Some deaths just ... stand out

This is a chapter from an unpublished historical novel titled "Reveille: Survival, war, family" about a young musician with the Ninth Connecticut Regiment serving in the Shenandoah Valley during the Civil War. Charles Andre was my great-grandfather.

Chapter 24
Some deaths just . . . stand out


Charles was attending to business at the latrine, having set up on the south end of the pit; the early evening southern breeze carried the nose-hair-curling smell in the opposite direction.
Small victories make for happy soldiers.

He smiled at the thought.

A noise from the tree line behind him – a small, muffled thump, followed by a miniscule squeak – caused him to look in that direction. Cupping his left ear, he waited for a repeat. Other than the nattering of a couple of squirrels and lonely bleat of a magpie, the forest was quiet.

Something, it assuredly was. But what?

He finished up with a handful of fallen leaves, still pliable enough to use without falling to pieces, when he heard the same, high-pitched squeak.

What is that?

Buttoning his pants and arm-wrestling his galouses into place, he walked to the edge of the tree line, stopped, listened.

There! To the left!

Three steps later, Charles stopped. Listened. Three more steps. He repeated that procedure four times before his eyes followed his ears to the ground beside a fat-trunked, silver-leafed maple. He saw a brief movement and watched as a leaf seemed to skitter slowly, unaided by wind, toward him.

A little early for snakes to be out, but you never know.

Using a nearby dead limb as a poke rod, he cautiously pushed the leaf aside. Under it was a tiny, gray thing, long-limbed and lean, powering through the ground cover.

A baby squirrel! It’s a baby squirrel! Probably fell out of the tree. Or pushed out by its mama or bigger brothers.

Charles bent over and looked the squirrel over carefully.

It’s eyes aren’t even open. It’s abandoned. Poor little thing.

He carefully picked it up, and brought it up to eye level. The squirrel
squirmed out of his loose grip, digging into Charles’ fingers with its tiny claws and levering itself onto the back of his hand.

It was an overcast early spring morning; a chill, held close to the ground by a low cloud cover, settled into the valley. Without conscious thought, Charles plucked the squirrel off his hand and stuck it inside his coat, between the wool outer garment and his longhandles. Without hesitation, the tiny critter crawled up Charles’ chest, finally settling on his left shoulder, where he seemed to be either very comfortable or just petered out due to the effort.

Feeling the bump to make sure the squirrel was secure, Charles started walking back to camp. His mind ran amok with endless questions?

Where’s his mama?

How’d he survive the fall?

How can I keep him alive?

Where can I get squirrel’s milk?

Back in camp, he went straight to the surgeon’s tent, where he found Surgeon Avery asleep on a frayed cot. “Mr., er, Doctor Avery,” Charles said, gently shaking his shoulder. Charles was greeted with heavy-lidded eyes.

In a matter of seconds, Charles had the bad news: Wild animals don’t do
well in captivity. A squirrel needs squirrel milk, although the doctor had heard of squirrels surviving on dog or goat milk. There are no dogs in the regiment, and no goats. The squirrel is going to die.

Dejected, Charles walked back toward his tent, cuddling the still squirrel through his rough wool coat.

A thought hit him as he walked along the creek bank near the command tent.

I’ve got to get some milk.

There was none to be had in camp; the last milk he had seen was from a cow confiscated by a Massachusetts company on a foraging trip several weeks ago. A half-bucket of milk was drawn before the cow was slaughtered and divided up among the regiments bivouacking in the valley.
Then he remembered something: Several days ago, he had gone exploring, back up the Valley Turnpike. Just walking, looking. At a ramshackled house right on the road there had been a yard cat, huddled in a box on a porch. He distinctly remember the sounds of mewling kittens and wondered what it would be like to have a real pet, something he could take care of, something that would love him . . . unconditionally.

He hollered at Sergeant Burke as he started jogging up the road, “Be back in a bit, just going for a look-see!”

The house was further than he had remembered and it took more than half-an-hour to get there; it was as he remembered, perched right in the bend of the road. He hello-ed the house from the road, not wanting to enter the property, especially when asking a favor was in the offing. The front door opened, and a young woman stepped from the dark into the porch’s shadow. She was plain in appearance, and a baby, girl maybe, clung to her neck like a small, hairless monkey. Dressed in a patterned shift of indeterminable age, the woman automatically touched her bun, checking for stray hairs, before shielding her eyes from the outside brightness. She stood stock still, staring at Charles.

“Excuse me, Ma’m, but I am in dire need of some milk.”

Taking a step backward, the woman pulled the baby closer and put her free arm across both breasts.

Embarrassed by his abrupt introduction, Charles stammered: “What-what I mah-mean, Ma’m, is that I need some milk from that mama cat yonder. Or a cow, if you got one.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out the tiny squirrel. “For my squirrel. Elseways, he’s gonna die.”

