Cookie and Me and a Cup of Chicory
© 2007 Stu Jenks
[Images:"Stars Bars Dragoon Spring" © by Stu Jenks;
"American Civil War Reenactor, Derik Morefield" © Carla Morefield,
used with permission]

Will this rain ever stop?

I'm wet through and through. Surely, my powder has gotten wet too. I'm cold, I'm scared and I just want this march to end.

I look up ahead. Just more of this muddy road winding through the trees. The line of men in front of me seems to go on forever. The slapping of my soaking wet boots in the mud can hardly be heard over the sound of the hard rain hitting the leaves of the trees above and around me.

I'm guessing it's close to noon now. Been marching since first light. They say we're in Pennsylvania now. Seems there are an awful lot of us. Seems that half of Virginia is here.

I pull the bill of my cap down, in a vain attempt to keep the rain out of my face. I turn to my left and there's Cookie. Good ole Cookie. He looks down at me and gives me that big Cookie smile. I weakly smile back. Thank you God for Cookie.

Cookie's been with me all year, ever since before Fredericksburg. A big mountain of a man. Me, I'm just a skinny kid, five foot something, barely 18 years of age, reckon around 150 soaking wet, (which I am right now). Cookie's old, got to be at least 40 (even though I've never asked). Well over 6 foot tall, big as a house, big bushy beard, big grin most times. He's a very big man. And he seems to have taken a liking to me. I like him too.

"Wish this rain would quit," I say to him.

"Me too. It will when it will," he says.

Well, I know that, Cookie. He's always saying things like that, stating the obvious. Sometimes though, it makes me feel better, like when he said a couple of days ago, "We'll stop fighting when they stop sending us." Hope that time comes soon. But today I ain't in much of a mood to hear Cookie's musings, given the rain and all, but I hide my irritation. I need Cookie. He's my best friend and I don't think I could get through this without him. Not that a little irritability on my part would make Cookie abandon me, but I don't want to take the chance.

Evening bivouac. Rain stopped a couple of hours. Thank you, Jesus. Even with wet wood, campfires are everywhere. Down that slope in the forest toward the creek, over a ways by the artillery, off in that cornfield a mile away and everywhere in between. Cookie heated up some salted pork and we ate that and a few hard biscuits from breakfast too. Now he's got some precious chicory in that old coffee pot of his. Others are passing a bottle. Cookie always politely tells them no thanks. I asked him once why he doesn't drink. "It ain't a pretty thing when I drink whiskey," is all he would say. He had a sad look in his eyes when he spoke that. Seems he went far away there for a second, when I asked him that last month.

I don't drink because the two times I did drink corn liquor I was sick for a day and a half, and hell I didn't even drink that much. Least I don't think I did. I can't remember.

Cookie pours me a cup of chicory and hands the steaming cup to me.

"Feel like playing us a tune?" Cookie says.

"Yeah, plays us a song that we can sing loud so those damn Yankees over there can hear." That's Tom Wilkins. Strange fella. Seems to actually be enjoying himself, enjoying the marching, the waiting, the killing, the marching again. He sometimes finds Cookie and me in the evening when he wants something to eat or he's found someone with a bottle and then stays for a song. He seems to like my playing. Seems most folk do here. Seems most folk back home in The Valley do, too. Nice I can oblige folks with a song from time to time.

I reach over and grab the tote bag that has my banjo in it. Old flour sack with some rope for a drawstring and another piece of rope as a shoulder strap. Sack is still wet but the banjo's no worse for wear, I notice as I pull it out of its bag. Could use some new strings. Last set I bought was back in Richmond a year and a half ago. Still sounds okay, though it could sound a bit brighter.

"Play anything you like, son," says Cookie.

I tune it up. The high D string's way out of tune. Takes me a minute. There you go.

I begin and play The Bonnie Blue Flag. Tom seems to like this one. I ain't much of a singer but I do my best. Bonnie Blue's not one of my favorite songs but many of the boys seem to like it. Cookie gives me a hard look. I can tell he knows I'm playing this for them not for me. Kind of a silly song actually, saying hurrah for Southern Rights and such. I do like the line about being "Native to the soil", but I could give a tinker's damn about Southern Rights. I just want to get home someday. But I'll give the boys what they want, then I can play what I want.

I finish up Bonnie Blue and I then notice about a couple dozen men just outside of the fire light. I can see the embers of their pipes lighting up their faces. Everyone's low on tobacco but we all seem to find some leaf somehow. Most young, some are older, all are Virginians.

