A  STORK  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI



     The river was shrouded in mist this morning, the early day activities muffled and
subdued.  The deep bass notes of a foghorn and the soprano shrieks of gulls were a
duet played to the basso continuo of boatmen's shouts.  Stork inhaled the sharp
salty breeze laced with stagnant mud and decayed fish -- but it was a welcome change from the
reeking miasma of the camp.  He wondered what it would be like aboard the hospital ship.

     "Hey thar Stork, whatcher doin' down here by th' Ole Mis?  Figger'n on hoppin' a flat and
sailin' off to parts unknown?  Har, Har.  Heer tell them thar sailors got em a gal in ever' port. 
That'd be somethin' like, dontcher thank?"

     "Byjtcher tongue thar, Rube, what kinder patr'ut yuh take me fer?"

      Mathias, AKA Stork, unfolded his six-feet-one-and-a-half-inches and stood facing the
short, wiry man with a pained expression.  Rube was not one of his favorite people.  He hailed
from a sullen, bad-tempered clan of trappers from the Kentucky hills, and Matt didn't have much
use for any of them.  They had a mean streak. 

     "I bin tapped fir a speshul  'signment.  Gonna ex-kort these sick fellers up ta Saynt Looie," 
Stork  joked, pretending it was honor.

     "Yuh mean the cap'n's noticed yur dang yaller streek agin, huh?  Yor kind just ain't got no
backbone atall fer fightin.  But whut kin yuh  xpec' from Hooshers!"  He practically spat the
epithet.  "Hoosier" could be a kind of affectionate nick-name, but not from Rube's mouth. 
Everything he said sounded like a barb, that was just the way he was.

     "You Snelson?" barked a tough-looking swabby gesturing  toward Mathias.  "The Ol'
Man's wantin' to see yuh, on deck.  Foller me."  "That's me," Mathias answered, grateful to have
an excuse to leave his unwanted companion.

     Actually, Rube had hit the nail on the head with his jibe;  Mathias' had been known to take
"French leave," and the possibility had been tantalizing him ever since Cap had singled him out for
this duty.   He was detached from his unit, Company "G" of the 47th Indiana Volunteer Infantry,
to accompany a group of sick and wounded to the U.S. Marine Hospital in St. Louis.  The
facilities here in New Orleans had been completely overwhelmed during the last weeks of this
campaign, so the Chief Medical Officer had decided to move those able to travel to the larger
hospital up the river.  The Surgeon General  and the head of the Sanitary Commission had decreed
that each company should select and train some of their number to act as medical corpsmen for the
transporting off the field and care in field hospitals of the wounded, but it was the exception not
the rule in actual practice.  What usually happened was that the men on sick call who were fit
enough, or at least less unfit, were charged with the care of the sickest, and if no one else was
available, the officers assigned the least proficient  soldiers, the slackers, those who couldn't shoot,
or those most likely to  turn tail," so to be assigned nursing duty was not a compliment.  It was a
hated assignment, worse than KP in later wars, because it carried the stigma of  "bad aim,"
"coward," or "gold-bricker" with it.  But this time Mathias was glad he'd been chosen, although the
last thing he wanted was foranyone to guess that.  Now here was this no-'count, ornery, cuss flapping
his jaws, like as notcalling attention to all and sundry.  Mathias looked furtively around, but there
was no one inhearing distance, and all the men in sight were too busy to-ing and fro-ing, getting the
steamerloaded to pay attention to the two infantrymen.  He didn't have a real plan -- he just knew
that ifhe could smuggle his way onto one of the supply boats going up the Ohio he could hire onto a
cargo flat on the Wabash and one way or the other, he'd make it to Indianapolis.  If he got that far,
he'd make it the rest of the way to Madison County, Indiana.  He was desperate to get home.  His
young wife Alice had died of cholera last April.  They'd lost the crop that year and he had no idea
how Cynthie, his step-mother was managing the place alone.  His half-brother Johnny and half-sister
Mary Ann were "hiring out" to make ends meet.   The milk cow finally gave up the ghost,
they slaughtered the pig last fall for food for the winter, and a few straggly chickens were all that
was left of the "stock," or was the last he'd had word.  His buddy Orrie's cousin, who lived a
couple of farms over from his had sent word to them, but that was weeks ago.  He felt so bad, he
didn't even know when Allie died exactly, and for all he knew, she had been all alone.  Cynthie'd
a' had her hands full on the farm, maybe she'd taken bad too.  He was so sick of this war; sick of
the stink, sick of the dirt, and most of all, sick of the dying--seemed like everyone in the world
was dying--and the worst was Allie.  She wasn't even fighting, why'd she have to die?  Orrie, his
friend Orange Shaul, had heard from his cousin that there had been an epidemic at home.  Folks
all over had took sick and a heap'd died.  Annie and Bud's little  un, that Allie'd set so much store
by, seein' they hadn't had time to have their own yet; Old man Hicks and his son and
daughter-in-law; two of the Hollingsworth kin, lucky none of the kids, far as he knew.  Yeah, the
county'd been hard hit.  Well, we'd had it down here, too.  Kinda like the "Wrath of God" that there
circuit-rider told 'em about, that time at the Camp Meetin'.  Mathias wasn't much of a meetin'-goin'
man, but Cynthie and Allie'd twist  is arm some--it made a change from the cookin'  n sewin'  n
all that.  For that matter, he'd not minded a break from his chores neither.