“Don’t have no cow. You Yanks done took her. Bull and baby, too. The squirrel, where’d you git him?” the woman asked in a voice just barely louder than the sound of a bare foot scuffing across a hardwood floor. Not the sound of emphatic statement, more of an after-thought.

“Sorry about your loss, Ma’m. I truly am. The squirrel, I found it in the woods back at camp. Reckon he fell out of a tree. I would’ve put him back, but the tree was kinda lean at the top, and I heard wild mama won’t take back babies that’s done been touched by a man.”

“So, what do you plan on doin’, milk the cat?”

Charles hadn’t thought through that part. His anguish was apparently obvious.

“Bring him up on the porch. What’s yore name, boy?”

“Charles Andre, Ma’m. What shall I call you?”

“Mrs. Lancaster will do. This is Honor,” she said, nodding at the baby.

Without another word, she took the squirrel in her free hand, simultaneously handing Honor to Charles. Without a word, the woman bent to the cat-filled box, pulled the five sleeping kittens away from the mama cat and put them on the porch, replacing them with the squirrel. Calming the cat with one hand – “Easy, Sadie, it’s all right.” – she thrust the squirrel toward a middle nipple. Charles watched as the squirrel simply sat there, obviously sniffing, but taking no action.

Mrs. Lancaster grabbed one of Sadie’s nipples and gently massaged it; a single bubble of milk appeared, which she gathered on her fingertip and massaged it gently but forcefully on the front of the squirrel’s mouth. A heartbeat later, the squirrel sucked in and the milk mustache disappeared. Retracing previous movements, the woman eased the squirrel’s mouth onto a teat, and this time the squirrel latched it, holding its base with tiny, skeletal hands, and started sucking.

Charles almost cried out in joy and he watched the squirrel . . .

My squirrel!

drinking his fill.

The woman looked at him with a puzzled look. “You gonna rub all Honor’s hair off, iffen you don’t stop rubbin’ her so hard.” Without even realizing it, Charles had been rubbing the baby’s head, his ministrations increasing with his excitement.

In less than a minute, the squirrel rapid sucking motion had stopped; its claws relaxed, body went limp as it fell into a hard sleep.

The woman lifted it gently from the box, stopping to let Sadie smell the squirrel. The cat didn’t seem to care one way or the other about the visitor.

Exchanging Honor for the squirrel, Charles started thanking the woman profusely. She held up a hand, stopping him in mid-sentence: “Whatcha gonna do with it’s time to feed it again?”

What am I gonna do?



Charles placed the squirrel inside his coat and it nestled once again on top of his left shoulder. He sat down heavily on the porch and just stared at the woods beyond the road.

“How far is your camp? Is it the one past the brook?”

“Yes, ma’m, Mrs. Lancaster. I’m with the Ninth Connecticut. A fine bunch of boys, they be.”

“Can you leave camp and bring the squirrel here three or four times a day to let it feed? Sadie apparently don’t mind the squirrel nursing. Two kittens died and there seems to be plenty of milk.”

Camp life was regular for regular soldiers, as well as for the drummers – drilling still going on, chores to be done for the quartermaster and surgeons, errands to be run for the officers.

But . . . maybe.

“Let me go back to camp and check with my sergeant, Ma’m. Is it okay if I come back this afternoon?”

Mrs. Lancaster stopped bouncing the baby and cast a glance in Charles’ direction. “You better. Or the squirrel won’t make it till dark.”

She turned to go in the house, but Charles stopped her by blurting out: “Mrs. Lancaster. Your man? Is he in the war?”

She didn’t turn around. Her head dropped by degrees until her chin was almost on her chest. “He was. Not any more. He’s up on the hill now, under that lone tree. At least that’s where I put my memories of him.” With heavy steps, she entered the house and gently closed the door.

Charles turned to go, but a slight door squeak caused him to turn back. The woman, still clutching the baby, was standing in the doorway.

“The squirrel? It got a name?”

“Not yet,” Charles answered. “I thought I’d think on it on the way back to camp.”

“Squirrel needs a name. A name makes things more permanent, somehow.” Neither of them moved during a long pause. “My husband’s name was Edward. Edward Eugene Lancaster.” Without seeming to move, she closed the door.



The entire way back to camp, Charles rolled a litany of what he considered proper squirrel names around in his head. By the time he reached camp, he had the perfect name picked out.


Less than a half-mile from camp Charles met Private Joseph Dronant, a Texan who had signed on with the Ninth in New Orleans about six months before Charles.