I'm scared. I really don't want to die tomorrow or the next day. I just want to get home.

The boys are probably going to hate this but I need to play Lorena. Ain't going to sing the whole thing, just a verse or two but I need to play it. I don't have a girl back home. Least not yet. Just my Momma. Hope to get that girl when I get back home. If I get back home.

I play the first chords, working my way through the first verse. Mess up a chord or two, but it's all right. Everyone gets quieter and quieter, a bit at a time, until hardly anyone's talking. By the third time through, even Tom Wilkins has quieted down. I guess I'll sing a verse or two now. Seems like the thing to do.

The years creep slowly by, Lorena
The snow is on the grass again
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena
The frost gleams where the flowers have been
But the heart throbs on as warmly now
As when the summer days were nigh
Oh, the sun can never dip so low
A-down affection's cloudless sky.

A hundred months have passed, Lorena
Since last I held that hand in mine
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena
Though mine beat faster far than thine
A hundred months ... 'twas flowery May
When up the hilly slope we climbed
To watch the dying of the day
And hear the distant church bells chime.

I play the fourth verse, don't sing it. I miss my Momma. I look toward Cookie next to me, his head down. I see him rub his nose. Guess I'll play the whole thing. The thing to do.

We loved each other then, Lorena
More than we ever dared to tell
And what we might have been, Lorena
Had but our loving prospered well
But then, 'tis past, the years have gone
I'll not call up their shadowy forms
I'll say to them, 'Lost years, sleep on
Sleep on, nor heed life's pelting storms.'

The story of the past, Lorena
Alas! I care not to repeat
The hopes that could not last, Lorena
They lived, but only lived to cheat
I would not cause e'en one regret
To rankle in your bosom now
'For if we try we may forget'
Were words of thine long years ago.

Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena
They are within my memory yet
They touched some tender chords, Lorena
Which thrill and tremble with regret
'Twas not the woman's heart which spoke
Thy heart was always true to me
A duty stern and piercing broke
The tie which linked my soul with thee.

It matters little now, Lorena
The past is in the eternal past
Our hearts will soon lie low, Lorena
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast
There is a future, oh, thank God!
Of life this is so small a part
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod
But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.'

I look around. More of the men seem to be around me now. Boy, I hope I didn't mess up the words too bad. Forgot a few lines, had just repeat a few lines to fill in the space. I hope it was okay with the boys.

I play the melody one more more. Just nice and slow and sweet, sweet as I can. I look over again at Cookie, and he's now looking at me. Seems his eyes are a bit moist. Maybe it's the campfire smoke. Maybe not. He does have a wife and boy at home that he talks about a lot, that he misses a lot. Shoot, I miss the devil out of my Mom. Can only imagine what Cookie is going through. He ain't seen them for nigh on two years, he said last week. They live down near Petersburg. My people live out near The Valley. Oops. Hit a wrong note. Best concentrate til the end of the song. There. I finished up the song on a nice clear chord. Happy about that.

I look up and seems like everyone is just looking down at the ground or looking in the fire. A few men walk away. Most just stand there, sipping their whiskey or their chicory. I reach over for my cup.

"That was real nice, son. Real sweet," says Cookie.

"Thank you, sir," I say.

"Cookie," he says.

"Right. Cookie, sir," I say.

Can't get used to not saying sir to men my senior. Momma taught me that. Yes, sir, no, sir; Yes, ma'am, no ma'am. And I know Cookie and I are friends. Just hard not to give him the respect he deserves.

He's just a private like me. Don't seem right though. He should be a sergeant at least. Heck, after Fredericksburg, they wanted to promote him was what I heard, but he turned them down. Don't know why. Suppose he's got his reasons. Can't say as I'm complaining though. If he'd have become a sergeant, he'd probably be somewhere else other than here with me. I'd miss him badly. Really happy he's looking after me.

Seems like he is always by my side during the fighting. Hell, one time, last year, he killed a Yankee right beside me. Ran him through with his big Bowie knife. Afterwards I remember him saying to me to always look behind me during a battle. "Left, right, front, and back," he said. Been doing that since. Saved me just a couple months ago from getting run through by a dragoon. But I stepped aside and stuck him with my bayonet. Right in the back. Died in the grass at my feet. Ain't proud of it but had to be done.

