| General Fiction posted November 3, 2023 |
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An unlikely pairing
Pieces of Butternut and Blue
by John Ciarmello
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Private Jacob Johnus Hooper (Hoop for short) was no more afraid of the rifle the Union soldier had aimed at him than he was of dying on that sixth day in July 1866.
The Union soldier held his rifle's bayonet to Hoop’s chest, ordered him to the ground, and pinned him with a heavy foot.
Hoop closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into the dirt at his sides. The blade heaved with his every breath while the Union soldier rested the point just below Hoop’s sternum. “I’m not afraid to die; push it through.”
The soldier shot him a fiery glance. “Ah, an arrogant one to boot. I’ve never met a man that ain’t afraid to die, butternut.” Yur’ no special case, as far as I can see. I’ve been watchin’ you on the battlefield. I could’ve killed you a dozen times.”
Hoop looked at him oddly.“Why did you hesitate, Yankee?”
The Union soldier glanced over his shoulder at his recruits, steps away. Then, he pressed the silvery blade through Hoop’s uniform and grazed the tight skin over his breastbone.
Hoop grabbed the barrel above the blade. The blood quickly seeped through the light butternut color of his uniform.
“Let it bleed, and keep your eyes shut while they pass.”
Hoop watched through slitted eyes as Union recruits juked around them and clambered for a rifle pit a few dozen yards away. “Nice kill!” One voiced. “One less colored, one less confederate,” another added as he disappeared into the pit.
Hoop opened his eyes and focused on the Union soldier through the laden haze of the battlefield. “What’s your gain, Yank? Why did you save me?”
The Union soldier stared at the dead strewn across Cavalry Field a few feet away, contorted and piled like discarded slaughter. “Just pieces of butternut and blue. That’s all that’s left, pieces. When does a man git time ta heal from what he sees daily?”
Hoop cricked his neck to follow the soldier's gaze. “So, with all that pain on your face and in your voice, you decide to start your healing by saving a colored confederate? That’s odd reasoning, Yank.”
“Ya might want to consider yourself lucky instead a spoutin’ off the way ya are.”
“Well, I’ll be–y’all have never killed a colored man before, have you, Yank? Let alone a colored confederate!”
“Yur’ the first I’ve laid eyes on.”
“Interesting.”
“Tell me, butternut, where’d ya learn to talk so prim and proper? Ain’t natural for a colored.”
“My pap…”
“Don’t be too long with explainin’, butternut, my attention span ain’t what it used to be.”
“My Pap was a private pastor for the folks that owned the Dawson plantation. It appeared they liked the way coloreds worshiped, and we were a package at auction. My job was to keep the dust off the books in the master’s library. I spent most of my time reading and self-educating.”
“Huh, seems a shame I gotta kill an educated colored; can’t be many of ya.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of us, Yankee. The fact stands, however, that there are consequences for showing white folks–” he tapped on his temple “–that we have brains.”
”Stop squirmin', butternut!” The Union soldier poked Hoop with the tip of his bayonet.
“Easy, does it, Yankee. I was swatting at a swarm of gnats, that’s all, just gnats.”
“Yeah, well, you let me know next time you go to movin’ your hands all crazy like.”
Hoop studied him for a few seconds before he spoke again. “Who’s the boy, Yank?”
“Boy?”
“I watched you shoot him.”
“Yeah, there’s a war goin’ on, or haven’t you noticed.”
“You dragged him off the battlefield and rested your head on his chest to see if he was still breathing. Do you do that with every confederate you shoot?”
He pressed his blade harder against Hoop’s ribcage. “That’s none of yur’ concern, butternut!”
“You knew that child, didn’t you, Yank?”
“He’s nothin’, but another downed soldier–” His voice turned slow and droned. “–fought for cause men have no nevermind carin’ bout’ after their dead.” He glanced in the boy's direction where he had laid him.
“I know the pain in that far-off stare, Yankee. I know it well.”
“You don’t know nothin’.”
“I know I've never seen the same stare on a white man’s face before.”
“It’s just a stare. Now hush up, or I’ll kill ya for real!”
“It’s that frightened look, Yankee, like you’re staring through a door’s keyhole, and death is staring back from the other side. The probable part is the longer a man stays alive in this war, the less chance he has to survive it. It isn’t a good feeling for any soldier, colored or white.”
The Union soldier lowered his anguished gaze from the battlefield and looked into Hoop’s eyes. “I’m tired of killin’. I’m tired of droppin’ for cover among the dead and then gettin’ up with the stench of rotten flesh on my clothes. I’m tired of wipin’ the vomit off my beard each time I push my bayonet through the gut of a Confederate.”
