For My Fellow Civil War Historians

The second chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West:

Chapter Two

Shiloh, Tennessee

April 6, 1862

Manfred Herrmann slouched against the crinkled bark of an ancient hickory tree at the verge of a dense grove not far from the western shore of the Tennessee River and nudged the luminous petals of a fire pink with a black-powder-smudged finger. He twisted the fragile green stem between thumb and finger to spin the jagged tips of the petals against his palm, and briefly enjoyed the gentle touch of the scarlet flower. He pressed the fluorescent petals against his scraggly brown moustache and breathed in the nectar’s sweet aroma, then exhaled the fragrant air with a satisfying whoosh.

“Silene Virginica.”

Manfred stroked one of the pedals just as Sergeant-Major Gallagher stopped in front of him. “Beg pardon?”

“I said, Corporal Herrmann, Silene Virginica. The scientific name of the flower you’re impaling on the unkempt bristles of your moustache. Also known, to the less educated of the Seventh Iowa, as the fire pink.”

Manfred broke the long end of the stem off and threaded the flower through a button hole. “Saloon Veronica. I forgot…you collected plants before the war.”

“It’s Silene Virginica, not saloon veronica, and please refer to me as a botanist, not a plant collector.”

“A bottomless. Of course Sergeant-Major. Please accept my apology. I will use the correct title from now on.”

The sergeant-major stiffened. “Corporal Herrmann, your morning botany lesson has concluded, and I don’t want to put you at any further risk of a general court-martial. Now round up your squad for parade and inspection. Colonel James M. Tuttle requires assurance that the brigade under his command can still march after the sloppy maneuvering he witnessed from Pittsburg Landing to our present bivouac.”

Corporal Herrmann bent the stem of the fire pink to hold it in place. “Yes sir, but it’s not yet six in the morning.”

Sergeant-Major Gallagher grinned. “It is not our place to question the wisdom of the colonel. Now form your men up for the parade, and look sharp about it.”

With the haranguing of lieutenants and sergeants, the ten companies of the Seventh Iowa Infantry Regiment—over 500 strong—poured from the bivouac of neatly arranged white canvas tents and formed loosely into four long files. A captain nodded, and Sergeant Gallagher bellowed: “By file, right, dress!” and each file stepped forward in succession and shuffled into smart alignment. With this maneuver completed and all eyes snapped forward, Sergeant-Major Gallagher continued: “Shoulder, arms!” and the men of the 7th Iowa heaved over 500 Springfield rifles and muskets into the air and snapped them against shoulders toughened by long hours of drill. When the strangely muted echo of hundreds of steel barrels chafing against wool jackets had faded, Sergeant-Major Gallagher intoned: “Company, right, face!” and the men of the 7th Iowa pivoted on heel and toe and snapped their feet together. With the company now facing the approved direction, Sergeant-Major Gallagher barked: “Mark time, march!” and the men of the 7th Iowa commenced marching in place, rhythmically stamping booted feet against the soggy ground. After waiting exactly six steps to allow the cadence of footfalls to synchronize, Sergeant-Major Gallagher prompted: “Forward, march!” and the men of the 7th Iowa stepped off. The ten companies of the 7th Iowa fell into line behind the men of the 14th and 12th Infantry Regiments, and the men of the 2nd Iowa Infantry Regiment fell into line behind them, completing the long blue column of the Union Army’s First Brigade under the command of Colonel James M. Tuttle, Second Division under the command of Brigadier General W. H. L. Wallace.

Manfred peeked down at his flower several times to admire the still vibrant red petals. He thought of pulling the flower up from the button hole to enjoy the soothing fragrance again, but worried he might fall out of step and invoke the wrath of the sergeant-major. He adjusted his spacing from the man marching in front, and then checked his alignment in the rank. After taking another dozen strides, he noticed several men sitting on horses about a hundred yards ahead. He stretched his neck and raised his chin and squinted.

The soldier marching to his right spat a slimy gob of tobacco before declaring, “That there’s General W. H. L. Wallace, leader of this here division we’re a part of.”

Manfred lowered his chin. “You don’t say. I think I was about to figure it out for myself. My vision just gets a little blurry when we march.”

Not losing a step, the soldier spat again and grinned. “Maybe you need some of them fancy spectacles if you can’t see who’s leading the division.”

Manfred now reached within two-hundred feet from the seated horsemen, and still could not see the faces clearly or distinguish the emblems of rank on the uniforms. “I don’t need any spectacles. I can see just fine.”

“Couldn’t see General W. H. L. Wallace sitting high up off the ground on a horse. Don’t suppose you can see him now.”

“I’m about to see him.”

“Don’t look like you is about to see anything. Like I said, you ought to get some of them fancy spectacles.”

Manfred fumed, “See here, farm boy, I don’t need any fancy—” A cascading volley of musket-fire rumbled in the distance behind and to the left of the marching brigade and echoed through the dense hickory and oak trees, interrupting the delivery of Manfred’s angry retort. Manfred gazed up at the serene clouds. A second volley reverberated through the dense woods.

Surprised by the sudden and unexpected noise, the tobacco-chewing farm boy swallowed some of the brown goo. “Must be Union troops taking some early morning target practice.”

Still angry, Manfred snarled, “And now you’re an expert on the daily activities of the whole Union Army?”

