Chapter 10 -
Pine Bluff & Hanged at 17

(Hospital) Abbi sat next to Hunter’s cot with a book in her lap and a smile on her face. She cleared her throat and read the introduction out loud. “John Greenleaf Whittier was born December 17, 1807, in Haverhill, Massachusetts, the son of two devout Quakers. He worked passionately for a series of abolitionist newspapers and magazines and was good friends with Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes and Mark Twain. An event during the Civil War inspired his famous poem, ‘Barbara Frietchie.’ According to the story, at the age of 90, Miss Frietchie waved the Union flag in the middle of the street to block, or at least antagonize Stonewall Jackson's troops, as they passed through her town of Frederick during their Maryland Campaign. This event is the subject of John Greenleaf Whittier's poem ‘Barbara Frietchie.’” Abbi cleared her throat again and read, “’Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, / But spare your country's flag," she said. / A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, / Over the face of the leader came; / The nobler nature within him stirred / To life at that woman's deed and word; / "Who touches a hair of yon gray head / Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.’”

“And that’s right, ‘The nobler nature within him stirred.’” Peg turned and pointed a finger at Patch. “And that, good buddy, is the kind of Southern gentleman General Stonewall Jackson was.” Peg cleared the lump in his throat and continued in a deeper voice. “It’s a shame his own men shot him. He could of done so much for the cause.”

"Wait. It must be his birthday or something because there is a short biography here in the back of one of these newspapers." Patch leafed through the three or four newspapers stacked in his lap until he found the one he was looking for. "Here it is." He turned to the back of the paper and started to read, "Thomas Jonathan ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, born January 21, 1824, died May 10, 1863, was probably the most well-known Confederate commander after General Robert E. Lee. His military career includes the Valley Campaign of 1862 and his service as a corps commander in the Army of Northern Virginia under Robert E. Lee. Confederate pickets accidentally shot him at the Battle of Chancellorsville on May 2, 1863, which the general survived, albeit with the loss of an arm to amputation. However, he died of complications of pneumonia eight days later. His death was a severe setback for the Confederacy, affecting not only its military prospects, but also the morale of its army and of the general public."

"I still can’t believe his own men shot him," Peg gasped.

Patch ignored his comment and continued to read, "Military historians consider Jackson to be one of the most gifted tactical commanders in United States history. His Valley Campaign and his envelopment of the Union Army right wing at Chancellorsville are still studied as examples of innovative and bold leadership. He excelled as well in other battles: the First Battle of Bull Run - where he received his famous nickname ‘Stonewall’ - the Second Battle of Bull Run, Antietam, and Fredericksburg."

Just then, a black orderly leaned his head around the tent door and cleared his throat, “Miss Abbi, your momma is wait’n for you’s in her carriage.”

Abbi jumped up and patted Hunter on his sleeping forehead. “I’ll see you boys later,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared out the tent door.

“I love Stonewall Jackson as much as I love and respect General Marmaduke.” Peg yawned and stretched a little. “I wonder what our boy general is doing now a days?”

“It says here,” Patch began and then tapped a paragraph in the same newspaper, “that while Price moved his Rebel army to Arkadelphia then finally to Camden, about 60 miles from the new capitol of Washington, Marmaduke was busy moving his cavalry to Princeton, about 30 miles southwest of the now Yankee controlled Pine Bluff.”

Peg looked sideways at Patch and mumbled, “Yankee controlled Pine Bluff? When did that happen? I thought you said that Pine Bluff was the only port on the Arkansas River that we controlled.”

“Not,” Patch offered, without looking up. “Three days after they beat up our boys and moved into Little Rock, the Yankees moved 40 miles downriver to Pine Bluff and walked in without a cap being fired.”

“Well, it sounds like my main man Marmaduke is getting ready to put a different spin on that cap,” Peg snickered.

“Could be. The Yankees now own everything on the Arkansas River from Fort Smith to Little Rock to Pine Bluff to Arkansas Post down to the ‘T’ at the Mississippi River, over 270 miles of northwest to southeast river that cuts the state mostly in half.”

“Tell me that my main man Marmaduke is about to change all of that. Tell me he’s getting ready to take it to the Pines,” Peg pleaded.