Banjo a little out of tune. Damn old strings won't hold tune. Well, you got to make due with what you got. Sounds like something Cookie would say. Only feel like playing one or two more songs tonight. I'm awfully scared right now. As I was coming back from taking a pee a while ago, I could see up the rise to the east a few miles away, and I could see the Yankees' fires. More than I've ever seen before. Lots more. Maybe I'll just play one more song and I'll put her down.

"Cookie, you think it's alright if I just play one more? I don't much feel like playing long tonight."

"Whatever you want to do, Son. Long or short, makes no never mind to me. The boys just like it when you play anything," says Cookie.

I look around the fire and I see the men, some looking at me, others still looking at the ground, others talking with their buddies.

I think on it a minute and decide on a song from back home, from in The Valley. I start it up and the boys grow quiet again. This time, I'll sing it loud and strong. Don't need to look at my fingers. Don't need to think hard on the words like in Lorena. I've heard this song since I was in my Momma's belly. Played it since I was seven. I sing it right from the start.

Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away you rolling river,
Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.

Oh Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
Away you rolling river,
I'll take her 'cross your rollin' water,
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.

'Tis seven years since last I saw you.
Away you rolling river,
'Tis seven years since last I saw you.
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.

I play and break. I think of my mother. I think of that pretty girl I met at church back in the Valley. Katie Jean is her name. I never kissed her. I was too scared. I really wished I'd kissed her now. I ain't scared now, at least of her not liking me. I'm scared of not getting back to the Valley, not getting back to Momma, not getting back to her. I want to kiss her now. I so want to kiss her now. Maybe I'll get back to there. I sure hope I get back to her. Katie Jean? I hope you don't marry Bobby or anyone else. I hope you marry me.

Just about finished the break. Don't ever remember moving my fingers. I look up. More men around the fire, looking right at me. Don't see Tom Wilkins. Figures. I turn and see Cookie. Our eyes meet. Tears wet his beard, but he's smiling at me. I smile back at him.

Time to finish the song.

In all these years, whene'er I saw her,
We have kept our love a secret,
Oh! Shenandoah, I do adore her,
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.

One last verse. Just the banjo. No words to sing. I love you, Momma. I hope to love you, Katie Jean, someday.

I love you, Cookie.

"Hey, Sergeant! Look what I found!"

"Jesus, boy. Keep your voice down." God as my witness, I've tried to train that boy, but Hans is as dumb as a box of rocks. Fearless though on the battlefield and the luckiest person I've ever met, but Christ, I wish he would shut up sometimes.

I walk over to where Private Hans Stevenson is standing. The hard rain's been washing the blood off the tall grass all morning but it hasn't helped the smell any. Smells like a wet slaughterhouse. Least they ain't bloating in the sun. Hans is standing above two dead men, one old, one young. The older man seems to have gotten it in the gut and the head and the younger one is missing his right arm. Probably bled to death. Still slung over the young one's shoulder is a gunny sack of some sort. Hans is standing over the dead young boy, holding up a banjo.

"Ain't this something. Still got the strings on it and everything."

The private plucks the strings crudely. They make a sour sound.

"You'd get it off that boy?" I say.

"Sure did!"

"Put it back, private" I say.

"But Sergeant Campbell, I was going to give it to Susie when I get home."

"Boy, I said put it back."

Hans pauses. Begins to put the banjo down by the dead boy, then suddenly rises up.

"No," Hans says.

"What did you say?"

"Sergeant, I said no. I'm keeping it. I found it and it's mine."

I walk right up to Hans. He stands a good half foot taller than me. I look him square in the face. Rain's falling in my eyes now. He smiles that stupid ass grin of his.

I have now had enough.

I slap him hard on the face with the back of my hand.

I meet his eyes again. No smile this time.

"That's an order, private."

Hans bends over and drops the banjo harshly on top of the boy. The strings ring.

"Just someone else's gonna get it," Hans says, walking away.

"But it won't be you," I say to the back of his head.

I kneel down by the dead Banjo Boy.

I take his remaining left arm and drape it over on the banjo that rests on his chest.

"May you sit with God the Father Almighty, tonight, son."

I look toward the old man. I wonder if they were friends.

"You too," I say.

I cross myself, stand up, turn and walk away.

Stu Jenks is the amazing photographer, artist, musician and writer whose images of swirling fire have become icons for the Mythic Imagination Institute and the Mythic Journeys conferences. Visit Stu Jenks at his blog or view his photographs at his website, www.stujenks.com. He is a regular contributor to Mythic Passages. Read and view contributions by Stu Jenks