At least three, maybe four trumpets shrilled to the southwest, and then a third volley chattered. Manfred listened for a fourth volley, but after a brief silence—no more than 10 seconds—scattered and chaotic rifle and musket fire erupted across the western horizon and rattled through the thickets of trees. The sound grew ominously louder with each footfall of the marching troops now passing on parade in front of the mounted officers.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher boomed, “Companies…halt!” and the men of the 7th Iowa came to a rolling standstill. Sergeants up and down the line echoed the same command to the other regiments of the First Brigade. Manfred now stood close enough to the group of men sitting on horses to recognize General W. H. L. Wallace. With some pleasure, he also identified Colonel Tuttle. He watched the general and the colonel and the other men surrounding them as they took turns standing up in their stirrups and pointing into the trees separating the regiment from the approaching commotion.

A sweat-lathered horse ridden by an agitated corporal burst from the trees and kicked up ragged chunks of muddy ground as it galloped along the western side of the long files of the 7th Iowa.  When he arrived directly across from General W. H. L. Wallace and his entourage, the corporal pulled the horse up and yanked the snorting animal to the right and drove it between two of the ranks of the 7th Iowa, shoving shouting men to either side and nearly trampling their feet. The corporal trotted up to General W. H. L. Wallace, saluted, opened a black pouch slung over his back, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and shoved it into the general’s hand. The general opened the paper and read whatever message someone had scrawled on the page, folded it up again, and crumpled it in his hand. General W. H. L. Wallace leaned sideways in his saddle and spoke into the ear of Colonel Tuttle. Colonel Tuttle pulled his mount out of the line of officers and rode over to the bugler standing to his right. He bent down in his saddle and spoke into the top of the bugler’s cap. The bugler saluted, spit twice, wetted his lips, raised the polished instrument to his mouth, and sounded the allegro eighth and sixteenth note command for “quick time.” The four regiments of the First Brigade tramped ahead in a rolling surge.

Manfred struggled to match step with the men around him. He nearly stumbled to the muddy ground when the man behind him kicked the back of his boot. He glanced to his side and the farm boy grinned tobacco-stained teeth back at him. When he had finally settled into a comfortable pace, the bugler sounded the allegro sixteenth and dotted-sixteenth note melody to signal “double quick time,” and the 14th, 12th, 7th, and 2nd Iowa Infantry Regiments accelerated in turn. Manfred nearly fell again when the regiment climbed over a bushy hillock and splashed across the slimy stones of a shallow steam. The four long files separated when the men swarmed around a copse of tangled oaks, then broke apart completely as the regiment stumbled across a deeper stream. Manfred’s boots filled with icy water and water splashed against his crotch. When the men had reached the swampy ground beyond the stream, the four files of the 7th Iowa reformed behind the 12th Iowa before following a long, sweeping arc to the left. Manfred trotted along; muddy water squished from holes in the leather soles of his boots and his Springfield rifle slapped against his shoulder. The long column of the First Brigade emerged from the swampy ground and curved across the Hamburg-Savannah Road where it roughly paralleled the southerly-flowing Tennessee River. The column continued to veer until it pointed southwest and then south and then southeast. As the long files of men completed a final sweep and began to straighten, they quick-stepped into the scattered paths of wounded soldiers retreating east from the remnants of their shattered regiment. Hundreds of discouraged men trudged through the advancing Iowa regiments—alone, in pairs, in small clusters, limping, bent over, assisted by other men, on makeshift crutches, dragging rifles, empty handed, torn and blood soaked. The bugler screeched the presto sixteenth note call to signal halt. Sergeants and lieutenants darted along the lines screaming commands to form a line of battle two ranks deep. The four regiments of the First Brigade quickly reformed into a pair of ragged lines facing southwesterly. Muskets and rifles crackled beyond the forest of oaks and hickories, much closer than before—and the men waited.

Manfred spoke to the farm boy, miraculously still standing to his right. “That was a hell of a run. I didn’t think I was going to make it across the second stream. Nearly fell in the deep water.”

The farm boy grinned and spat a lump of chewed tobacco spit in front of Manfred’s muddy boots. “I didn’t think you was going to make it neither, seeing how you can’t see much of what’s going on right in front of your own nose.”

Manfred’s anger had diminished while crossing the swamps north of the second stream, and he took no offense. “Did you get a look at those stragglers? They’d been shot up pretty—”

The bugler sounded the lilting eighth and quarter notes in two-four meter to signal the command to “fix bayonets,” and four regiments of bayonets rattled metallically as men yanked them from leather scabbards and rammed them into place. The bugler sounded presto quarter and eighth notes in six-eight time to call the Iowa men to move “forward,” and the two-rank-deep line of battle, nearly a thousand yards long, marched over the uneven ground and advanced raggedly through the oak and hickory trees and tangled underbrush. A minie ball zinged overhead, and then another, and then two or three in quick succession, and as the shadows of the forest slowly gave way to the overcast light of an open field, Manfred Herrmann and the tobacco-chewing farm boy and the men of the 7th Iowa Infantry Regiment reached the shoulder of a sunken road just beyond the boundary of the trees. The field swept away from the road and revealed a battleground shrouded in bloody carnage and swirling smoke. The 12th and 14th Regiments formed the line of battle just inside the tree line along the sunken road to the left, and the two ranks of the 2nd Iowa formed to the right. The bugler trumpeted the command to halt, and the men settled into position. Before Manfred’s pounding heart had begun to slow, two long gray lines of Confederate infantry issued from the blanket of smoke less than 200 yards away and marched directly toward the 12th and 14th Regiments—the new left flank of the First Brigade.