“It looks like it. It says here his plan was to attack the Yankee held Pine Bluff with 2,000 men and 12 cannons. He was going to split his men up into tree groups and attack Pine Bluff from three sides and push the Yankees back into the Arkansas River.”



“Attack! That sounds like a good plan to me.” Peg rubbed his good leg and did a little dance in his chair.

Patch read for a moment and continued, “Oops, it looks like one prong of the fork as it moved around to get into position bumped into a Yankee patrol. After some shots were fired, the Rebels, under a flag of truce, approached the Yankee Lieutenant.” Patch read more then added. “The Rebels demanded passage through the Union lines to present the Yankee commander with a demand for surrender.”

“Wow. That’s bold.”

“I guess the Yankee Lieutenant thought so, too. He drew his sidearm and huffed, ‘Colonel Clayton will never surrender Pine Bluff, but he is anxious for you to come and try to take it away from him.’ With that he kicked the Rebel’s horse, rode back to his men and started shooting at each other again. The Lieutenant dispatched one of his men to warn the camp commander, Colonel Clayton, and report what had happened.”

“Great. So much for surprise attacks.” Peg mused to himself and then added, “However, us Southerners are gentlemen, and this is suppose to be a gentlemen’s war after all.”

“Well then, you are not going to like this next piece of news.” Patch folded the paper in his lap and continued, “When Colonel Clayton got the news, he immediately sent skirmishers out in all directions. He put 300 freed slaves to working stacking big bales of cotton all around the courthouse. He positioned his 9 cannons facing down all of the streets that led up to the courthouse and put sharpshooters in buildings all around town. Additional black freemen were put to work carrying water up from the river for a 2-day supply. It says that once the battle was on, these same freemen picked up rifles from fallen Yankee soldiers and defended an attack from the river direction.”

“Blah. Blah. Blah. Just tell me that Marmaduke owns Pine Bluff.” “I can’t. It says here that Marmaduke fought all day, but with his best efforts, he still could not dislodge the Yankees. It quotes him here as saying, ‘They fought like devils.’”

(Dream) Mrs. Bell grabbed Hunter by the sleeve and pulled him urgently to the side of the big window. She angrily pressed her cheek to his as they peeked around the edge of the window and watched the blue-coated officers pull their hot and wheezing animals to a grinding halt in front of the Bell house. They slid effortlessly out of their saddles and were up the front stairs, with their side arms drawn, within a heartbeat, banging noisily on the big wooden front door.

“Here, put more bandages on the children. I want those Yankee officers to believe that we’re having a smallpox epidemic here in the house. This is the first brick house in the county other than the courthouse, and they’ll want to use it for their headquarters. I’m not going to let those nasty foreigners disgrace my family’s home like that.”

Just then, the front door burst open, and the parlor was instantly filled with Yankee officers. The two young children wrapped in bandages cleaved to Mrs. Bell’s dress tails, like chicks to a mother hen, and all but disappeared in her multi-layered dress. Hunter, still with a hand full of white bandages, all but disappeared behind Mrs. Bell also. “What is the meaning of bursting into a private home like this?” Mrs. Bell demanded. “Can’t you heathens see we have a smallpox epidemic…” But before she could finish her sentence, the whole house shook as if it was going to come off its foundation. Everyone dropped to their knees as white plaster, like snow, fell from the ceiling, blanketing the room and everyone in it with a white chalky cloud of dust.

In stunned silence, everyone stayed crouched down, not sure what just happened or what was going to happen next. Then, at the top of the steps, there was a bump and then another bump and then another bump. It was as if a giant, with shoes of lead, was at the top of the stairs, slowly clumped down one stair step at a time. Bump. Bump. Bump.

Everyone watched in shock and awe as a cannon ball bumped down to the last step and rolled across the floor and disappeared into the next room.



(Hospital) Peg laughed and slapped his good knee. “Read that again.”

“It says that Mrs. Bell, to prevent the Yankees from using her family home, wrapped up two small children in bandages and told the Yankees there was a smallpox epidemic.”

“And the cannon ball?”

“It says that a Union cannon located on the courthouse square fired a cannon ball that went through the house and rolled across the floor.”

Peg laughed and laughed until he started coughing. He spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon and wiped the tears from his eyes, with the sleeve of his shirt. “That’s funny. I don’t care who you are. That’s funny.”