The young soldier had just emerged from a stand of trees at the side of the road. The two had had several conversations about life in New Orleans over the past year or more so Charles was not surprised when Dronant said, “Andre! Where you been? We all thought you had runned off to join Jubel Early and his boys?”

Charles joshed back: “Been feeling a little squirrely at that, Nawlins Joe.” Without another word, he hauled the squirrel out and put it on display in the palm of his hand.

Charles recounted the tale of finding the squirrel, of getting its meal from a cat named Sadie and the sad-faced woman who was so accommodating.

“Ya named it yet?”

“Yep. Eugene.”

“Eugene? What kinda name is that for a critter?”

“It’s just a name, is all. But I’m gonna call him Johnny Reb.”

“Why, Andre, that’s just plain queer. Why Johnny Reb.”

Holding the squirrel up to eye level, Charles smiled and said: “Why, it’s a plain as the nose on your face, Joe. He’s kinda skinny and helpless, like them Rebs we been pushin’ all over these mountains. But mostly it’s because he’s got a little gray coat. Get it? Gray coat? Johnny Reb?”

Put back inside Charles’ coat, the squirrel went back to sleep immediately. And the two soldiers walked side by side into camp, laughing at the tiny irony.



Two hours later, after getting permission from Sergeant Johnson to visit the Lancaster household – “But no more than once a day. Is that understood?” – Charles approached the farmhouse. The woman was sitting on an old, flat-bottomed chair, holding a sleeping Honor in her lap.

“Back so soon?”

Charles stopped at the porch’s edge. “Named the squirrel.”

“Really? That fast? Well, boys are always making decisions fast. That’s why they get in so much trouble.”

She looked at Charles and cocked her head. “Well, you gonna tell me the name or not?”

“Eugene.”

The woman’s eyes widened. She mouthed, “Eugene?”
Charles nodded.

She cleared her throat, startling Honor. “Funny name for a squirrel, don’t you think?”
“I thought it was a fine name. Thought about naming him ‘Edward,’ but Edward seemed like a funny name for a squirrel. So it naturally fell to ‘Eugene.’”

There was a short, quiet pause, then Mrs. Lancaster started laughing. Waiting to see if it the laughter was real or forced, Charles quickly joined in. The belly-shaking laughter of her mother woke up Honor and the peals of laughter washed over the front yard.

It was Mrs. Lancaster who came up with a workable plan for keeping the squirrel alive. (“Feeding it once a day just won’t do.”) Charles agreed to leave Eugene (Johnny Reb) full time at the Lancaster farm to let it nurse with the five kittens. Mrs. Lancaster made it clear Charles could visit whenever he could and stay as long as he liked.

Upon returning to camp, Sergeant Johnson seemed a bit disappointed that Charles didn’t have the squirrel, but clapped him on the back: “That was a mighty grownup decision you made, Andre. Mighty grownup.”

Over the next three days – two of which were overcast, chilly and rainy – Charles made the two-mile trip to the Lancaster farm six times (Sergeant Johnson eager to approve the squirrel-visit requests), reveling in the thought of playing with Johnny Reb and visiting Mrs. Lancaster and Honor.

The fourth day was bright and sunny and it was dew early – the dew still covered the fields – when Charles approached the Lancaster place. He was surprised to see Mrs. Lancaster out on the porch.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Lancaster. How’s Honor?”

“She’s fine. She got up early, but is sleepin’ again. The squirrel had a bad night. It’s real poorly.”
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. No “Eugene.” Just “squirrel.”

“What’s the matter with Johnny Reb? Where is he?”

Her eyebrows arched at the “Johnny Reb” reference, but she let it pass. “He’s havin’ trouble gettin’ air. He’s not eatin’ right. His stomach is all pooched out. It’s what wild animals do sometimes. They get sick and die for no good reason. Like some people.”

Charles bent over the cat box, and picked up the tiny squirrel. It was mostly limp and mostly cold. “Oh, Sweet Mary, he’s really sick.” Without a word, Mrs. Lancaster went into the house, but didn’t close the door despite the chill north breeze slipping over the mountains and down the valley.

She watched through the cracked door as Charles cupped the squirrel tightly to his chest, rubbing it gently on his stiff wool coat; she heard his plaintive whispers as Charles bent his head and breathed words into the lank fur: "You're going to be okay…you're going to make it…you're a fighter. Please. Come on!"

He held the squirrel up chin high and rubbed its legs, brought him back down and cradled him, rubbing his chest, trying to warm him. Charles extended his arms, raising the baby squirrel up, offering him the sun’s warmth.

And, just for a moment, Mrs. Lancaster saw Charles look directly at the early morning sun, seeming to try and mentally gather its power for a miracle.

Charles’ thoughts tumbled around like a piece of driftwood in a swollen creek:
Don’t want much. Just a bit of good luck. Never asked for much. Now I’m asking. Come on, Johnny Reb!

