All For New Shoes
Cade Fowler
We had been on campaign for nearly a month now, and we were sorely missing our winter camp in the sweltering heat of the Pennsylvania summer. It’s truly funny that only a mere two months before, our teeth had been chattering together with a sound reminiscent of a herd of horses running down a cobblestone street. Now our undershirts could be thrown at the side of the nearest barn and stick from the drenched state they were in. Given an option, at the moment I believe I would have chosen the cold of my dugout in Virginia over this state of hell I was in now.
The men were tramping along a dusty road that cut through a green field with snake rail fences on either side when the captain called for the company to halt and take a rest. The grizzled dirty soldiers collapsed on the sides of the road with grunts and grumbles, taking swigs from their canteens and digging through their haversacks for whatever scraps of foods that they had foraged since drawing rations nearly a week ago. The swift advance of our army from the south had taken the Yankees by surprise and the other forward units had outpaced our baggage and supply trains, much to the displeasure of our stomachs.
The sergeant came around saying that the rest will be extended so some of us can spread out in foraging parties and scrounge something up. He also pressed that we were still under orders from the general to pay with all goods and services with confederate grey backs rather than confiscate them. Some of us wondered what the point was as we didn’t expect Mr. Lincoln to accept money with President Davis’ face on it.
After me and some of the fellas I had befriended were chosen as foragers, I couldn’t help but notice the dilapidated state of my shoes and upon further inspection, I noticed that the sole on my right brogan was only held on by a little more than a quarter of the stitching and on my left the toes were all out for the world to see. This I determined to remedy on our little excursion one way or another. My roughed and blistered feet screamed at me to even do so at gunpoint if need be. I had at one point had another pair of shoes one size too big for me that I had drew from the regimental quartermaster nearly two months ago, but my damned fool self had lost it in a Jim Rummy match nearly a month ago.
Now that I had thought about it my feet hurt like the devil and with limps and cusses, I set off along the field following the snake rail fence looking for any rooftops of barns or farmhouses. After about a mile I saw a bit of red through the tree about 500 paces off the road to the left. After scouting out the trees I scampered off the road and along a foot path I found in front of the tree line.
There was a small white house and large red barn with white beams that I had noticed was typical of the farmers of German descent in this area as we had marched along. All seemed quiet and deserted so I carefully made my way across the yard and into the house. I stopped at the door and waited to see if I could hear any voices. Hearing nothing, I found the door was unlocked and let myself inside.
The house seemed to be not but a common kitchen area and plain dining table with a door to the left that I assumed based on the size of the house was the owner’s bedroom. I shuffled around the table in the middle of the room and began looking for something to fill the aching hole in my gut and, God willing, find a pair of shoes or even better yet, a good pair of boots. Digging through the cupboards I found that the owners had lit out taking most all the food with him; besides three small and rather old potatoes and a glass jar of pickled eggs. Not the best to be sure, but waste not want not.
Setting the pickled eggs down on the table and stuffing the old spuds into my haversack I strolled across the room and entered the bedroom. The room was just as barren as the previous but obviously better suited for the purpose of sleeping and personal care. Just a plain unmade bed, a nightstand, and a large chest at the end of the bed. Walking up to the chest I kicked the lid open with my less sore foot. Nothing but a few pieces of clothing that I certainly didn’t need in this weather, besides a nice pair of wool socks which I liberated in the case I find that new pair of footwear.
Walking around the room I found nothing else but a small pouch of tobacco that the farmer had so foolishly forgotten. As I set to leave the room I stopped in my tracks when I saw the slightly worn toes of a pair of workman’s boots poking out from behind the door. I let out a whoop of triumph and did flourished jig as I picked the boots up and compared them discovering that they seemingly fit.
I confidently strolled out of the bedroom and tucking the boots under my arm grabbed the jar of eggs and headed for the door. When I got to the door I stopped and leaning my rifle against the door frame dug a few Confederate bills from my coat pocket and laid them on the table before turning and shuffling out the door grabbing my rifle as I went.
As I stepped down the steps with childish delight at my haul my heart nearly jumped up to my throat as I looked up and saw what came across the yard from the barn. Three federal soldiers clad in blue and happily chattering away walked across the yard. Two had their rifles slung as they carried a box full of bottles and the other carried a crate with what looked to be beats and carrots. The third and middle one carried his rifle with one hand and a sack of what I imagine was flour under his arm.
They then noticed me and stopped, staring wide eyed, mouths agape with the words they had intended to say. We sat like this for what felt like eternity before the one on the right said, “Jesus Christ Joey, Plug that damned Reb quick!” In an instant we all were thrown into a flurry of action. I let the boots slide from under my arm and reared back and threw the eggs at the Yankees hitting the left one in the thigh but causing them all to dodge for a second. They all dropped what they were carrying and began to ready their rifles, but I had mine raised and cocked the hammer back. I aimed at the middle one who had his rifle at about the same position I had mine at and fired.
He made a grunting sound and folded in on himself, falling backwards in a balled-up position. I then turned to run but stopped to grab the boots I had dropped. I snatched them up and turned just in time to see the two Yankees fire in unison. I was thrown back against the house with a tremendous force. I lay there propped up against the steps of the house with my rifle laying across my right leg and arm. As I lay there feeling cold and dizzy, I stared at the boots in my lap and ran my fingers over the coarse leather.
