"There is no war here".

Saturday, December 5, 1863, Kemp's Ford, Virginia

If this is not home, it is something very close to it. I must confess to being surprised. I have not been away from here too long and yet, there is much here that I do not remember. I experienced some difficulty in finding the school house where I once taught. It had been whitewashed since I left and it took awhile to recognize it.

When last I made an entry, I was waiting in Charlottesville for the morning train to take me to Lynchburg. I slept in a bed and only had to share it with one person, a corporal from an Arkansas regiment who snored. There was plenty of chances in the fireplace and I slept warmly, for a change.

The next morning, without breakfast, the train took me along the Orange and Alexandria to Lynchburg. There were the usual slave boys hawking foodstuffs but as nothing looked as if it had ever been edible, I declined all offers to buy. I was determined to hold out for decent victuals in Lynchburg.

It was not too late when we arrived in the city and being famished beyond description, I made straight for Dibrell's Hotel on Main Street. Supposedly, there was a soldier's rest in the city but I was too eager to eat something quickly. The waiter, a Dutchman by his accent, informed me that the only fare in the house was salt pork, cornbread and cabbage. He explained that the war had caused this state of affairs.

As he was a portly sort, I did not believe him. I allowed him to see a quarter-eagle gold piece, part of my diminishing pre-war cache. With enlarged eyes to match his stomach, he proclaimed that since I was in uniform and obviously fighting for the cause, he would see that I was properly treated. Away he went into the kitchen. He returned directly with a plate of ham steaks and a half a mountain of potatoes. He said that he had an apple cobbler for me for dessert. I told him to bring it right away as Yankee cavalry could be hard by and they would spoil everything. He brought it, and some sweet cream as well.

I ate everything. I ate until I was in pain and kept right on. When I stopped, every plate was clean and I could have eaten more without a thought for the pain. I left him his gold piece and waddled onto the street like a duck. Had I come across a duck, I would have eaten everything but the quack. In the field, the quantity of my meal would have been four or five days rations and I consumed it all in one setting. O, how I desired that my trousers fit a bit looser.

From the hotel, I went to Meem & Gwatkins to purchase a new slouch as mine could be used as a strainer. I bought a nice black one with a brim sufficient to ward off much of the Sun. It cost eight dollars, almost a month's pay. The hat I paid for in Confederate paper for fear that two transactions in hard money would gain me the notice of the local toughs. They have enough, "courage" to remain behind and terrorize the home folks but not enough to shoulder a musket and defend those same people. I saw a number of young males unfit to be called men.

After a night at Dibrell's, I and my new slouch went to the Virginia and Tennessee station to board a train pulled by the locomotive, "Peaks of Otter", which I think I recognized from my days working for the railroad. The train passed through some very familiar places, Forest, Goode's, Liberty, Thaxton's, Bonsack's and finally Big Lick.

I had hoped to hire a horse from the livery but all the riding horses had been taken by the government. The only thing available was a broken-down plow horse and a light open wagon. It was too late in the morning to complete the trip to Kemp's Ford so I resolved to stop and rest at some suitable half-way point, say, the home of Samuel and Elizabeth Hofauger and their son, George.

As they had no inkling of my coming, they were greatly surprised to see me. The surprise was on me as George was there, on leave from the army. I could have not dreamed to be lucky enough to see him at this time. George was handling a paddle, stirring apple butter made from the last of this season's harvest. There were still apples to peel so I produced my pocket knife and started in. I sampled a piece of several random apples just to make sure they were not too old.

As I peeled and George stirred, we talked. It was unknown to me that he had enlisted in the Fifty-fourth Virginia regiment. It was just random chance that we were both on leave at the same time. He had seen action in the west, being with Bragg's army. He was at that great battle of Chickamauga. We reminded each other of the time we served in the state militia, the old 157th before this war ever started. I said that it was odd that our militia unit was known as the Salem Yellow Jackets, so-called from our uniforms and that my present unit was known as the Lancaster Hornets.