     The next morning reveille found Mathias hauling stretchers of sick and wounded up the
gang-plank of the paddle wheeler to the cots lined up row after row in the main cargo area.  The
Continental had been chartered by the government in 1863 for $600 per month and had seen
heavy transport duty.  This was her maiden voyage as a hospital ship and since she'd been
outfitted by the Sanitary Commission in New Orleans, she was not a bad as some.  There were
some medical supplies, and the food, though meager, was to be prepared and distributed by the
two Sisters of Charity who had been assigned to the ship.  It was even relatively clean.  The crew
recently assigned were experienced, and more importantly, they were "river rats" who had some
pride in their work and were pleased to have drawn duty on this boat.  It had had a good reputation
in its former like as a commercial passenger/cargo boat.

     By the time all the patients had been settled on board, Stork was just about done in. 
During the siege of Vicksburg in  62, his normally lean physique had been reduced by bad food
and unhealthy conditions to a state of emaciation.  A diet of rancid salt pork and wormy hard tack 
was pretty hard on the gut.  Mathias, like many others, suffered nearly constant diarrhea.  The
camp conditions couldn't have been worse, the constant rain turning it into a swamp.  The men
were ragged and there weren't enough blankets, so they were always cold and wet.  He had been
dubbed "Stork" by his companions, and it had stuck, because even though he had managed to put
on a little weight, his stooped , arthritic gait and long legs caused him to still resemble the ungainly
bird.  It would take all his determination to make his escape; he hoped his strength wouldn't fail
him.  He thought that he should try to jump ship near Memphis.  He would watch his chance and
hope for moonless nights.  As much as he hated it, rain would probably increase his chance of
slipping over the side and disappearing.  A distraction of some sort would help too, maybe a
prisoner ship would be docking somewhere.  That usually caused quite a stir.  Whatever happened,
he absolutely had to make the attempt.  This crazy war seemed to go on forever, and he just had to
see what was happening at home.  A family with no man was always disadvantaged, and the war
was making it almost impossible to keep food on the table.  Somehow he had to make it.

                         TO BE CONTINUED
(and improved)

Mathias was reported to have deserted on June 28, 1864 in Memphis.  He was arrested on
June 30, 1864 at Mound City Junction, TN and transported to Cairo, IL,  a reward of $30.00
having been paid.  From there he was returned to his unit in or near New Orleans.  There is
no record of a punishment.  He was mustered-out on October 23, 1865 from Baton Rouge,
LA, with $28.95 due him from the clothing account, bounty paid of $210, due $190. 

He is described as a 25 year-old farmer with blue eyes, auburn hair, light complexion, height
6' 1 «".  He is my paternal great-grandfather.