of their kepi-style caps.

Fall back! The order echoed in his ears as Will, in a growing panic, fled the breastwork with most of the other Grays and ran back into the trees on the mountain slope. Glancing back, he saw Captain Higginbotham of the Grays and Captain Curry of the Rockbridge Guards directing a small rear guard from both companies.

Retreating Confederates soon lost all semblance of order as they pushed into dense undergrowth and thick forest. Scrambling over slippery logs, Will lost his footing and sprawled forward. Aware of shouts and firing close behind, he left his musket where it lay and ran as hard as he could away from the din of battle. Bushes and vines tugged at his legs and ankles as he fought his way up the hillside, and his face was stung numerous times by small branches and twigs from moisture-laden trees. Twice he blundered into blackberry patches, each time freeing himself at the cost of painful scratches on arms and legs. Will ran as long and hard as he could until it seemed his lungs would burst. Chest heaving, he stopped and leaned against a tall elm tree. His lungs burned and the muscles in his thighs had tightened into hard knots. But he had gotten away. Thank you, God! he murmured.

Cautiously forging his way forward, Will reached a small clearing. About 100 feet ahead was the turnpike. Somehow he had stumbled back onto the route to Camp Garnett. A rumble down the road soon took form as a cannon drawn by galloping horses came clattering around a bend. The second cannon Captain Higginbotham had pleaded for, Will thought bitterly. Shouts nearby drew Will’s attention away from the cannon. Blue-clad infantrymen rushing toward the turnpike stopped and fired at the approaching Confederate artillerymen. Horrified, Will saw two horses drop and the cannon bounced, twisted into the air, broke away from its restraints and rolled over the side of the mountain.

As the Union soldiers raised a victory cheer, Will realized he was nowhere near safety yet. He turned and made his way farther back into the brush as quickly as his leaden legs would allow.

Chapter 4

Camp Allegheny

December 1, 1861

Dear Betsy,

My pen is weak, my ink is pale,

My love for you shall never fail.

We miss so much hearing from home folk, Betsy. Some boys in other regiments get cakes and other good things from home, but the Grays get few letters, let alone packages, since the Federals are between us and our loved ones. Uncle Jake, who lives near our camp, plans to cross the lines soon and says he’ll take our mail with him to Beverly. I hope my letters are sent on from there.

Betsy, we’ve seen some right smart fighting the past three months. General Lee came up from Richmond in August and marched us out the Parkersburg Pike to Traveler’s Repose Tavern in Pocahontas County. It rained nearly the whole time Lee was with us and we didn’t accomplish much, what with muddy roads, wet ammunition, &c. I saw wagons up to their wheel hubs in mud and mules stuck so deep it took a dozen men to pull them out. Our rations were poor and often uncooked, and a lot of us had more than one spell of the Virginia quick step, as we call it. If you’ll excuse my mentioning a delicate subject, that means lots of trips to the sinks—outhouses without the house if you catch my drift.

Anyway, there’s a heap of suffering from fever and such. Doc Cabell, said to have shot two Yankees at Middle Fork Bridge and five more at Rich Mountain back in July, died of typhoid fever at Monterey in early September. And a number of others are in various hospitals with wounds or disease. But there’s good news as well. Half a dozen men hospitalized earlier are back with us. Charles is fine and I’m in reasonably good health.

William McFadden is now our 1st Sergeant and our former orderly sergeant, Bill Fichett, is a Lieutenant. Jerome Reger, our 1st Lieutenant, commands the company when Captain Higginbotham takes over the regiment—as he frequently does these days.

A couple of weeks after General Lee left we had a hot battle at Camp Bartow near Traveler’s Repose. We were outnumbered, but dug good rifle pits and embankments in a little valley along the Greenbrier River. We were assigned at the time to the 23rd and 44th Virginia regiments under Colonel William B. Taliaferro of the 23rd. The Colonel is a Mexican War veteran from Gloucester County and commanded the Tidewater division of Virginia militia before the war. So he knows something of the military and no one questions his bravery, though some of the fellows felt he was a bit uppity. We also had a couple of Georgia regiments and one from Arkansas in addition to the Virginia units.