The men were tramping along a dusty road that cut through a green field with snake rail fences on either side when the captain called for the company to halt and take a rest. The grizzled dirty soldiers collapsed on the sides of the road with grunts and grumbles, taking swigs from their canteens and digging through their haversacks for whatever scraps of foods that they had foraged since drawing rations nearly a week ago. The swift advance of our army from the south had taken the Yankees by surprise and the other forward units had outpaced our baggage and supply trains, much to the displeasure of our stomachs.
The sergeant came around saying that the rest will be extended so some of us can spread out in foraging parties and scrounge something up. He also pressed that we were still under orders from the general to pay with all goods and services with confederate grey backs rather than confiscate them. Some of us wondered what the point was as we didn’t expect Mr. Lincoln to accept money with President Davis’ face on it.
After me and some of the fellas I had befriended were chosen as foragers, I couldn’t help but notice the dilapidated state of my shoes and upon further inspection, I noticed that the sole on my right brogan was only held on by a little more than a quarter of the stitching and on my left the toes were all out for the world to see. This I determined to remedy on our little excursion one way or another. My roughed and blistered feet screamed at me to even do so at gunpoint if need be. I had at one point had another pair of shoes one size too big for me that I had drew from the regimental quartermaster nearly two months ago, but my damned fool self had lost it in a Jim Rummy match nearly a month ago.
Now that I had thought about it my feet hurt like the devil and with limps and cusses, I set off along the field following the snake rail fence looking for any rooftops of barns or farmhouses. After about a mile I saw a bit of red through the tree about 500 paces off the road to the left. After scouting out the trees I scampered off the road and along a foot path I found in front of the tree line.
There was a small white house and large red barn with white beams that I had noticed was typical of the farmers of German descent in this area as we had marched along. All seemed quiet and deserted so I carefully made my way across the yard and into the house. I stopped at the door and waited to see if I could hear any voices. Hearing nothing, I found the door was unlocked and let myself inside.
The house seemed to be not but a common kitchen area and plain dining table with a door to the left that I assumed based on the size of the house was the owner’s bedroom. I shuffled around the table in the middle of the room and began looking for something to fill the aching hole in my gut and, God willing, find a pair of shoes or even better yet, a good pair of boots. Digging through the cupboards I found that the owners had lit out taking most all the food with him; besides three small and rather old potatoes and a glass jar of pickled eggs. Not the best to be sure, but waste not want not.
Setting the pickled eggs down on the table and stuffing the old spuds into my haversack I strolled across the room and entered the bedroom. The room was just as barren as the previous but obviously better suited for the purpose of sleeping and personal care. Just a plain unmade bed, a nightstand, and a large chest at the end of the bed. Walking up to the chest I kicked the lid open with my less sore foot. Nothing but a few pieces of clothing that I certainly didn’t need in this weather, besides a nice pair of wool socks which I liberated in the case I find that new pair of footwear.
Walking around the room I found nothing else but a small pouch of tobacco that the farmer had so foolishly forgotten. As I set to leave the room I stopped in my tracks when I saw the slightly worn toes of a pair of workman’s boots poking out from behind the door. I let out a whoop of triumph and did flourished jig as I picked the boots up and compared them discovering that they seemingly fit.
I confidently strolled out of the bedroom and tucking the boots under my arm grabbed the jar of eggs and headed for the door. When I got to the door I stopped and leaning my rifle against the door frame dug a few Confederate bills from my coat pocket and laid them on the table before turning and shuffling out the door grabbing my rifle as I went.
As I stepped down the steps with childish delight at my haul my heart nearly jumped up to my throat as I looked up and saw what came across the yard from the barn. Three federal soldiers clad in blue and happily chattering away walked across the yard. Two had their rifles slung as they carried a box full of bottles and the other carried a crate with what looked to be beats and carrots. The third and middle one carried his rifle with one hand and a sack of what I imagine was flour under his arm.
They then noticed me and stopped, staring wide eyed, mouths agape with the words they had intended to say. We sat like this for what felt like eternity before the one on the right said, “Jesus Christ Joey, Plug that damned Reb quick!” In an instant we all were thrown into a flurry of action. I let the boots slide from under my arm and reared back and threw the eggs at the Yankees hitting the left one in the thigh but causing them all to dodge for a second. They all dropped what they were carrying and began to ready their rifles, but I had mine raised and cocked the hammer back. I aimed at the middle one who had his rifle at about the same position I had mine at and fired.
He made a grunting sound and folded in on himself, falling backwards in a balled-up position. I then turned to run but stopped to grab the boots I had dropped. I snatched them up and turned just in time to see the two Yankees fire in unison. I was thrown back against the house with a tremendous force. I lay there propped up against the steps of the house with my rifle laying across my right leg and arm. As I lay there feeling cold and dizzy, I stared at the boots in my lap and ran my fingers over the coarse leather.
Cade Fowler is from Van, Texas. He is driven by his love for history and everything he writes is related to it in some way.