Chapter 6 –
Marmaduke, Cane Hill and Prairie Grove

(Hospital) Abbi picked up one of the books in her lap and read the author’s name aloud, “William Cullen Bryant. He’s an interesting American poet. It says here that the inspiration to write ‘To a Waterfowl’ came to him one day when he was walking to work. He lived in Cummington, Massachusetts, and at the age of 21, he practiced law in Plainfield, seven miles away. He said he watched as a lone bird flew south and pondered the mysteries of migration and the bird’s instinct to fly south for the winter.” She cleared her throat and began to read: “To a Waterfowl, by William Cullen Bryant. ‘Whither, 'midst falling dew, / While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, / Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue / Thy solitary way? / Vainly the fowler's eye / Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, / As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, / Thy figure floats along.’”

“What’s a ‘fowler’s eye’?” Peg interrupted.

“A hunter, Peg, a hunter. Now, please be quite,” Patch insisted. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Miss Abbi. Is there more to the poem?”

“Yes. It goes on for many more stanzas but I have so many books. Let’s read another poem from Bryant before moving on.” She leafed through the book and stopped on a new page.

“'Thanatopsis', his most famous poem, is Greek for 'meditation on death'. It has an interesting origin. It's told that his father, a poet too, took some pages of verse from his son's desk, and in 1817, he submitted them, along with his own work to a magazine. The magazine was impressed with the young 17 year old writer's work and professed, 'That was never written on this side of the water!’ meaning a young nation like America, what, 1776 to 1817, only 41 years old, could not produce quality poetry equal to that which was coming out of England."

"I guess they were still angry about losing the War of 1812, after burning down our White House. Thank you." Peg sniffed and rubbed his beard.

"Peg, can we stay focused?" Patch insisted. "Go ahead, Miss Abbi."

"It says here that Mr. Bryant is responsible for translating the messages of ‘English Romanticism’ into something new and very American. He gave Romantic poems a new voice, an American voice." Abbi paused for a second then continued, "In 'Thanatopsis', Bryant is looking to nature for lessons about life and death. He tells the reader "When thoughts/Of the last bitter hour come like a blight... Go forth, under the open sky, and list / To Nature's teachings..."

Abbi looked over the top of her book to check her audience. Then, she read aloud, "Bryant, it says here, wants the reader to slow down and smell the roses - to listen to nature's teachings and to contemplate nature's beauty. By contemplating his surroundings, the reader is able to develop both spiritually and morally and be better able to live his life to its fullest, so he does not have any regrets when he dies." Abbi paused for a second then continued, "'Thanatopsis' plainly shows that truth can be found in the unspoiled beauty of nature." She turned the page and read: “To him who in the love of Nature holds / Communion with her visible forms, she speaks / A various language; for his gayer hours / She has a voice of gladness, and a smile / And eloquence of beauty, and she glides / Into his darker musings, with a mild / And healing sympathy, that steals away / Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts / Of the last bitter hour come like a blight / Over thy spirit, and sad images / Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, / And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, / Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; -- / Go forth, under the open sky, and list / To Nature's teachings, while from all around -- / Earth and her waters, and the depths of air -- / Comes a still voice. -- / Yet a few days, and thee / The all-beholding sun shall see no more / In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, / Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, / Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist / Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim / Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, / And, lost each human trace, surrendering up / Thine individual being, shalt thou go / To mix forever with the elements…”

“Wait. Wait.” Peg moved forward on his chair, complaining. “The last bitter hour come? Cold ground? Mix forever with the elements?” Peg rubbed his beard furiously and added, “Hunter ain’t dead. He’s only asleep.” Peg rubbed his beard furiously again. “Can’t we read some happy stuff? That ‘mix forever with the elements’ stuff creeps me out. I can only imagine what it is doing to poor Hunter.”

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.

Peg turned to Patch and said, “The last bitter hour come? Cold ground? Doesn’t that talk creep you out?”

“Take it easy, Peg, it’s a poem,” Patch said reassuringly, looking down to his newspaper.

Peg spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon and shuttered a little in his seat. “Well, it does me.” He snorted and shuttered a little in his seat again. “Let’s get back to the business of war.” He cleared his throat and pointed at Patch’s newspaper. “Can’t somebody talk to this new general in Little Rock, General Holmes, and say something to get him back into the war business?”

