presents

Old Soldiers & Small Boys

by Bob Rudy 

As one who has such a passion for this turbulent time in our history, stumbling upon new first-hand accounts is like opening a treasure chest to me. But to meet someone who has heard a first-hand account from an actual veteran of the Civil War...that's noteworth indeed! With his permission, I'd like to share his true story with you and thank him for allowing me to print it in our first issue.

I never knew his last name. 

He lived with his granddaughter, a Mrs. Rosecrans and her family. She was a contemporary of my parents' who lived across town in another Cleveland suburb. They were close friends and we visited regularly, my younger sister and I always included in these family exchanges. It was easier for my sister as the Rosecrans' had a little girl about the same age and they played together. I, on the other hand, was bored to death without a playmate, and like many ten year old boys, lacked the initiative to explore a strange neighborhood for the few hours of our visit. 

Standing, fidgeting, in the doorway of the family’s front room while the adults visited, I could see the irritation building on my mother’s face until Mrs. Rosecrans said, "Bobby, why don’t you go down the hall and visit Grandpa. Ask him about the war." The war? I knew it was a brush off, but still, my Dad was a fighter pilot in the Great War and I never tired of hearing him talk about it so off I went. 

He had to be at least into his early nineties and while most old men seem slightly stooped, he was still tall, well over six feet. And lean. No, not lean. He was thin, his head almost hawk like. Thin, pink skin shaped over sharp cheek bones, arms and elbows showing angular through the much washed collarless shirts he always wore. His face had that ruddy complexion of a man who spent most of his life following a plow. His hair was still thick and very, very white.

The elderly man was always at the table when we had dinner at the Rosecrans but he was pretty much ignored, responding to comments with brief answers and excusing himself as soon as he was finished eating. He lived in a back bed room on the first floor of the smallish brick colonial home. The room, like the old man himself, was sparsely furnished.

A heavy bed stood in one corner, a small dresser and a Victorian rocker with a brightly colored afghan folded carefully over the back to warm him on cold mornings and maybe ease the stiffness of his arthritis. He was sitting in the rocker, a bible in his lap and his head down. I thought he was asleep and I began backing out into the hall when his voice caught me. "Yes?’ His narrow face had a warm smile and I suspect I must have been an amusing sight standing nervously in that doorway. I was a tall kid for my age and pudgy, awkward in my corduroy knickers which swooshed loudly when I ran, pockets heavy with a Barlow knife and marbles, long socks and black canvas Keds. My guess is that he knew at once I had been sent back to see him to keep me out of the adult’s hair.

He was not garrulous like so many old men but once he knew I was really interested in his stories I think he enjoyed the telling of them. I wish desperately that I could recall more of what he said but it has been a long time and it is easy to blend memories with what one has studied down through the years. I know he had been a Yankee cavalryman. He told me about Antietam, Gettysburg and a battle called Five Forks. I remember telling my Dad about the last and our agreeing that it was an odd name for a battle..Five Forks. I usually sat crosslegged on the floor and looked up at him as he told me those stories that no one else wanted to hear.

One momentous day he opened his bottom dresser drawer and took out a paper wrapped bundle. Removing the paper he handed me something very heavy, wrapped in the faded red shirt from what was then known as a "union suit." When I unfolded the faded cotton, I found an 1860 Army Colt revolver! A huge, black, heavy pistol, slick with oil to keep it from rusting. Already a little "gun crazy" at the age of ten, I thought it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I felt privileged, honored, to hold the heavy six shooter. It was understood that I would not mention the gun to my parents. Thereafter, on every visit, I got to hold the pistol in my lap when we talked.

I visited with the old man perhaps seven or eight times over a period of a year or more, and while I remember little of what he told me, I can see him clearly in my mind’s eye. Tall, slender, bright blue eyes, taciturn, a quiet smile and a patient voice as he tried to explain the greatest moments of his life to a small boy who will always, always remember that old farmer who, in his youth, had gone to be a soldier.

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