♦    ♦    ♦

Ethan Plantagenet, a first lieutenant with the 8th Texas Cavalry, casually bent his knee over the smoothly-curved leather horn of his black saddle. He squinted through chaotic swirls of gloomy smoke to better observe the four infantry regiments of Brigadier General T. C. Hinden’s First Brigade advance in long lines across an open field toward groves of oak and hickory just beyond a sunken road. Artillery boomed far away to the right. After first surprising and then overrunning the Union encampment in the dappled early morning light, the Army of the Mississippi now continued its relentless advance to the Tennessee River without meeting any organized resistance from the retreating Union troops. The chaotic Federal retreat promised the possibility of a complete rout. He tugged his grandfather’s watch from an inside pocket and flipped open the finely-engraved cover with a white-leather-gloved thumb. He admired the miniature photograph of his late wife before checking the time. Not yet nine. At this pace of advance, forward Confederate units should reach the Tennessee by mid-afternoon. He cherished the idea of dinner on the peaceful banks of the river. Lieutenant Plantagenet lowered his foot to the stirrup and galloped back to his regiment.

♦    ♦    ♦

Sergeant-Major Gallagher strolled purposefully along the front of the first rank of the 7th Iowa, stopping several times to contemplate the advancing Confederate infantry. He repeated the same commands at each new platoon. “Hold your ground. Do not yield. Hold your ground. Do not yield. Hold your….” When he reached Manfred’s platoon, he stopped again, but not to observe the approaching infantry—which had suddenly halted and was now preparing to fire on the 12th and 14th Iowa. “Corporal Herrmann. Do you still have your fire pink?”

Manfred watched the first rank of Rebel infantry take aim. “Yes, Sergeant-Major. I still have it.” He glanced down at the flower and a wave of smoke exploded along the Rebel line. Seconds later, the men of the 12th Iowa (to his left) answered with a deafening crackle of rifle fire. Dozens of Rebel soldiers crumpled to the ground.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher did not flinch. “Do you perchance remember the scientific name I taught you this morning?”

Manfred thought back on his early morning conversation. He watched the second rank of Rebel infantry lower muskets and take aim. “Yes I do, Sergeant-Major. It is Silene Virginica.” A second wave of billowing smoke ejected from the line, and again the 12th Iowa responded in kind. Dozens more Rebel soldiers collapsed in scattered mounds across the front of the diminishing line.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher stepped behind the ranks of the 7th Iowa and then faced the battlefield. “Very good Corporal Herrmann. But now we have work to do.” A trumpet shrilled and the Confederates, bayonets flashing, surged into a running charge. The sound of a thousand stamping feet and whooping voices washed across the field and crashed against the trees.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher coughed to clear his throat, then boomed, “Fire by rank…company…left oblique.” The two ranks of the 7th Iowa pressed over 500 Springfield rifles and muskets against their shoulders and swung to the left. Sergeant-Major Gallagher calmly observed the charging enemy troops as they approached the lethal field of fire he now prepared for them. “Front rank…aim….” He paused until a sufficient number of Confederates had entered the killing zone. “Fire! Load!” Hundreds of minie balls spewed across the open field to tear the flesh and break the bones of the advancing men. A Confederate officer waved his saber wildly in the air and screamed at his men to form a new line. A hundred men or more formed a ragged line facing the 7th Iowa and frantically poured black powder into hungry muskets and rammed lead balls into place. Sergeant-Major Gallagher continued without emotion. “Rear rank…aim….” This time he did not pause. “Fire! Load!”

After firing with the second rank, Manfred frantically plucked a fresh paper cartridge from the black-leather box slung over his shoulder. He used his teeth to tear off the end of the cartridge with the minie ball. He poured black powder from the cartridge into the barrel of his Springfield Rifle, then extracted the ball from his mouth with calloused thumb and finger and pressed it into the waiting barrel. He spit the paper cartridge remnant to the ground and rammed the ball and powder into place. He flipped open the lid of a small leather box attached to his belt and removed a percussion cap. His hand trembled and the cap fell to the ground. Without hesitation, he pinched out another, cocked the hammer one click, pressed the cap into place, and fully cocked the hammer.  As he waited for the next command he peeked over his shoulder; the tobacco-chewing farm boy grinned at him again. Before Manfred could look away the farm boy’s head fulminated, showering blood and teeth and a chunk of nose across Manfred’s uniform. The farm boy, the side of his face shredded by a Rebel minie ball, tried to remind Manfred about the fancy spectacles but only gurgled incoherently before staggering backwards and stumbling over a rotten log.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher continued, “First rank…aim…Fire! Load!”

More Confederate soldiers fell to the ground, adding to the grim human litter now choking the open field. The Confederate officer waved his saber at the 7th Iowa and a bugle shrilled again. Hundreds of gray men pulled away from the assault of the 12th and 14th Iowa Regiments and charged toward Manfred’s position.

Sergeant-Major Gallagher did not break his melodic cadence. When the charging Rebels reached within 50 yards of the 7th Iowa, he bellowed, “Second rank….” The Rebels reached within 40 yards. “Aim….” The Rebels reached within 30 yards. Sergeant-Major Gallagher waited, and a sweaty spasm convulsed across Manfred’s back and rolled up his neck when he pressed his finger against the trigger. The rebels reached within 20 yards, and Manfred identified the delicate face of a young boy. “Fire!” The attacking Rebels vanished in a blanket of smoke, but quickly broke through the murky shroud and dove into the first rank of the 7th Iowa Infantry Regiment. The man in front of Manfred hissed when a Rebel bayonet stabbed through his gut and burst from his back. When the man slid off the blade and fell to the ground, he revealed the young boy Manfred had seen before the obscuring smoke had swallowed him up. The young boy aimed his bloody bayonet and lunged, but Manfred knocked the boy’s musket to the side before swinging his rifle butt around to slam the boy to the ground. When the boy tried to stand Manfred kicked him to the ground again and pressed the sharp tip of his bayonet against the boy’s chest, just below the throat. Manfred allowed a moment to appreciate the boy’s dirt-smudged face, tangled brown hair, and age—fifteen, maybe sixteen at the most—and while tears bathed the boy’s dirty cheeks, Manfred thrust the bayonet in. Then, as his hands trembled and the men of the 7th Iowa drove back the Rebel assault, Manfred watched the young boy choke on his own blood and the light fade from his brown eyes.