“Well, like they say, ‘the best defense is a strong offense.’” Patch took a sip of his coffee and continued, “Somebody must have said something because the general’s office put an attack plan into motion that put Mad Man Marmaduke on the move.” Patch looked sideways at Peg and smiled. “Now, that is alliteration.”

“I like – My Main Man Marmaduke is on the move.” Peg sniffed.

“Whatever.” Patch gave up the tussle and read out loud, “General Marmaduke led an advance guard of 2,000 cavalry soldiers from the Arkansas River valley up through the Boston Mountains of northeast Arkansas, en route to southern Missouri.”

(Dream) Hunter was bending over digging mud off the toe of his boot with a short stick when he was yanked backwards into a dark hallway and pulled down to the bricked floor. He had been sent to fetch fresh water but the mud on his boot had distracted him from his task.

“Shut up,” a female voice whispered into his ear as another female’s hand pressed hard against his mouth. “Who are you? Friend or foe?”

With eyes as big as saucers filled with white milk, Hunter lay on his back, looking around at the three young women holding him down on the brick hallway floor. “My name is Hunter Jones. I’ve got the measles and was kicked in the head by a mule,” he mumbled around the girl’s hand the best he could.

“He don’t talk like no Yankee,” one of the girls giggled as she uncovered his mouth. Another girl leaded in and in a hushed voice whispered, “We have a message for General Marmaduke.”

“Who are you?” Hunter asked, trying to squirm himself into a sitting position and trying to look at all three girls at the same time. “Spies?”

“We are students here at Cane Hill College,” the girl with the hushed voice answered.

“I’m majoring in drawing.” The girl giggled again, as she covered her mouth this time. “I’m majoring in embroidery and painting,” the girl kneeling in front of Hunter offered.

“We are all majoring in Moral and Mental Science,” The girl with the hushed voice offered. “As girls, we are only allowed to be taught the basics in English and Mathematics here at the seminary. But enough of that, we have an important message for General Marmaduke. Tell him General Blunt has 5,000 Yankees with 30 cannons stationed near here.”



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

“General Marmaduke’s advance guard of 2,000 cavalry soldiers bumped into 5,000 Yankees with 30 cannons at Cane Hill, about seven miles south-west of Prairie Grove.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right.” Patch took a small sip of his coffee and continued, “The running battle between the two forces started near Cane Hill College and lasted for over nine hours and stretched over 12 miles of forested ridges and valleys. The Confederates were clever. Every time General Blunt’s Yankees would set up their cannon for another round of cannonading, the Rebs would pull back just far enough to cause the Yankees to have to break down their cannons and move them up to a new line of deployment.” Patch took a sip of coffee and continued, “This kept the Yankees addled enough for the Rebs to set up an ambush. The Southern troops withdrew down the mountain into the nearby Cove Creek Valley. Believing that the Confederates were on the run, Union cavalry stormed after them and charged headlong into a carefully laid ambush.” Patch put his coffee cup down. “Taking advantage of a narrow pass formed by Cove Creek and a rocky bluff, Southern troops stunned attacking Federals, charging down Cove Creek Road. The Union forces fell back in disorder.”

“It looks like we won another battle,” Peg cooed.

“Almost. By now, night was falling, and under a flag of truce, the Southern officers asked if they could have time to remove their dead and wounded. They did, but during the night, Marmaduke wisely withdrew his troops back over the Boston Mountains to Dripping Springs, bowing to the superior number of enemy troops and cannons.”

“I bet Hindman was hopping mad about all that?”

“No. In fact, he was happy. General Blunt and his Yankees had now been pulled even further into Arkansas and even further away from their supply lines up in Springfield, Missouri. General Hindman waited 9 days for supplies. Then, he put his 11,000 men and 22 cannons on the move. His plan was to move his troops around Blunt’s northeastern flank, cutting him off from Springfield and food and driving him west into Indian Territory and the waiting guns of Chief Watie’s Indian soldiers.”

“So, what happened?”

“Hindman knew he could move his 11,000 men the 70 miles from Fort Smith to Cane Hill and crush General Blunt faster than General Herron could move his 7,000 Yankees 110 miles from Springfield Missouri to Cane Hill and reinforce Blunt’s 5,000 Yankees.”