“That’s what war is all about, Yankee.”
“You say war like it means somethin'.’ We’re killin’ babies, damn it! Babies that peed their stinkin’ bed the night before someone threw a musket gun and cartridge in their hands and told them to kill! Kill for what? For what!?”
“A man needs to remember why he’s out here, Yank. It’s dangerous to forget what cause you’re fighting for. Or more importantly, forgetting who you are.”
“Who I am?” He peered into the battlefield. “I knew what I'd become long before I had a chance to know who I was. So, it don’t matter what I’m fightin’ for. I died the day I stepped onto this battlefield. Ah, I don’t expect you to understand, Butternut. I heard colored folk’s thinkin’ is different. I heard they don’t feel no pain, anyways.”
Hoop propped himself on an elbow and grabbed the soldier's sleeve. “Perhaps you heard right, and perhaps you didn’t.” Hoop tightened his grip. “Give me your name, Yankee.”
“My name has no meanin’ to you, butternut.”
Hoop nodded with a wry grin. “What has no meaning to one man has plenty for another.”
The Union soldier reached into his coat pocket and shoved a wad of tobacco between his cheek and gumline. He glanced at Hoop. “The name is Benjamin.” He turned away and pushed the sac of tobacco back into his pocket.
“Do you care to know mine–Benjamin? Or don't you care enough to ask a colored’s name? Or, it may be you heard coloreds don’t have names. Is that what you heard–Ben?”
The soldier spat, and the wad hit the dirt beside Hoop. “I’m guessin’ every man has a birth name.” He looked at the confederate and paused for a few seconds before he spoke again. “You gonna make me ask ya, or are ya gonna tell me?”
“I prefer that you ask me. Because you know as sure as hell exists that my name is not butternut.”
“Okay, then, what’s yur’ name–? Butternut.”
“The birth name is Jacob Johnus Hooper, Hoop for short.”
“Well, ain’t that a handsome name, butternut.”
Hoop looked up at him with a lofty grin. “I’d like to hear you say it.”
“A man don’t use another man’s name less he has a reason.”
I’m lying here at your mercy, isn’t that reason enough? Say it!”
Benjamin spat and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“Just what I thought–damn Billy Yank!”
“Careful now! It don’t make no nevermind how educated you are, butternut, you ain’t takin’ the upper hand from me. I have the bayonet to your chest; unless you’re fixin’ to change that, you better watch what ya say.”
“If you can’t say my name, you have no right to save my life. You said earlier that coloreds feel no pain. Why don’t you push that bayonet through and find out, or let me go so you can watch me die on that battlefield with the others?
Benjamin lifted Hoop’s hat off his head with the tip of his bayonet and spat another wad into the dirt. “Hoop, was it!”
“Yes.”
“Just Hoop?”
Hoop looked at the hatted blade tip, carefully took it off, and placed his hat back on his head.“That’s right, just Hoop. Now, are you going to continue to undress me with your bayonet, or are you going to put it at ease? I prefer the latter.”
Benjamin slowly lowered his bayonet. “I have to say, you gotta a lot of spunk for a colored.”
“Thanks, and I have to say that I’ve never seen a Yankee smile until now.”
Benjamin sat on the ground beside Hoop. “Looks like the fightin’ moved further on down. It’s queer how quiet it's been for the past hour or so.”
Hoop propped on an elbow and studied Benjamin.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Your eyes.”
“What about em?”
“There’s no doubt this war has hardened you, Ben. I’ve looked into hardened eyes before. But yours–yours are different. Yours still give off glimmers of clean linens and warm fires. All cozied up with your ma and pa. That’s gonna get you killed, Ben.”
“You can’t cipher another man’s life by lookin’ into his eyes. It ain’t enough.”
Hoop took Benjamin by the nape of the collar and slowly drew him in close enough to taste his breath. “It isn’t his life you see in his eyes, Ben–it’s his pain. You haven’t felt enough of it.” Hoop released his hand, and Benjamin recoiled.
“What’s your damn story, anyway, Hoop? What’s a man like you doin' out here fightin' in a war he has no interest fightin' in?”
Hoop lowered his gaze and released a small puff of air through a weary grin. “Truth be known, Ben. I’m indebted to this war. I’m a free man because of it, but I do have my very own interests as a colored man for fighting in it. They’re all much more personal than they are cause-driven.”