Taliaferro’s Brigade was in the center of the line when the Yankees came at us about 8 o’clock the morning of October 3rd. We sent them back every time they attacked. At times they waited out of musket range and bombarded us with artillery. It was our first time under cannon fire of that magnitude and it was scary. But they did little damage. By early afternoon the Federals left, so we claim victory. No one in the Grays was killed.

Johnny Higginbotham was commended by General Taliaferro for his actions. The General put in his report that Captain Higginbotham, commanding the 25th Virginia, exhibited great coolness, determination, and anxiety to be engaged in action. And he said similar traits were displayed by the officers and men of our little regiment.

Shortly afterward we fell back nearly 10 miles to a better defensive position—Camp Allegheny, where we are now. The 52nd Virginia, a regiment made up mostly of Augusta County boys formed just three months ago, had already started a camp here and we joined them along with the 12th Georgia and 31st Virginia. The 31st is under Major Boykin, the one who swore us into state service last spring. Remember that day, Betsy?

We cut down some sugar maple trees to build cabins and defense works, and we have good shelter. Winds up here can be right cold and we already have had some light snows. We put a lot of work into our cabin. Some fellows tried to get by with just a tent placed over a foundation but they found out pretty quick that winter winds up here cut right through canvas. Even with logs well chinked, it can be right cold.

Today’s Sunday and we had a service in camp, some preaching and praying by the chaplain of the 52nd and a lot of singing. I hope our services do some good. Sometimes it worries me, Betsy, to see the sinfulness around camp. Can God really bless the arms of such sinners? The constant vulgarities, drinking, card-playing and such—and you wouldn’t believe the lengths to which some soldiers will go to get whiskey. I suppose the Yankee camps are as bad. Many are the times I wish you could visit Charles and me and see our little cabin. But I wouldn’t like to expose you to the language you’d hear. I lost my New Testament on Rich Mountain, but recently obtained a small Bible from the Southern Bible Society.

How I wish we could be home for Christmas. With the weather so cold and snowy here, I think often of the holiday season. There’s some beautiful holly here—dark green leaves and bright red berries. Remember the big snow the week before Christmas last year, Betsy? We hadn’t yet heard of South Carolina’s secession, and talk was only of the beautiful snowfall and Christmas preparations. War would come soon enough. We never thought it would last this long. After Manassas last summer we thought it would end soon with a Confederate victory. But that was not to be.

I do miss my family and you, Betsy. If you find a way to send me a letter, please do. I regret I can’t send you a gift, little as it would be. Wish I could see your pretty blue eyes sparkling with anticipation this time of year. I’ll think of you Christmas day, dear Betsy. The day we parted will not be forgotten. I remember what you said to me and I promise to return when this cruel war is over.

Your Friend,

Willis Cross

Chapter 5

(As signs of spring began to appear near the end of March, the men of the Upshur Grays found themselves on sentry duty more often to make sure they were not surprised by Union troops.)

Yankees could be on the move any day now, so you better keep a sharp eye out. They surprise you and you’ll answer to me! And you ain’t goin’ to like that! Tim Kelly said, mimicking Sergeant McFadden as he strutted back and forth in front of a small group of pickets lounging on a hillside.

That’s Billy, all right, George Dawson said, laughing. Ain’t no holdin’ him back since he was officially elected first sergeant.

Aw, McFadden’s O.K., Henry Hoover said. Somebody’s got to do the job. And he’s right, too. With this warm weather, the bluecoats are likely to be on the move right soon.

The sentries fell silent for a while, each soldier immersed in his own thoughts. Then Tim Kelly spotted movement on the turnpike below. Three men were walking nonchalantly up the pike, laughing and talking.

Looks like civilians, Hoover said, studying the three. I’ll give the challenge.

As the three approached, George Dawson grabbed Hoover’s arm. Damn! That’s Monroe Reger, ain’t it? And his cousin, John—Nap’s brother!

And ain’t that John Dowell with ‘em? Kelly said.

In a moment the four pickets had surrounded the newcomers and were engaged in a round of back slapping and hand shaking.

By God, we found you after all, Monroe Reger said happily. We come to join up.

We can use all of you, for sure, Dawson said.