Excerpt from
A Glorious History of the American West

by Muireall Anne Ravenscroft

Shiloh: Prelude to the Decline of the Confederacy

The Battle of Shiloh, the first significant incursion of the Union Army into the Confederate West, is little understood and often misrepresented in the written histories of the American Civil War. Other engagements, such as Gettysburg or Chancellorsville, are often cited as more important, but my research has led me to this conclusion: Shiloh, also referred to as The Battle of Pittsburg Landing, was truly the decisive turning point of the Civil War. One need only refer to General Ulysses S. Grant’s own memoir in which he declares that the battle was “...more persistently misunderstood, than any other engagement between National and Confederate troops during the entire rebellion....” to appreciate the fundamental underpinning of my assertion. Further, what appeared early in the day of April 6, 1862 as a potential rout -- after a dramatic early-morning surprise attack by Rebel infantry on the bivouacked Federals -- quickly transposed into a stunning Confederate loss by the conclusion of hostilities on April 7th, a loss from which the South, in my opinion, never recovered.

A significant aspect of Shiloh is the level of carnage achieved by green troops, a level not previously experienced in the war. The typical Confederate soldier marching from Corinth, Mississippi to the battleground of Shiloh had little or no combat experience and was poorly armed (some carried pikes instead of rifles), while roughly half of opposing Federal troops had not experienced actual combat. And yet, this pivotal and epic battle -- which pitted approximately 65,000 men of the Union Armies of the Tennessee (General Ulysses S. Grant) and of the Ohio (Major General Don Carlos Buell) against the nearly 45,000 men of the recently-formed Confederate Army of the Mississippi (General Albert Sidney Johnston and General P. G. T. Beauregard) -- resulted in casualties of nearly 24,000 men killed, missing, or wounded in a scant two days of persistently brutal conflict.

In fairness to the combatants, much of the fog of war (a phrase I have borrowed from Clausewitz) that plagued the battle (and likely contributed to the level of bloodshed) can be attributed to the difficult terrain of southwest Tennessee. The undulating, heavily-wooded land to the west of the Tennessee River rises at points to bluffs more than 150 feet above the river plane and dives into countless deep ravines. The numerous tributaries of the three primary streams bounding the area -- Lick Creek to the south; Owl and Snake Creeks to the north -- crisscross the battleground. Swamps spread in scattered patches across the landscape, and were so characteristic of the terrain as to become a primary focus of Confederate strategy: to cut the Federals off from retreat to the Tennessee River and drive them northwest into the swamps of Owl Creek. Lastly, heavy rains days before the conflict rendered the few available roads, poor enough in decent weather, nearly impassable, especially by a large army attempting to surprise the enemy through quick deployment. In fact, General Johnston had originally intended to attack on April 4th, but was delayed until the 6th because of the condition of the Western Corinth Road. It was, according to Colonel Wills De Hass (commander of the 77th Ohio Infantry during the battle of Shiloh), “...the worst possible battleground.”

Even given these many impediments to success, the Confederates still might have achieved victory were it not for an implausible event. At mid-afternoon of the first day (around 2:30 pm), while leading the advance on the Union left flank, General Albert Sidney Johnston, the Army of the Mississippi’s most experienced and effective combat leader, was struck in the leg by a stray minie ball. An artery severed and his boot filling with blood, he collapsed within minutes and died. Without Johnston’s inspired and focused leadership, the Confederate troops were diverted from his primary strategic objective -- the capture of Pittsburg Landing -- and instead intensified the offensive on the “Hornet’s Nest,” a hastily formed defensive line established along a sunken road near a peach orchard and the only Union position that had not yielded to the Rebel onslaught. This misguided tactic, which required numerous frontal assaults before achieving a breakthrough, produced heavy casualties on both sides and allowed General Grant seven precious hours to establish a new defensive line extending west from Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River then north up the Hamburg-Savannah River Road toward Owl Creek. Late in the afternoon of the first day, a final charge on this second line by two Confederate brigades was repulsed, and as the bloody day drew to a close it became clear that the late General Johnston’s grand strategy of driving the Union Army away from the Tennessee River and capturing Pittsburg Landing had fallen short.

John Ravenscroft brushed sand off the top of the manuscript, now piled messily next to the folding chair, and dropped an oval rock on top to protect it from errant sea breezes. He removed his reading glasses and scanned the churning waves of Avila Beach. The afternoon light sparkled on the waves flowing over the smooth sands and crashing against the black-barnacled piles of Harford Pier. Far beyond the end of the pier, at least five miles or more, lofty cumulus clouds drifted on the prevailing winds northwesterly toward Morro Bay. John rubbed his eyes, fatigued by the ocean glare, and when he opened them Muireall padded through the sand into his vision. She wore the fashion of the day. The black, knee-length, puffed-sleeve wool dress hung down to conceal the ribbons decorating the bottom of her black bloomers. Rivulets of seawater ran off the hem of the dress and rolled across the long black stockings adorning her athletic legs before splashing on the black laced-up bathing slippers protecting her feet. A fancy cap, also black and trimmed with a twisty swirl of white piping, offered the only feminine touch. John attempted to imagine the sensual curve of Muireall’s waist, but the bathing suit prevented it.