Patch smiled to himself as he tapped a paragraph in the paper. “It says here that since General Marmaduke was unable to take the city, he emptied it of everything that wasn’t nailed down. It says he took 250 mules and horses and all the supplies he could carry. What he did not carry away he burned, like four hundred blankets and quilts and over six thousand bales of cotton. He and his troops in stolen wagons hauled their booty the 70 miles back to Camden and General Price.” Patch sipped his coffee and continued, “It seems Camden and the whole southwest corner of Arkansas had become a nesting place for the Rebel army until the Trans-Mississippi Command in Louisiana decided what they wanted to do next.”

“And what did they decide to do?” Peg mumbled, still wiping tears from his eyes, with the sleeve of his shirt.

“It seems while they waited for the generals in Shreveport to come up with a ‘master plan’, they busied themselves with harassing the Federals anywhere and everywhere they could. The two sides bumped into each other at Lunenburg, Jacksonport, Rolling Prairie, and Sylmore. And that is just to name a few of the places they skirmished.” Patch paused. “The Yankee general who commanded the troops in Batesville reported killing 286 guerrillas and Confederate volunteers and capturing hundreds more.”

“Man, it sounds like Johnny Reb was busy as little bees.”

“Well, not only was Johnny Reb busy, but the Feds were busy, too. They held elections and elected a new Governor and enacted a new constitution, banning slavery. The new Governor, Isaac Murphy, was elected by a vote of 12,177 to 266.”

“Imagine that!” Peg grumbled. “Surprise. Surprise.”

“Isaac Murphy? Remember, he was the only ‘no’ vote to Arkansas’ seceding from the Union and somebody tossed him a bouquet of flowers in thanks? Well, he’s now Mr. Governor.” Patch sipped his coffee. “It sounds like Little Rock is getting back to normal again. Businessmen are doing business as food and supplies are becoming more and more plentiful.”

“Blah. Blah. Blah.” Peg defiantly spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon. “Isaac Murphy. I knew I didn’t like him. He’s probably a Yankee spy.” Peg sniped. “Where’s he from?”

“I don’t know.” Patch said looking back at the paper. “Here it is. He was born near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” Patch quickly added, as Peg started to swell up. “And He’s a Republican.”

“A Republican?” Peg scoffed. “I knew it. Lincoln is a Republican. He’s a Lincoln spy. They should hang him, not make him Governor of Arkansas.”

“They did.”

“They hung the Governor?” Peg jerked his head around and gasped at Patch.

“No, you silly goose. They hung a spy named David O. Dodd. It seems this 17-year-old boy, David O. Dodd, was carrying a coded message about where the Federal defenses were positioned around Little Rock, and they caught him, tried him and hung him.”

(Dream) Hunter was sitting in a squeaky old wooden chair, slightly bent over watching the shadow of his boot dance back and forth in the candlelight. He was sent 20 minutes ago to light all the candles in the big dusty courtroom, and now he was waiting to be told what to do next.

He lazily leaned back in his chair, locked his fingers behind his head, yawned and sprang to his feet - all at the same time, as the doors burst open and the room was suddenly filled with Union officers and then more officers. Hunter stood at attention, not sure what else to do. “Hunter, help the guard with the prisoner,” one of the officers barked at Hunter.

Hunter rushed forward and held up one side of the frail, skinny child they had in chains and referred to as ‘the prisoner’. The young fellow stumbled again and would have fallen, if it were not for Hunter’s helping hand. He was dirty and disheveled and etched on his dirty young face were tear-tracks that glistened in the flickering candlelight. Thick mud was caked on the toes of his boots where he had been dragged mercilessly across the wet parade ground. The rusty iron shackles cuffed around each bony wrist had his white skin oozing blood, and he winced with pain when one of the officers pulled hard to check if they were still securely locked.

“What’s your name, sir?” the officer, who barked at Hunter, asked the boy.

“David Owen Dodd, sir.” The young man’s voice quivered slightly as a cold shiver sweep through his body.