Come on, Hoover said excitedly. I’ll take you all on up to camp.

First, Monroe Reger said, pulling a fat muslin bag from his shoulder and dropping it on the ground, look what we brung you. Loosening the top of the bag, he began spilling its contents on the ground. I think we got somethin’ for just about ever’body in the company.

Will’s heart skipped a beat as he saw a growing pile of letters pouring out of the bag. It took several minutes to sort and distribute the letters for the pickets. While Hoover led the three new recruits up the mountain to camp, the other sentries settled back to enjoy their mail.

Letters from home! With mingled feelings of joy and apprehension, each man picked out one to begin reading. Will went through his, noting a thick one with his father’s handsome script and thinner ones written in Ellen’s dainty handwriting and Mary’s large half-written, half-printed style. His hand shook slightly as he came across one with Betsy’s left-hand slant. Savoring it, he placed it at the bottom of the pile and carefully opened the thick one first.

Will quickly skimmed it, making sure everyone was all right at home, then re-read it carefully to take in every detail. Henry Cross summarized the political and military news of Upshur County. At one time last summer there had been as many as 10,000 Union troops in and around Buckhannon. Union military authorities had sent half a dozen Buckhannon men to prison in Columbus, Ohio, because of secession activities. Three had relatives in the Grays and another was Dan Bassell, formerly of the Grays, who had been arrested when he showed up at home shortly after Rich Mountain.

Because of demand for his work, Henry Cross had run into little harassment from Union sympathizers so long as he did not openly avow secession, something he had never done in any case. But he thought of the Grays often and prayed they would come through the war safely. He opposed the movement to form a new state and would vote against it April 3rd, but expected it would pass in most northwestern counties. You can’t imagine how strong the Union feeling is in Upshur these days, he wrote.

Sarah Cross’ part of the letter stayed away from politics, although she did mention that a few acquaintances tended to shun the Cross family because of Will’s serving in the Confederate army. Family members were well for the most part, but Grammaw was sickly as usual. Uncle Ned was quite sick with pneumonia during the winter but somehow pulled through and was back on his feet. Aunt Sue frequently mentioned her concern about Will and was most happy when his first letters came through in late December. They were the best Christmas present possible in this dreadful time, Sarah wrote. I pray for you every day, Son, several times a day, and pray this terrible conflict will end in this year of our Lord 1862.

As Will carefully refolded the letter, he breathed a sigh of relief that his parents were well. But he felt uneasy about the troubles they were having because of his serving in the Confederate army. He feared their difficulties were more severe than they had indicated.

He opened the letter from Ellen next. She was bearing up well under the circumstances, but admitted her circle of friends was smaller because of Will and her attachment to Johnny Higginbotham. Ellen felt some bitterness about the way things had turned out, but hoped 1862 will bring success to Confederate arms and that the Grays will be home before another Christmas comes to pass. A strong feeling of homesickness, worst since the first days following Rich Mountain, came over Will as he carefully re-folded Ellen’s letter.

Will picked up his youngest sister’s letter to read next. Mary’s letter would restore anyone’s spirits, Will thought as he read the first few lines. Her natural buoyancy came through clearly as she recounted the past few months in Buckhannon. She kidded Will about seeing soldiers who really looked like soldiers, with glittering brass buttons on their blue uniforms and shiny bayonets on their rifles. She admitted flirting with some Northern boys, much to Ellen’s disgust. But they couldn’t hold a candle to the Grays. Why don’t the Grays get horses, become a cavalry outfit and come back and chase the Yankees out of Buckhannon? she wrote. The cavalry is the thing if you want to impress the girls.

Will chuckled as he folded Mary’s letter and smoothed its creases, putting it neatly into a pile with the others. Finally, he picked up the last letter, feeling his heart flutter as he broke the seal. It’s been nearly a year, Will reflected. Does Betsy still feel the way she did on that day in May of ‘61? He opened the letter and began to read:

Chapter 6

March 9, 1862

Dear Willis,

The Reger boys and John W. Dowell are leaving in a few days to join up with the Grays and I talked John W. into carrying this to you. I writ you a number of letters earlier but tore them up when I couldn’t figger how to get them to you.