Muireall pulled the fancy cap off and reached for a towel to dry her dark, shoulder-length hair. “Make any progress?”

John rubbed his eyes again. “Yes I did. I just began reading the section on Shiloh.”

“And?”

“I liked it, but….”

“But what?”

“You use a lot of parenthetical phrases.”

Muireall tossed the damp towel over the canvas back of her folding chair and plopped onto the canvas seat. “I like parenthetical phrases.”

“I noticed. And you use commas, dashes, and even parentheses to punctuate them.”

“Do you see a problem?”

“Not really. On the other hand, I’m truly impressed by the amount of information you are capable of packing into a single sentence. But when you string two or three of those packed sentences together….”

“Is this a bad thing?”

“I suppose not, but it does make your writing a bit…turgid…at times.”

“Turgid? At times?”

“You know what I mean. Thick. At times.”

Muireall fluffed her hair to dry it in the slanting sun. “Do you think I should rewrite the section on Shiloh?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should consider inserting a short, pithy sentence from time to time. It might reduce the turgidity.”

Muireall stretched her arms and legs and burrowed her toes into the warm sand. “Alright. Probably good feedback. I’ll rewrite the section as you suggest.” Muireall began to rise from the chair.

John reached over and pressed her arm down. “But not now and not tonight. How would you like to eat dinner here before we drive home? We could dress and drop by the Marre Hotel for seafood and a glass of wine. We could make a romantic evening of it.”

Muireall smiled. “You don’t think I should address the excessive use of parenthetical phrases tonight? Since you’ve pointed it out, I feel a tremendous urge to resolve the issue as soon as possible.”

John released her arm with a tender caress. “The parenthetical phrases can wait until tomorrow.” After enjoying one last view of the sparkling sea, John asked, “By the way—what’s a minie ball?”

For My Friends in Scotland

The first chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West:

Chapter One

Dunnet Head Lighthouse, the Highlands of Scotland

April 1860

 Gordania Sinclair twisted vigorously against the cool ground near a patch of heather until fresh grass slithered between her toes, bathing her feet in clean dew sparkled by the slanting light of a fresh morning. After gyrating comically for nearly a minute, she bent down to examine the green blades that now appeared to grow from the tops of her feet. She scrunched her face to focus her observation. Although a young lady of thirteen, she had nonetheless failed to lose any of her tomboyish fascination with the smallest details of nature, including—to her mother’s unfailing horror—insects and frogs. Especially frogs. Once she kept a frog in a box beneath her bed—until her mother discovered it and forced her to return it to the wild land where it belonged. This unfortunate incident had not deterred her. She still sought the tiny amphibians when away from the house, and often concealed one or two of the creatures in a secret pocket she had sewed into her favorite play dress (while feigning interest in sewing to please her mother). But no longer a child, and growing in wisdom and maturity with each passing minute, she also released the frogs and insects—and whatever else she had collected—before returning home.

Duncan Sinclair prompted his daughter to make haste in a tone both stern and good-natured. “Please keep up Gordania. I intend to return to the lighthouse before noon to check the electric arc, and at the pace you are presently keeping there is no chance we will complete our journey by dinner.”

Gordania looked back to fully assess the progress they had made since the conclusion of breakfast. Against a distant glaze of rain-grayed clouds she could still distinguish the top of the lighthouse above a smoothly-sloping hill: the black-painted dome, triangle-faceted glass above the orangey-yellow base, corbelled balcony, trellised railing, and a smidge of the gently tapered white cylinder below. When she squinted, she could also discern the top of one of the slit windows, trimmed in the same orangey-yellow as the base, just below the balcony. They had probably travelled only a thousand feet in ten minutes—a leisurely stroll at best. Ignoring the tender blades of grass growing between her toes, she ripped her feet from the ground and accelerated into a gallop. She arrived at her father’s side before he could speak again. Forgetting the reason for her sprint across the heathered slopes, she burst out, “Are you going to let me shoot today, father? You said I could shoot soon. You said it last week when I asked. Is today soon enough?”

Duncan lifted his 12-gauge side-by-side percussion shotgun to his shoulder and reached down for his beloved daughter’s dirt-smudged hand. Gordania rubbed her hand clean on the folds of her dress then raised it to his waiting grasp. She probed his expression for a positive reaction to her question. A grateful mariner had purchased the gun from John Dickson & Son in Edinburgh in 1857, and had presented it to the lighthouse keeper of Dunnet Head as a gift of honest appreciation. Duncan could not have afforded the finely-crafted gun on his meager lighthouse keeper’s salary. “I suppose it is soon enough today. You have, after all, demonstrated a measure of patience beyond your age. But I only have seven rounds left, and we must return home with a bird for dinner. Therefore…I think you should fire the shotgun twice, because the first shot will surprise you, and the second will not.”

 Gordania released her father’s hand and clapped with excitement. “Can I load it too? I want to learn how to load the gun before I shoot it.”

“What has God given me? Only two daughters and no sons, but a daughter who wants to handle a man’s shotgun just like any son. I must be especially blessed.”

Gordania did not understand the comment. “Can we shoot now?”

“Not yet, my special blessing. We are still within sight of the top of the lighthouse, and your mother, should she climb up to the balcony and use the telescope, would not appreciate seeing her oldest daughter participate in this particular activity. I think we must walk a half-hour or more, until neither lighthouse nor mother are within view.”

