Sound on the Goose

Blankets, rifles, shoes, haversacks filled with spare clothing and coffee, and ammunition pouches lay scattered in mute testimony to the speed in which the northern boys had sacredly resolved to save themselves from annihilation. The Union could always be saved later.

Private Thomas Sawyer shifted unsteadily on his feet. Sweat tended to obscure his vision causing him to squint. This mornings ersatz coffee had left a bitter taste in his mouth and had given him a terrible bout of heartburn. The morning mist fought a losing battle with the creeping rays of the sun that filtered through the treetops and showered below on the uneasy lines of men clad in butternut brown and gray.

They were drawn up to witness the execution of a soldier from their division. The condemned man had been convicted of desertion under fire, attempted murder, and robbery. During the fighting at Chancellorsville, the man’s regiment had been positioned near an old unfinished railroad cut in the woods. Federal forces had outflanked his regiment and had cut it to pieces. Many soldiers had run to escape certain death or capture. The unfortunate soldier had had the bad luck of being recognized by a group of staff officers who had disciplined him in the past for striking an officer and saw in his headlong flight from battle a perfect opportunity to make an example of him.

It didn't matter to these staff officers that his decision to run had been tactically correct. It didn't matter that many from his own company had run as well or that many in the regiment had been captured or killed. What mattered was that he had shamefully run from the enemy early in the fight and had been seen by nearly everyone. And of course, to make matters worse, he had been captured by Provost guards, men specifically ordered to catch stragglers and deserters and had grievously wounded one and had escaped. He had then robbed a medical supply wagon at gunpoint and had proceeded to get gloriously drunk on the medicinal whiskey. This was his undoing. He was apprehended, tried in a court-martial and sentenced to die by firing squad.

The assembled soldiers were disgruntled and hungry this morning. Although most of the pickings on the battlefield had been gone over days earlier, most of them would have much preferred to be wandering around looking for things that may have been overlooked from burial parties or ordinance men. A gathering like this only meant that others, particularly rear echelon mule drivers and maggots would have the last chance for the thin pickings that may be left.

The gathered host was, therefore, in a foul mood. Everyone gathered in the clearing to witness the execution hoped the condemned man wouldn't botch it by carrying on and delaying the inevitable. In the same clearing, called Hazel Grove by the local people, the Federal Army had attempted to stave off the murderous attention being paid to it by Thomas ‘ Stonewall’ Jackson. The Federal forces had assembled a battery of field artillery here when the Union center collapsed and the left flank of their army had rolled up like a scroll. They had tried to center the line and had failed. However, the artillery had bought the time needed for the entire Union Army to escape total destruction, but at a terrible cost in Northern lives.

Scattered around the clearing were shattered artillery caissons, broken wheels, ruptured cannons and dead horses and equipment of every imaginable sort. Most of anything of use had already been picked over by ordinance and quartermaster personnel. Under a few inches of dry loose baked red Virginia soil lay youngsters from Massachusetts, Connecticut, Ohio, New Jersey, and New York. In a few spots near the edges of the grove where the wounded had been brought to die beneath the shade of the trees, a fist poked up out of a too shallow grave. Dark brown spots on the green grass still attracted flies. A breeze swept the tops of the trees bringing with it the mixed smell of dogwood trees and putrefaction.