Peg grunted. “70 miles? I can do that on one leg, in one day.”

“Right.” Patch sipped his coffee before he continued. “It took Hindman three days to move his troops over the Boston Mountains and into position at Prairie Grove and set up his command post in the Borden house. But before he could fall on Blunt’s troops, Herron’s troops marched up over the horizon.”

Borden house - Prairie Grove

“I thought you said Herron was 110 miles away,” Peg grumped.

“So did Hindman. But General Horron had forced marched his men 35 miles a day and made the 110 miles in only 3 days.” Patch read silently for a moment then continued, “It says that only 3,500 Yankees survived the forced march. Many dropped out from exhaustion and bloody, blistered feet. When they arrived, they immediately attacked Hindman’s vastly superior force. This was a mistake. The weary, footsore Yankee soldiers made two heroic assaults up the hill but were driven back with terrible losses. But just as Herron was about to be defeated, Blunt, ten miles away, heard the cannons and came to Herron’s rescue.”

“Man, 110 miles in three days?” Peg said to himself



“As the day wore on, more stragglers continued to swell the Yankee’s ranks. The Rebels fought their hearts out, but Northern artillery, with exploding canister and grapeshot, ruled the day. Every time Hindman’s men would try to attack Herron on the right, Blunt’s cannon would harass them from the left. And every time Hindman’s men would try to attack Blunt on the left, Herron’s cannon would harass them from the right. The Rebels, however, did not give up. They continued to attack and fight until nightfall. But under the cover of darkness and low on ammunition, the exhausted Rebels finally fell back to the safety of the Boston Mountains.” Patch read for a moment then added, “Here’s an interesting fact. Blunt’s army includes several hundred Union Indians, some of whom fought briefly on the Confederate side at Pea Ridge nine months earlier.”

“Indians from Indiana or from Indian Territory?” Peg joked.

“Well, all laughing aside, casualties on both sides were heavy at Prairie Grove. The Union forces of Blunt and Herron lost 1,261 killed, wounded, and missing; about 1,500 Confederates suffered the same fates.”

“Well, at least our boys are safe on the other side of the Boston Mountains,” Peg mused to himself.

“You wish.” Patch interjected. “It says after Herron’s and Blunt’s troops rested, they marched the 70 miles south to Van Buren and attacked Fort Smith at the mouth of the Arkansas River. General Hindman and his Rebel troops were caught off guard and scattered, leaving their sick and wounded in the Fort Smith hospitals.”

“Oh great.” Peg sniffed and spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Once the Yankees burned all the supplies they could not carry, they withdrew back across the Boston Mountains and back toward Missouri.” Patch paused then added, “Anarchic prevailed.”

“Anarchic prevailed?” Peg wrinkled up his nose and repeated, “Anarchic? What’s that?”

“The breakdown of law and order with no respect for established institutions, authority, rules or regulations. It says here that thugs, hoodlums and thieves, masquerading as Partisan Rangers, roamed Arkansas’ northwest. And soon patriotism deteriorated into a desperate struggle for survival against barbarism.”

(Dream) “Shut up and dig.” With that, the fellow hit Hunter on the shoulder with a broken board six inches wide and almost three feet long. The fellow was nasty looking. He had an old ragged Rebel gray jacket on with Yankee blue pants. His hair was a tangled mess under an old, dusty Yankee forager cap. His brown, broken and missing teeth were hardly noticeable, hidden within a face full of tobacco-juice-stained and matted beard. “Dig, I said.” Hunter could see his teeth as he scowled, so close he could smell his whiskey breath laced with fresh garlic chewed off uneaten pieces he had stuffed in his pockets.

“But what are we digging for?” “That Caldonia Borden’s folks think they are smart burying their food and belongings out here in the cemetery, but they ain’t. They shape the fresh turned dirt on top like a grave, but we got on to that trick after a while. Now, we’re digging up any and all fresh graves.” He scowled a toothy scowl at Hunter and ordered, “No more questions. Just dig.” He laughed to himself and added, “Once some Bushwhackers found a barrel of whiskey.” He spit a stream of brown juice onto the dirt where he wanted Hunter to dig and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t care anything about the Borden’s meager belongings. I’m looking for their food.” He paused then added, “But I’ll drink their whiskey if we find any. Now dig.”

#