Gordania brightened. “Then father, let us please hurry, for you must return to the lighthouse by noon.” She rushed away from Duncan, glancing back several times to confirm the briskness of his pace, her final glance to the top of the lighthouse searching for the glint of the telescope lens.

The sun arced higher above the eastern rim of the peninsula and warmed patches of the rolling hills through breeze-scattered clouds. When they had hiked exactly thirty minutes to the second (Duncan confirmed this with his English pocket watch), he announced, “Gordania, come back. We have gone far enough and it is time for me to fulfill my promise. And, if we are lucky enough, a red grouse or ptarmigan will arrive in time for the shooting lesson and we shall kill two birds with one stone.” Duncan reached into the ragged canvas bag strapped over his shoulder and removed two cartridges and percussion caps. When Gordania arrived, he instructed her to hold out her hand. “Here are percussion caps and cartridges for your shooting lesson. Take the shotgun in your other hand. Mind the weight of it.”

Gordania accepted the shotgun with her left hand, pulling it quickly against her chest. “It is heavy, father, but not too heavy for me.”

Duncan smiled. “Maybe you are indeed my son in disguise. Now, since you have no shoes, brace the butt of the shotgun on the toe of my boot and pull the rod from beneath the barrels.” Gordania dropped the cartridges and caps into her frog pocket and extracted the rod. “Good. Place one cartridge in each barrel and ram them all the way in with the rod.” When she began pushing the rod into the first barrel to set the cartridge, Duncan helped guide it.

“Father, I can do it without help.” Gordania completed the task and then shoved the second cartridge into place.

“Good, my delicate Gordania. Now take the shotgun in both hands, pull the hammers back until they click in place, and press a percussion cap onto each side. Mind the triggers so you do not pinch a finger.” Gordania struggled a bit with the caps, but completed the work successfully under Duncan’s amused and patient supervision. “Well done my little tomboy. Take care to aim the gun away from me. Shooting your father would prove more difficult to explain than a mere shotgun lesson. Now we are ready to shoot. Should we kill a rock, or wait for a plump grouse to wander by?”

Gordania’s patience had ended. “We should shoot a rock, because who knows when a grouse will show up, and you must return to the lighthouse by noon.”

“An excellent point.” Duncan pointed toward a grassy outcrop of weathered boulders. “Set your feet like this. Press the stock firmly against your right shoulder. Lean forward a bit. Very good. See the small bead at the front of the barrels? Do not aim with it, but use it to point to the rocks. Now…hold the stock against your shoulder…set your finger gently on the first trigger…good…now squeeze your little hand…lean forward…squeeze…squeeze…squeeze….”

The finely-engraved John Dickson & Son side-by-side percussion cap shotgun recoiled violently against Gordania’s petite shoulder as pellets spewed from the barrel in an explosive roar. The blast threw Gordania back against her father. Duncan, anticipating this very result, caught his precious daughter with one hand and the shotgun with the other. He quickly stood her up. “Now you know what it feels like. Do you still want to take the second shot?”

A fresh tear rolled down Gordania’s cheek as she rubbed her bruised shoulder. She sniffed before answering, “You said I could have two shots.” She reached out for the shotgun and Duncan let her take it.

“Yes I did, and you will. You know what to do. Let’s aim at the patch of heather to the right. Do you see it?” Gordania prepared for the promised second shot, and to Duncan’s amusement she set the butt against her left shoulder and placed her left hand on the triggers. “A splendid idea to try the other side.” Gordania sniffed again and squeezed the second trigger: this time she did not falter. The blast chewed up the ground a few feet in front of the heather patch. “A bit low, but still a splendid shot.”

Gordania trembled after she lowered the shotgun from her throbbing left shoulder. “I will do better when you let me shoot again.”

“I have no doubt you will. But now we truly must make haste to find a succulent bird and kill it for our dinner. And with only five cartridges left, I must take care not to miss.” Duncan reloaded the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. “We should head back to the lighthouse and hunt along the way. Would you like a bird hunting lesson as well?”

Gordania nodded. “Yes father. I would.”

“Is the pain in your shoulders tolerable?”

“Yes, tolerable.”

“You will probably feel the soreness more tomorrow morning, but it will toughen you for the next shooting lesson. But let’s not worry about it now. We have work to do if we hope to enjoy a grouse dinner tonight—if we are lucky enough to find one.” Duncan turned in the direction of the lighthouse and began walking with the measured strides of a hunter.

Gordania ran to her father’s side and then slowed to match his pace. “I know we will be lucky today, father.”

♦    ♦    ♦

A few minutes before the sun reached its noonday zenith, and after several hours of good hunting, Gordania and Duncan walked along a gravel roadway toward the stone wall that enclosed the Dunnet Head Lighthouse and grounds. Gordania carried a large grouse by the neck over her shoulder and played with two frogs in her secret pocket. Her shoulders still ached, but she didn’t care. The roadway soon reached an opening in the wall flanked by whitewashed stone pillars, each topped with pyramids of stone stained by years of salt spray. The wall to the right turned at the pillar and continued along the side of the road in a sweeping arc terminating easterly of the lighthouse at a small gable-roofed building near the 300-foot sandstone cliffs of Dunnet Head. The wall to the left shot off in a perpendicular angle to the road and traced a gentle curve until it reached a small stone structure westerly of the lighthouse. Gordania released the frogs in a grassy puddle, and then touched every third stone on the top of the wall as she ran ahead of her father.