He gathered a large breath and blew into the squirrel's face and rubbed its chest frantically. The squirrel's legs straightened. It took a breath, and went completely limp.

Charles said nothing more. His mind went blank; his eyes filled with tears that he refused to let fall. He looked at the tiny squirrel stretched out in an unnatural position in the palm of his hand. It did not move. Its black eyes, open and unfocused, stared blankly, seeing nothing.

Since he had joined the army, Charles had lived near death daily. Men died for vile diseases, of consumption, in camp accidents, and in the rigors and throes of battles. He had watched gut-shot men curl up and die, and had seen animals killed and butchered – large and small, domestic and wild – and he had never blinked an eye.

But today was different; there was no reason for Johnny Reb to die – there was no hunger, no way of life to fight for, no belief to defend. There was no blood; there was no reason.

It's just a dumb ole' squirrel.

And . . . he’s gone.

Mrs. Lancaster watched as Charles placed the squirrel on the edge of the porch and walked away, his eyes facing down to the ground and away from the sunshine. He walked to the edge of the road, stopping to kick a rock into the field across the road, like that was his mission all along.

Neither said a word for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Mrs. Lancaster said, “I am going to put Eugene in an old sock. There’s a hoe around back if’n you want to bury him.”

“It don’t make no difference. It’s just a squirrel.”

“Don’t you talk that way!” she said, stomping her foot forcefully on the porch. “Don’t you dare talk that way atall! He was yourn and he had a name. Now, go git that hoe and git it quick-like.”
There was no argument left in Charles. He turned to the house and fetched the hoe. He picked up the sad sock, cradled it in his left arm and turned toward the hill.

“Hold on a minute. Let me get Honor and I’ll go with you.”

Charles waited until she returned with the fussy child, who obviously would have preferred to sleep rather than go on a grave-digging jaunt.

As they walked around to the back of the small house, Mrs. Lancaster said, “Got any special place you want to bury the squirrel?”


“Haven’t given it much thought.”
She stopped abruptly at the corner of the house and leaned her head on the bare boards. Reflected sunlight off the parched field caused her to close her eyes.

She looks tired, tired as I feel.

Her voice was soft and thready: “I think a good place might be under that oak on the hill yonder.”

Charles had seen the spot before, but now looked at it with a discerning eye. It was a small knoll, capped by a majestic, spreading oak tree and a single, simple, wooden cross.

“I can’t think of a better place in this whole valley, Mrs. Lancaster.”



It was three days before Charles could work enough energy and want-to to walk back to the Lancaster farm. Even from a distance, he knew no one was home. More of a feeling than a fact. When he got closer he saw the porch chair and the basket of hanging flowers were gone; there was a vacancy on the north side of the barn, where the wagon had always been.

As a matter of courtesy, he announced his presence; when there was no answer, as expected; he walked up on the porch and peered through the single-paned window. Empty. He walked through the skinny front yard, rounded the corner of the house and started up the hill for the tree.
Stray thoughts skipped around inside his head like a flat stone slung on a calm pond.

Feeling this way about a squirrel is just dumb.

Wonder where they went?

Didn’t have it long enough to become attached.

Wished I could have said goodbye.

It was just a dumb squirrel.

Why’d it have to up and die?

He was topping the rise when he looked up and saw that the flimsy cross on Mr. Lancaster’s grave had been replaced with a round-topped slab of barn board. The hand-painted letters were in a bold, clean hand:

Edward
Eugene
Lancaster
b. June 3, 1841
d. July 10, 1864
Good man, husband, father

Blinking back the tears, Charles turned his attention to the smaller, wooden grave marker with small, pinched writing next to it.

Eugene
One of God’s fine squrels
In his short life,
he was loved

There was a tobacco tin between the two crosses. “Chas” was printed on it with what looked like (and felt like) a mixture of honeycomb and boot black. It was closed tight, and it took some working with a small stick to pry off the lid. The note was short:

Dear Chas:

Me and Honor goin back to MaryLand to live with my Foks. No thing left for us Here. Sorry I didn’t get to say Goodby. One of the soljers told me about you naming Eugene “Johnnie Reb.” Those are too Fine names to my way of Thinking. Don't be too Sad! Eugene had Food and Warmth and a Place in the Light for the best part of his Life. Unlike too many of us, he didn't Worry bout a World thout him, but wuz jest fine being a Squrel and content to be. As long as that was the thing to do.

Mrs. Edw. Eugene (Hope) Lancaster


Charles had never felt as alone in his whole life as he did at that moment.

He sat down between the two little wooden tombstones – one small, one smaller – and didn’t get up until the sun had set over Manussetten Mountain.