To be continued:
Story of the Month contest entry
Private Jacob Johnus Hooper (Hoop for short) was no more afraid of the rifle the Union soldier had aimed at him than he was of dying on that sixth day in July 1866.
The Union soldier held his rifle's bayonet to Hoop’s chest, ordered him to the ground, and pinned him with a heavy foot.
Hoop closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into the dirt at his sides. The blade heaved with his every breath while the Union soldier rested the point just below Hoop’s sternum. “I’m not afraid to die; push it through.”
The soldier shot him a fiery glance. “Ah, an arrogant one to boot. I’ve never met a man that ain’t afraid to die, butternut.” Yur’ no special case, as far as I can see. I’ve been watchin’ you on the battlefield. I could’ve killed you a dozen times.”
Hoop looked at him oddly.“Why did you hesitate, Yankee?”
The Union soldier glanced over his shoulder at his recruits, steps away. Then, he pressed the silvery blade through Hoop’s uniform and grazed the tight skin over his breastbone.
Hoop grabbed the barrel above the blade. The blood quickly seeped through the light butternut color of his uniform.
“Let it bleed, and keep your eyes shut while they pass.”
Hoop watched through slitted eyes as Union recruits juked around them and clambered for a rifle pit a few dozen yards away. “Nice kill!” One voiced. “One less colored, one less confederate,” another added as he disappeared into the pit.
Hoop opened his eyes and focused on the Union soldier through the laden haze of the battlefield. “What’s your gain, Yank? Why did you save me?”
The Union soldier stared at the dead strewn across Cavalry Field a few feet away, contorted and piled like discarded slaughter. “Just pieces of butternut and blue. That’s all that’s left, pieces. When does a man git time ta heal from what he sees daily?”
Hoop cricked his neck to follow the soldier's gaze. “So, with all that pain on your face and in your voice, you decide to start your healing by saving a colored confederate? That’s odd reasoning, Yank.”
“Ya might want to consider yourself lucky instead a spoutin’ off the way ya are.”
“Well, I’ll be–y’all have never killed a colored man before, have you, Yank? Let alone a colored confederate!”
“Yur’ the first I’ve laid eyes on.”
“Interesting.”
“Tell me, butternut, where’d ya learn to talk so prim and proper? Ain’t natural for a colored.”
“My pap…”
“Don’t be too long with explainin’, butternut, my attention span ain’t what it used to be.”
“My Pap was a private pastor for the folks that owned the Dawson plantation. It appeared they liked the way coloreds worshiped, and we were a package at auction. My job was to keep the dust off the books in the master’s library. I spent most of my time reading and self-educating.”
“Huh, seems a shame I gotta kill an educated colored; can’t be many of ya.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of us, Yankee. The fact stands, however, that there are consequences for showing white folks–” he tapped on his temple “–that we have brains.”
”Stop squirmin', butternut!” The Union soldier poked Hoop with the tip of his bayonet.
“Easy, does it, Yankee. I was swatting at a swarm of gnats, that’s all, just gnats.”
“Yeah, well, you let me know next time you go to movin’ your hands all crazy like.”
Hoop studied him for a few seconds before he spoke again. “Who’s the boy, Yank?”
“Boy?”
“I watched you shoot him.”
“Yeah, there’s a war goin’ on, or haven’t you noticed.”
“You dragged him off the battlefield and rested your head on his chest to see if he was still breathing. Do you do that with every confederate you shoot?”
He pressed his blade harder against Hoop’s ribcage. “That’s none of yur’ concern, butternut!”
“You knew that child, didn’t you, Yank?”
“He’s nothin’, but another downed soldier–” His voice turned slow and droned. “–fought for cause men have no nevermind carin’ bout’ after their dead.” He glanced in the boy's direction where he had laid him.
“I know the pain in that far-off stare, Yankee. I know it well.”
“You don’t know nothin’.”
“I know I've never seen the same stare on a white man’s face before.”
“It’s just a stare. Now hush up, or I’ll kill ya for real!”
“It’s that frightened look, Yankee, like you’re staring through a door’s keyhole, and death is staring back from the other side. The probable part is the longer a man stays alive in this war, the less chance he has to survive it. It isn’t a good feeling for any soldier, colored or white.”
The Union soldier lowered his anguished gaze from the battlefield and looked into Hoop’s eyes. “I’m tired of killin’. I’m tired of droppin’ for cover among the dead and then gettin’ up with the stench of rotten flesh on my clothes. I’m tired of wipin’ the vomit off my beard each time I push my bayonet through the gut of a Confederate.”
“That’s what war is all about, Yankee.”
