The Huts at Esquimax

for Dave Smith Our clothes are still wet from wading The Chickamunga last evening. There is heavy frost. We have Walked on the dead all night. Now in the firelight We are exchanging shells and grapeshot. I can still hear our loud huzzah When late in the day The enemy fell into full retreat Along the pine ridge to the east. . . We chased them until we were weary. Each night this week There’s been something To keep me from sleep. Just an hour ago I saw A dead sharpshooter sitting Against a rock with a scallop Of biscuit still lodged in his mouth. He wore one silk sock. Snedikerhas returned from Chattanooga With five thousand convalescents For the left wing of their musketry. We have roasted a deer With a molasses sauce and pepper. Magrill and zandt have returned From horse hunting with a sack of sugar. By morning we will have buried our dead And fed the prisoners: Joe Cotton Will hang all seven of them in one tree When he sees they’re done Licking their fingers. . . I shot a Rebel yesterday In high water just for cursing me. Just six months ago For that alone it would have meant Three days in stockade. We can see now that cannonading Has set the hillside on fire. The wounded Grays Will be burned Beyond their Christian names. . . Joe Cotton says he’d ask God For rain, but he’s got no tent And river water Has chilled him straight through To the very quick of his being.