Whitewhiskered Erskine Mackay slathered another brushfull of whitewash down the jamb of the only window at the front of the gable-roofed building near the cliffs. The assistant lighthouse keeper spotted Gordania’s approach along the curved wall in his peripheral vision. He addressed her without looking away from his work. “I see, Miss Gordania, that we are counting stones again in the usual pattern. And I see as well, although I mustn’t turn my head to look more closely, some sort of feathered creature carried over your shoulder.”

Gordania counted the last stone and touched the bucket of whitewash with her toe. “Father shot a fat red grouse for dinner, and he only used one percussion cap and cartridge. The second barrel is still loaded.”

Erskine lowered the dripping brush and admired the bird. “Why yes, it is a fat one, and should make a wholesome dinner for all. But tell me little Gordania, how you know so much about the shotgun? I do not recall when sporting guns became of interest to little girls.”

Gordania scrunched her face. “I’m not little, Mr. Mackay. I’m thirteen, and father said I’m a young lady now.”

Erskine plunged the brush into the bucket and swirled it around to saturate the stiff bristles. “My deepest pardon, young miss. I can see you are surely a young lady. My remarks about the shotgun were poorly chosen.”

“Father showed me how to shoot it. I got to load it and everything. But he said not to tell mother because it would make her unhappy. I shot both barrels at a rock and a patch of heather. I almost got the heather.”

Concealing his amusement, Erskine lifted the brush to the wall and continued his work. “I see. But do not worry. Your secret is safe with me. I shall take it to my grave. You have my solemn word.”

Just before Duncan arrived Gordania said, “Thank you Mr. Mackay.”

Duncan balanced the butt of the shotgun on his toe. “Thanks for what?”

Erskine answered before Gordania could say anything. “Why, I was expressing my admiration of the lovely bird you bagged this morning, and Gordania was thanking me for my observation. She also told me you got it on the first shot. Quite a feat, if you ask me.” Erskine winked at Gordania when he had finished his little deception.

“Yes, we had a bit of luck today. And we shall all enjoy the day’s luck at dinner tonight. Now Gordania, take the bird to your mother. She will wish to admire it as well.”

“Yes father. I know it will please her to see it.” Gordania skiphopped past Erskine and the whitewashed building and ran to the stone wall between the courtyard northwesterly of the lighthouse and the plunging cliffs above treacherous Pentland Firth. She continued touching every third stone as she raced along the wall, counting rhythmically in cadence with each footfall.  She found her mother pinning a bed sheet to the sturdy clothesline Duncan and Erskine had erected last summer. Rose Anne Sinclair, Gordania’s younger sister by six years, rolled around in the freshly cut grass beneath the windflapping clothes. Gordania held up the plump red grouse as high as she could reach. “Look what father shot with the shotgun. It only took one shot and he’s still got one shot left.”

Fyona Sinclair struggled against the freshening afternoon breeze as she pinned the last corner. She bent down to observe the bird more closely. “My, and isn’t this a fine bird. And who do you suppose will pluck it and cook it for dinner?”

Gordania forced the grouse up a little higher until she could no longer tolerate the ache in her shoulder. “Do you think it will make a good dinner? Father said you would admire it.”

“I do admire it. And would you and Rose Anne care to help me pluck it?”

Gordania glanced over at Rose Anne, now attempting to stand on her head while leaning against the clothesline post. “I would like to help pluck it, but I thought I would play for a while since I’ve had a long day of hunting.”

“A long day of hunting? I see. Yes you may play for a while, but first we will have a bit of lunch, and then you must take Rose Anne with you when you play. Your sister is very fond of you, and I believe she would enjoy your company.”

Without expressing any special pleasure in the task, Gordania agreed obliquely. “She will have to keep up if she wants to play with me. I plan to run fast today.”

Fyona touched Gordania’s tangled hair. “Of course. But you might slow your pace a bit. Do you want me to brush your hair before lunch?”

Gordania shrugged. “Not today. I like my hair the way it is.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Swallowing the last of her bread and milk, Gordania pushed away from the heavy wood table and jumped from her chair. She darted to the front door and tugged at the massive wrought iron lever until the door swung open and afternoon light flooded the room.

Fyona clapped. “Gordania Sinclair! Do not forget to take Rose Anne with you. Remember our conversation before lunch.”

Gordania skittered to a comical pose just as her dirt-smudged toes bumped against the stone threshold beneath the doorway. She turned slowly, very slowly, until she could barely distinguish her mother’s form on the opposite side of the table. “I told you I plan to run fast.”

“Nonetheless, you will sit patiently, without fidgeting, until Rose Anne finishes her lunch, and then you shall take her with you.”

Erskine Mackay coughed and tapped his pipe on the table. “And while you are gallivanting around the highlands of Dunnet Head this afternoon, you might keep a lookout for Andrew Sutherland’s missing Border Collie. I ran into him a few days ago, and he told me the dog had been acting strangely before disappearing altogether.”

Unusual for Duncan, he betrayed a modicum of anxiety. “Acting strangely? And then disappearing altogether? Very odd, Erskine. Very odd. Maybe Gordania and Rose Anne should play near the lighthouse today.”

Erskine sucked the pipe into his whisker-rimmed mouth and spoke between puffs of bluish smoke. “Don’t think there’s…anything to worry about, Duncan. The Border Collie is…naturally strange in my view. I’ve actually seen one spend…an entire morning herding the ocean waves. And with a couple of sheep watching the whole thing from the hillside.”

“I see your point, Erskine, but I still think—”

Fyona broke in. “Gordania knows how to handle herself around dogs. I don’t think there’s a reason to worry. She just needs to keep a lookout like Erskine suggests.”