We talked about our old pards, some of which were quite young, if truth be told. There were Eman Harshberger, Jacob Sloan, David Shealor,  and other good men. Two of the Deyerle boys were railroad guards on the Virginia and Tennessee, the same that brought me to Big Lick. Addison Stump, good old "Addy", was thought to be serving somewhere.

I had to confess to George that when we joined the militia, both his parents made me promise to look after him since I was about the same age as Samuel. Elizabeth was concerned that her young boy might fall under the influence of the wicked ways of some of the others. She said that since I had served in Mexico, I was familiar with those ways and would know how to protect him. She perhaps did not mean it quite that way but I said nothing save that I would look out after George. As I was telling George this, Elizabeth was looking at us from the second story. She smiled and waved, as did we in return.

That night, we had a sumptuous supper as far as the victuals were concerned. Otherwise, it was the most uncomfortable supper that I have ever had to suffer through. Once our talk turned to the war, the situation became rapidly untenable. My host and hostess, both wonderful folks, have not a clue as to the real nature of modern war. George spoke of glory and of great battles where the few slew the many who died miserably while the few died with laurel wreaths on their heads amidst trumpeting angels. Elizabeth concurred with her husband, adding that although it may cost the life of the son she bore into the world, she would gladly offer him up and a hundred more of her children for the cause.

War is blood by the barrel. The butcher's bill is never satisfied no matter lives are paid. For those who have seen combat, a few words and a nod that are exchanged are sufficient to understand what it means to have seen the elephant. The bond that is formed is instant and forever. Those who have seen it, understand. Those who have not do not and cannot understand. They do not understand. They do not.

The following morning, yesterday, I hitched up the wagon and headed for this place, Kemp's Ford, in Franklin County. I wanted to visit a spell with friend and see if the old school in which I had taught was still there. As it had been whitewashed since I left, I almost did not recognize it. School was not in session so I went inside. There were still the same eight benches and one desk, my old desk. The chalkboard was still black paint on the walls. I was not fond of it at the time but I fondly remembered having to repaint the boards every year which caused such a mess. O, I hated that.

I am now in the Sloan grist mill. The Sloans have no room in their house but their miller has an office in the mill. My bed is comprised of sacks of ground corn. It is not bad. I am sure that the mice will dance all over me as I sleep. Whatever happened to Holles the miller? He was a good fellow.

I hear no musketry, no cannon fire. No sabers are clanging. How will I sleep? There is no war here.


I Send You These Few Lines


All the names mentioned in this entry are true names of real people living in their areas mentioned at the time.

In the previous entry, I had mentioned why I had pursued the profession of history. In my research for this entry, I needed, for the story, to find the name of the local militia unit from near where Tooms used to live in Virginia before moving to South Carolina. That's how I found the Salem Yellow Jackets. Since Tooms' company in his South Carolina regiment is known was known as the Lancaster Hornets, I knew that I had to use the Yellow Jackets. History is cool.

Once again, as Tooms has often done in previous entries, much ink has been expended on the subject of eating. Those who have been in the service will know what I'm talking about.

And speaking of knowing something, I do NOT claim any special knowledge of what happens to men in combat or the bonds formed from that crucible. I have never seen combat; being married does not count. Having worked for the military for 12 years and counting, I have met and listened to hundreds of dozens of those who have been there and done that. Their stories, each  an individual one, have the commonality of a shared collective experience. I have read the diaries and the letters, listened to the remembrances, and have seem the seen the footage. When they tell me their stories, I have seen the glimmer in their eyes...and the tears. I have heard the many and they speak as one. But I do not know.

The photograph that is supposedly of Kemp's Ford School is in reality, Kemp's Ford School. The people in the photo are my fellow interpreters from a there-century living history park in Virginia.

The railroad locomotive, "Peaks of Otter", was the real name of a real locomotive on a real railroad. The hotel and the store where Tooms purchased his hat are real as well.

Tooms stated that there was no war there. Long-time readers of this blog will remember that Tooms has a bad habit of getting things wrong. Let's hope that this time he is right.