I did get your letter of December 1 near Christmas time and it brightened my holiday considerable. I knitted some socks for you and Charles, and I’ll try to get John W. to take them to you. Your mountain cabin sounds snug and I wish I could see it. I would put up with the language to pay you a visit if I could. I was grieved to hear of the sins of camp life, and I pray for our soldiers at church each Sunday—that they will see the errors of their ways and repent so God will crown our cause with victory.

The war has gone on so long, Will, and has caused such suffering. Poor Clay and Doc Cabell and others now departed from this vale of tears. I am grateful the Lord has protected you and Charles. We have seen Union troops around Sago but not many. Union folk around here bother us considerable, though. They stole some horses from us as well as some of our crops. They call it confescation—I’m not sure of the spelling. Anyway, that’s just their word for plain old stealing. Still, we survive.

Little Andrew broke his arm last fall and Judith was awful sick with fever during the winter, but both are well now. Paw works too hard and I worry about him. Jimmy was excited to hear about the army and the fighting from Charles’s letter, and now he wants to go join up with the Grays—and him only 14! Paw says he needs him at the farm and he ain’t going nowhere till he’s at least 17. By then the war surely will be over.

You best come home soon, Willis Cross. Otherwise, I just may take up with one of them handsome Norvell boys or go into town and find me a likely Yankey soldier boy. After all, I’m a spinster of 18 now and can’t wait forever. I shall write again when I find someone going across the mountains. You must keep writing to me. I do miss you, Will. Take care of Charles. I writ him that he must take care of you, too. You must both return to me safe. I shall treasure always the day of May 18, 1861, and I trust you remember what I told you that day.

With Affection,

Elizabeth Hodges

Chapter 7

Buffalo Gap, Va.

May 5th, 1862

Dear Dad,

I’m on picket this morning, but have a bit of time to write while others keep a lookout. Don’t know whether any of my letters have reached home since I got your very welcome ones in March. We hear rumors General Jackson—the Stonewall of Manassas fame—is coming this way and we may see action soon. I hope so, as it gets tedious being so far from home with nothing much to do but drill. Considerable has happened since we broke winter quarters a month ago. We hated to leave our little cabin, yet were happy to be on the move again. We’re now at Buffalo Gap, 10 miles from Staunton.

A big reorganization recently took place and I’m happy to report the 25th Virginia still exists. The Upshur Grays are now Company B and the new Company A is Capt. Robinson’s outfit, which used to be in the 9th Battalion. All in all, the new 25th is a mixture of the old 25th, the 9th Battalion and a company from the old 31st regiment. We haven’t fought in battle as a regiment, but most of us saw action together at Camp Allegheny. Our regiment is assigned to the First Brigade along with the 12th Georgia and the 31st Virginia.

The whole shebang is called the Army of the Northwest under Brig. Gen. Edward Johnson, who used to be Colonel of the 12th Georgia. Johnson’s a big, rough man, a real killbuck who earned the nickname Old Allegheny during the winter’s fighting. He’s a sloppy dresser, especially for a West Pointer, and he can make the air blue with his language (you need not read this part to Mother). Still, we like Johnson and have confidence in him.

We’ve had glorious weather the past two days after three days of the heaviest rain you can imagine. The mountains loomed out of the mist like something from one of Walter Scott’s books. And the creeks were so full you could hear the roar for half a mile or more. The roads are drying out now, so we could be moving any time. We’re hoping to strike a successful blow soon as our cause sorely needs one. We read of the fall of New Orleans and hear a huge Federal army under General McClellan is landing down near Yorktown. McClellan is the same one who was in Buckhannon, we understand.

Did you cast a vote in the ratification election? How many voted in Upshur? Any threats against those opposing the new state? We find it frustrating, being away from home at this critical juncture. But I suppose in the long run we’re doing the best thing. Most of us aren’t old enough to vote anyway even if we were home.

There’s much talk around here about disbanding and going home when our time is up. Ours is up day after tomorrow if we count 12 months from when we were sworn into state service. But May 27 marks 12 months from the time we entered Confederate service. In any case, we don’t know whether we can disband even if we want to. Congress passed a Conscription Act, as I’m sure you’re aware, calling up every