“I’m the Judge Advocate in these proceedings, and you are being arraigned upon the following charges and specifications.” The officer cleared his throat and in a lower, meaner voice, continued, “In this, that said David O. Dodd, an inhabitant of the State of Arkansas, did as a spy of the so-called Confederate States of America, enter within the lines of the Army of the United States, stationed at Little Rock, Arkansas, and did there secretly possess himself of information regarding the number, the kind, and position of the troops of said Army of the United States, their commanders, and other military information valuable to the enemy now at war with the United States, and having thus obtained said information did obtain a pass from the Provost Marshal General's office, and endeavor to reach the lines of the enemy - therewith; when he was arrested at the cavalry outposts of said Army - and did otherwise lurk, and act as a spy of the Rebels now in arms against the United States - This at the Post of Little Rock, and the encampments of the Army of Arkansas, on or about the 29th and 30th of December, 1863." The officer slammed the paper down on the desk and glared at the young man. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” the young man whispered.

The officer jumped up from behind the big wooden table and leaned forwards. The veins in his neck were bulging out and throbbing, as his face turned beet red. “Louder.” He screamed into the young boy’s face, now only inches away. “Louder. So these men who have come to bear witness against you can hear your dirty, rotten, filthy lies.” Spittle was coming out of the angry officer’s mouth. “Now. Say it again, but louder.”

“Not guilty,” the boy squeaked, now visibly quivering as he tried to stand straight.

“Lies. Lies. Lies.” The officer screamed and slammed his fist down on the wood tabletop. “And I’ll prove it.” The officer looked around the room. He pointed an angry and shaking finger at an enlisted man. “You there. Come forward. State your name and your business.”

“My name is Sergeant Frederick Miehr of Company B, 1st Missouri Cavalry.” The sergeant cleared his throat and continued, “I was on picket on the Benton road about twelve miles from Little Rock. I had been on picket only a short time when my inside vedette halted a man, and I looked up and saw the prisoner, that is I think it was him, coming into the main road. I went then to where the vedette was. I asked the prisoner if he had a pass, and he said he did not. He said he had had a pass for two days, and the picket on the Hot Spring road took it from him. I asked him where he lived, and he said at Little Rock. I asked him where he was going, and he said he was going to a man's house by the name of Davis. I asked him where Davis lived, and he said he did not know whether it was the first or second house. I asked him where he was going from there, and he said he was going down on some creek to get him a horse. I forget the place. I then arrested him and sent one of the men into headquarters with him."

An officer that had stepped up next to the sergeant snapped to attention and said, “My name is 1st Lieutenant Stopral with the 1st Missouri Cavalry. On the evening of the 29th of last month, I was in my office. The prisoner was brought before me by one of our pickets. I asked the prisoner if he had any pass, and he said not. I asked him if he had any papers whatever to be identified, and he said not. I told him he certainly must have something with him either books or papers, and he then produced a memoranda book. The one here marked ‘A’ is the one he showed me. Inside I found the following telegraphic writing that I easily translated as the following, ‘3rd Ohio Battery has 4 guns - brass. 11th Ohio Battery has 6 guns - brass. Three brigades of cavalry in a division. Three regiments in a brigade, brigade commanded by Davidson. Infantry: 1st Brigade has 3 regiments. 2nd Brigade has 3 regiments, one on detached service - 1 battery 4 pieces Parrott guns. Brig. General Soloman commands a division, two brigades in a division; three regiments in one brigade, two in the other. Two batteries in the division.’ I gave the book to Captain George Hanna and sent the prisoner to the guard house.”

(Hospital) “Read that again,” Peg insisted.

“On January 8, 1864, a bitterly cold day when the Arkansas River was frozen solid, Dodd was hanged on the grounds of his former school, St. John’s, just east of the Little Rock Arsenal before horrified onlookers who had crossed the river to witness his execution. The hangman's rope stretched, and the boy dangled, strangling to death over a full five minutes. Onlookers as well as Union soldiers became ill at the tragic spectacle.” Patch paused for a long moment then continued, “David O. Dodd is buried in the southeast portion of Mount Holly Cemetery in Little Rock. An eight-foot marble monument at the boy’s grave is engraved, ‘Here lie the remains of David O. Dodd. Born in Lavaca County, Texas, Nov. 10, 1846, died Jan. 8, 1864.’ Nearby is a marble scroll with the words, ‘Boy Martyr of the Confederacy.’”

Peg looked away and sniffed. “He’s my hero.” Peg sniffed again. “David O. Dodd, David O. Dodd, David O. Dodd. I want to remember that poor boy’s name.” Peg sniffed again. “David Owen Dodd.”

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