Rose Anne had drained her glass of milk when Erskine first mentioned the troublesome Border Collie. She had stood by the table during the entire dog conversation, her hands folded neatly behind her back. “I’m ready to play now. May I leave?”

Gordania jumped across the stone threshold. “Yes. Let’s go Rose. We have a Border Collie to find, and not much time to find it.”

Fyona pressed her hand against her chest. “Oh dear. Maybe we shouldn’t have discussed the dog at all.” She reached across the table and began collecting plates and cups. “You may go play Rose Anne, but do not lose sight of your sister. The two of you must stay together.”

Gordania and Rose Anne fled the house and the endless slow-eating-tea-sipping-pipe-smoking-dog-conversation of the adults. They ran along the curved stone wall at such great speed that Gordania did not have time to touch every third stone. They ran through the first pair of stone pillars and then the second. They ran out into the grassy wilds of Dunnet Head far beyond the protective stone walls of the lighthouse grounds. They ran and ran and ran until they could run no more. Gordania collapsed into the soft grass near an outcrop of jagged boulders. Rose Anne arrived a minute later and crumpled next to her older sister with a melodramatic swoon. Together, as Gordania had promised her mother, they gazed up to the gauzy clouds and sprinkled blue skies above Pentland Firth. They listened to sea birds squawk far beyond the rugged cliffs. They felt the salty breeze flowing in from the crashing ocean waves puff against their cheeks. They sniffed the fragrance of nearby heather and grasses.

“I know what we should do.” Gordania sat up and searched the meadows to the west. “We should look for frogs. I had two nice ones this morning, but I let them go when we came home from hunting. I need to find some more.”

Rose Anne, eager to please her older sister, agreed with enthusiasm. “Yeah. We should look for frogs.”

Their energy restored by the brief respite in the comforting grass, the girls ran up the gentle slope of a nearby hill. When they had both arrived at the top they shielded their eyes from the subdued brightness of the afternoon sky and searched for likely frog ground. Gordania spotted a small loch about 500 feet from the base of the hill. “There’s a good spot to look for frogs, especially this time of year.” The girls bounded down the hill toward the loch, nearly stumbling into each other twice. When they arrived at the edge of the water, Gordania fell to her knees and muddied the front of her dress. Rose Anne did the same and both girls crawled around in expanding circles. Gordania dug around in a thick clump of wet grass and pulled out a small frog. “I’ve got one. And it’s a nice size too. He’ll fit perfectly in my secret frog pocket.”

Rose Anne stood, mud dripping from the hem of her dress, and skipped over to admire the frog. “He’s a nice one. I hope I find a nice frog. But I don’t have any place to keep it like you do. I wish I had a frog pocket.”

Gordania held the frog close to study its thumbs. “Maybe I’ll sew you a frog pocket too. Mother likes it when I sew. But first we should look for some crickets. They like crickets. They like grasshoppers too, but I think they like crickets more.”

Rose Anne tilted her head to observe the frog better. “I can look for crickets. I’ve found them before.”

Gordania slid the frog into her secret pocket. “Good. Then let’s get started, because I have to help mother pluck the grouse before dinner and we don’t have much time. She said you could help pluck the grouse too.”

The girls ambled beside the southern boundary of the loch, their heads down, searching for crickets and grasshoppers. They had explored for several minutes, and had found three crickets and a grasshopper, when the rumbling growl of Andrew Sutherland’s wayward Border Collie surprised them. Rose Anne froze, but Gordania spoke to the collie in a soothing voice. “Hello collie. I hear you’re lost and looking for your home. Maybe we can take you there. We know where Mr. Sutherland lives.”

The dog inched forward and woofed ominously.

Gordania grabbed a handful of Rose Anne’s dress. Rose Anne nearly tripped on Gordania’s feet. “Nice doggie. You just stay there. We’re going to leave you alone now.”

The collie lurched forward several steps and snarled.

Gordania pulled Rose Anne behind. “Rose Anne, I think you should run home now. I’ll follow you in a minute, but I want you to run and not turn around. Do you understand?” Rose Anne nodded; tears began flowing down her pinkish cheeks. “Alright then. Run! Run now!” Rose Anne tripped and stumbled to the ground. Gordania quickly yanked her back to her feet and pushed her hard in the direction of the lighthouse.

Incited by the sudden movement, the furious collie charged them both. Gordania turned and the angry dog bit deeply into her stomach and ripped away a ragged patch of dress and skin just above the frog pocket. Gordania grabbed the dog around its neck to allow Rose Anne time to escape. The dog twisted in her grasp and bit into her neck. Gordania held the animal tightly and the dog tore another chunk of flesh away. Blood poured from the wound in her neck. Blood oozed from the gash in her stomach. Gordania waited until Rose Anne had vanished over the top of the hill, and then kicked the dog as hard as she could. The dog growled one last time before scampering away.

Gordania rested several minutes before standing. She felt woozy when she straightened up. Blood drenched the front of her torn dress and dripped down her legs. She reached into her secret frog pocket and pulled the frog out. The limp creature had survived a direct attack by the dog, but had then drowned in Gordania’s blood. Gordania dropped the dead frog and a few blood-soaked crickets into a puddle and began walking in a wavering path back to the lighthouse. She wondered if her mother had begun plucking the plump red grouse when the first rain drops of an approaching squall dampened the distant hills.

A Writer's Life

If you decide to write, there are three things you should know. First, writing is a lonely adventure that will test every fiber of your being. Second, you will soon learn that it is impossible to explain this loneliness to anyone. And third…. I think I’ll skip number three because you might never get started if I tell you. You’ll figure it out on your own anyway.