I am not a news correspondent. My writing ability is best served when I wish to convey a thought, not to tell people what is going on in the world. That is also why the other two reporters – who are also married – are still with Crenshaw. They gather dispatches from other newspapers and reprint them in ours.
I arrive at Manassas Junction at noon, hot and thirsty. I have my papers and show them to the volunteers of the 4th Company, South Carolina, who conduct me straightaway to a tent.
There sits Gorman [was Durham], writing with pen and ink. He raises a hand to me as he considers something, nods, then continues to write. The camp table he writes upon is on his knees, and the ink bobs precariously close to the edge of it. It is not a perfect writing table, yet it is probably all he can find. I must remember to purchase camp items if I am to stay with the Army.
“What is it,” he snaps at me as he writes.
“I’ve come to replace you.”
He looks up at me and breaks out into a broad grin. “Oh, John, I didn’t know it was you! You’re here to what?”
“Replace you,” I repeat, though this time more surly.
He gives me a confused, hurt look. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Crenshaw doesn’t want you getting yourself killed.”
Joshua Gorman throws his head back and laughs. “I’m not going to get myself killed!”
“That’s what I told him, but he won’t listen to me.”
“What am I to do, run in the society’s circles in your place?”
“There won’t be any more society news,” I say, and look around for a place to sit. “He does not understand that people want bread and circuses to distract them from the war.”
“He was always a news man, just like Hammersley.”
“Not like Hugh. I miss Hugh.”
Gorman looks back at his dispatch. “We all do. Let me finish this and I will introduce you to General Beauregard.”
“I’ll go outside, then.” Inside the tent, the air is stifling. I go outside and see a negro banking a fire, on which is a stew pot. Three men are gathered around with plates or bowls in hand, waiting for the cooking to finish.
I am hungry, I realize, but I have nothing to eat with. I go to the men. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” I say, and incline my head.
“Afternoon,” they say. I can tell they are cultured men, possibly true soldiers and not volunteers.
“Where are you from?”
“Mississippi,” says one, and the other two nod.
“From which company?”
“11th.”
I looked around again for a place to sit. There was no where but the ground.
The negro finished with the fire and stepped back. The three men step forward and take what is in the pot – a rabbit – and split it between themselves along with some vegetables and broth. They look at me. “Would you like some?”
“I would be much obliged,” I said, and took the offered haunch of the rabbit. I nibbled at it.
“Make coffee,” one of the men ordered the young negro, who got a kettle and put some coffee and water in it, then set it on the fire to boil.
We converse, the men and I. Samuel Thomas, Frank Ragland and James Kent are all members of the 11th Mississippi, and had been in the US Army before the establishment of our Country. Mr. Thomas received a small wound in his arm from a ricochet.
Soon enough, Gorman has finished his work, and comes out to get me. He laughs, “You’ve already found some friends and it’s only been five minutes.”
“Longer than that,” I say, nodding to the men. “I bid you gentlemen good day, and thank you again for the rabbit.”
“Come back for coffee,” says Mr. Ragland, as the negro begins to pour them cups and pass them around.
“I believe I shall, yet do not wait up for me.” I smile and wink, and the men chuckle. I then follow Gorman through the maze of tents.
“You will need to purchase a negro,” says my guide Gorman. “Camp life is difficult enough.”
“Now wait – Crenshaw didn’t say anything about my staying here.”
“You can’t keep going back to Richmond and coming here. You’ll exhaust yourself.”
“I’m not staying here at night.” I know what happened in camps at night. I do not want to end in a party of a group of rapists.
“Then you will what, go back to Richmond and take a leisurely walk back here every day? You will miss half of what goes on.”
“I have no supplies.”
Gorman says, “Maybe the general has a few extra he can spare for you.”
We are stopped by a guard, who holds his ancient musket against Gorman’s chest. “Who’s that?”
“John Ruffin, at your service,” I say with a flourish and a bow.
(Friday’s writing)