“You say war like it means somethin'.’ We’re killin’ babies, damn it! Babies that peed their stinkin’ bed the night before someone threw a musket gun and cartridge in their hands and told them to kill! Kill for what? For what!?”
“A man needs to remember why he’s out here, Yank. It’s dangerous to forget what cause you’re fighting for. Or more importantly, forgetting who you are.”
“Who I am?” He peered into the battlefield. “I knew what I'd become long before I had a chance to know who I was. So, it don’t matter what I’m fightin’ for. I died the day I stepped onto this battlefield. Ah, I don’t expect you to understand, Butternut. I heard colored folk’s thinkin’ is different. I heard they don’t feel no pain, anyways.”
Hoop propped himself on an elbow and grabbed the soldier's sleeve. “Perhaps you heard right, and perhaps you didn’t.” Hoop tightened his grip. “Give me your name, Yankee.”
“My name has no meanin’ to you, butternut.”
Hoop nodded with a wry grin. “What has no meaning to one man has plenty for another.”
The Union soldier reached into his coat pocket and shoved a wad of tobacco between his cheek and gumline. He glanced at Hoop. “The name is Benjamin.” He turned away and pushed the sac of tobacco back into his pocket.
“Do you care to know mine–Benjamin? Or don't you care enough to ask a colored’s name? Or, it may be you heard coloreds don’t have names. Is that what you heard–Ben?”
The soldier spat, and the wad hit the dirt beside Hoop. “I’m guessin’ every man has a birth name.” He looked at the confederate and paused for a few seconds before he spoke again. “You gonna make me ask ya, or are ya gonna tell me?”
“I prefer that you ask me. Because you know as sure as hell exists that my name is not butternut.”
“Okay, then, what’s yur’ name–? Butternut.”
“The birth name is Jacob Johnus Hooper, Hoop for short.”
“Well, ain’t that a handsome name, butternut.”
Hoop looked up at him with a lofty grin. “I’d like to hear you say it.”
“A man don’t use another man’s name less he has a reason.”
I’m lying here at your mercy, isn’t that reason enough? Say it!”
Benjamin spat and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“Just what I thought–damn Billy Yank!”
“Careful now! It don’t make no nevermind how educated you are, butternut, you ain’t takin’ the upper hand from me. I have the bayonet to your chest; unless you’re fixin’ to change that, you better watch what ya say.”
“If you can’t say my name, you have no right to save my life. You said earlier that coloreds feel no pain. Why don’t you push that bayonet through and find out, or let me go so you can watch me die on that battlefield with the others?
Benjamin lifted Hoop’s hat off his head with the tip of his bayonet and spat another wad into the dirt. “Hoop, was it!”
“Yes.”
“Just Hoop?”
Hoop looked at the hatted blade tip, carefully took it off, and placed his hat back on his head.“That’s right, just Hoop. Now, are you going to continue to undress me with your bayonet, or are you going to put it at ease? I prefer the latter.”
Benjamin slowly lowered his bayonet. “I have to say, you gotta a lot of spunk for a colored.”
“Thanks, and I have to say that I’ve never seen a Yankee smile until now.”
Benjamin sat on the ground beside Hoop. “Looks like the fightin’ moved further on down. It’s queer how quiet it's been for the past hour or so.”
Hoop propped on an elbow and studied Benjamin.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Your eyes.”
“What about em?”
“There’s no doubt this war has hardened you, Ben. I’ve looked into hardened eyes before. But yours–yours are different. Yours still give off glimmers of clean linens and warm fires. All cozied up with your ma and pa. That’s gonna get you killed, Ben.”
“You can’t cipher another man’s life by lookin’ into his eyes. It ain’t enough.”
Hoop took Benjamin by the nape of the collar and slowly drew him in close enough to taste his breath. “It isn’t his life you see in his eyes, Ben–it’s his pain. You haven’t felt enough of it.” Hoop released his hand, and Benjamin recoiled.
“What’s your damn story, anyway, Hoop? What’s a man like you doin' out here fightin' in a war he has no interest fightin' in?”
Hoop lowered his gaze and released a small puff of air through a weary grin. “Truth be known, Ben. I’m indebted to this war. I’m a free man because of it, but I do have my very own interests as a colored man for fighting in it. They’re all much more personal than they are cause-driven.”
To be continued:
 Recognized |
I kept this as close to accurate as possible, and I won't apologize for the present-day slurs as they fit the diction of the period. I hope you all take this for what it is: a fictional story. I hope you all enjoy this.
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