A wander through Avoyelles Parish

There was really no question, but it seemed that everyone had to take a turn at the field glasses so that all would be satisfied. Honan quietly brought them to his eyes, and scanned the area beyond where the platoon was secreted in the brush and tangle. They had been assigned to scrounging supplies, which Corporal Dills and his ‘Rag-and-Ruffians’--as they were often called by their fellow soldiers--were very  accomplished at indeed. Now one did not enter into such duties as a soldier without the expectation that sometimes there would be complications--and even if you were assigned with a choice, sometimes shit happens. Such was the moment they found themselves in now, stopped dead on the road back to the battalion after a successful night of scrounging by an enemy outpost which had not been there the evening before. Honan scowled as he peered at the enemy, sucking his teeth a moment.

“They aint no fresh fish, that’s certain. See how they stand, the way they hold them muskets?” said Honan, looking away from the glasses a moment and nodding to Dills. “Yeah, them boys know their business.” He handed the glasses back to Corporal Charles Henry Dills, and shook his head. The Corporal looked again, and quietly sighed. “We will have to find a way around then.” He said at last, putting away the glasses and turning to his squad. He knew them all, very well indeed, and had served with them from the beginning. He had only recently been elevated by them as corporal, and he wanted to do right by their trust in him. His father had been corporal before him, but had been medically discharged after the fall of Vicksburg. His uncle, Charles, stood quietly in the trees opposite keeping vigil on the path they had traveled this far. Besides Uncle Charles and the rough-n-tumble Irishman Honan, he had been assigned three others. Private Henry (known by the boys as ‘Shoe’), Private Whitburn, and Private Sullivan (known lovingly as ‘Scratch’). Corporal Dills felt confidence in these men, both because he knew their quality but also from experience; every one a veteran of this war which sometimes seemed to have always been a part of his life. This was his third summer of the war, and the boy he had been was long gone now. His joints sometimes ached, he could not get through the day without his morning coffee and he found himself recognizing the wisdom in his own father and uncle. He had joined as a boy of 17, and had just reached his twentieth birthday the week before in an army camp. He knew he was changed as a person, the serious young man he had been--so determined to be a proper soldier--was looser now, but still serious.It was more than that though, and it bothered him sometimes how the beloved interests of home now only seemed to fatigue him when he tried to think of doing those things again. He stamped his foot, trying to clear his thoughts and turned his attention back to their situation. Looking around the area for ideas as to how they might skirt this unexpected outpost, Dills cocked an eyebrow. “Honan, take Whitburn and the pair of you scout up there--you see where that magnolia is standing--” Dills pointed off to their right as the pair of men came to stand beside him. “--just there, it looks like there might be a berm of earth there. It may screen our movement enough that we can slip past them and be on our way.” Honan clicked his tongue and spat a short stream of tobacco juice into the weeds.

“Right you are boss, come on.” He and Whitburn scrambled off, slowing their pace and crouching low as they went.Dills turned and raised his glasses upon the enemy, watching for any sign of danger. Their friends in the surprise outpost were ragged looking, scruffy faces and worn uniforms--but Honan had been right in his estimation as to their experience and likely skill. You could tell a man who had seen the elephant from one that was green or fresh simply by the look of him. How? For one thing, their appearance. Fresh replacements or those who had not been engaged in anything beyond fatigue details in the rear tended to maintain that clean and polished look. It might have driven some officers with delusions of regular army crazy, but troops in the field that truly knew their business, tended to look rough. Unshaven, uniforms askew with brass unpolished (or none left, having discarded it along the way), motley and surly looking when drawn up into formation. The greatest unspoken sign though, the one that truly told you if the man you were looking at could handle what the war would throw at him was how he held his musket. An experienced man, would never sling his musket if they were not in the rear--nor would he he allow the butt to rest on the ground if he was standing. Instead, their weapon was always held so as to make bringing it up to fire required the least amount of effort or time. As cliche as it was to say, an experienced man was one with his musket . He would sleep with it, eat with it, and rarely be out of contact with it. The fight out here in the West was often an impromptu affair, without so much of the arranged maneuvering and facing off as in the East. Here, small engagements erupted suddenly--violently and up close. Fights could come down to fists, musket butts and bayonets--and did on occasion. It was almost a nice change when the enemy was the shape of man some distance to be fired at with a prayer and as much luck of hitting anything--mostly the enemy was either unseen snipers or a man that was close enough to tell how long since last he had bathed. Dills felt a cyclone twisting in his gut, as he stood watching the enemy for any indication of their being aware of his men working their way along the berm. So far,it seemed they were in the clear--but then, one of them raised a musket and was sighting down the barrel at something. Dills heart began to race, Shoe was whispering loud in his ear--’Shit-shit Corporal, they see them! They must see Honan, we gotta fire!’--and then Shoe was cocking his musket. Dills slapped down Shoe’s musket with a derisive hiss, and rounded on the others.

“Take aim, but NO ONE fires unless I give the order!” he growled, turning back just as a shot rang out. One of the others in the outpost groused loudly at the waste of ammunition, until the man who had fired bounded forward and rose up with a fat groundhog from not far from the berm.

“Hey, gots us some decent eatin’ fer a change!” shouted the man with the groundhog, wandering back to the group with the bleeding animal hanging limp in his hand. Dills looked to the others and motioned for them all to lower their muskets. He could only imagine what Honan and Whitburn thought when they heard the shot, as he wiped cold sweat away from his face with the back of his arm. The shooter was cuffed by one of the others, and though not all of the conversation was easy to hear, it was obvious that this fellow was a newer addition to the group.

“...telling everyone we’re out here....think next time ‘fore you do somethin!” The man with the bleeding rodent shrugged and was patted on the shoulder. He set to skinning and dressing his kill, while the others resumed their watchful relaxation. Honan and Whitburn appeared back a moment later, the irishman smiling.

“Near shit myself when that musket went off!” he said with his usual familiar aire, shaking his head and spitting tobacco into the weeds. “Hello of a shot though--you see that groundhog? Big bastard, I mean he was..” Corporal Dills held up and hand and interrupted. “Swap congratulations with Johnny later--can we sneak out along the berm?” Honan looked sheepish, and shook his head. “We’d be covered to a point, but once we started off for home--they’d not only see us not far into it, but we’d have to have our backs to ‘em. I for one, aint gonna have that fella what shot that groundhog shooting at me unless I can see it coming!” Dills swore under his breath, and wandered back towards the gathered sacks of their scrounged supplies. They would have to fight their way out, and though they had the advantage--seeing at the enemy didn’t know they were there--two things nagged at him which he began to mentally turn over in his head. They were not far within enemy held territory, rather the sort of grey zone one found formed between lines--but that tended to be where one ran into the enemy. As such, they had no idea if there were other outposts nearby, nor if they would find themselves suddenly facing more enemies drawn once the shooting started. It was a risk, but he knew this would come to blood. And that, Dills found suddenly, was what bothered him most.

He had killed men. He wasn’t one to boast or find pride in that, and in truth it even bothered his conscience now and then. But, those men had died in battle. They had tried to kill him, as he tried to kill them. They had been fighting for ground or an objective--but it was someone else who made the choice to engage and fight for whatever it was they fought over. Now, he would be the one choosing to spill blood, and though he knew it ultimately was for the survival of his own men--it also was to protect and bring back supplies they had stolen. Would the supplies be useful--even necessary? Yes. But it struck Dills that this war, as awful as it had been, had finally reached the point of killing over stolen goods, and THAT bothered him. In the end, there was no choice, and he knew it. But he would remember this decision, and it further turned his stomach regarding scrounging--something he never had cared for to begin with. He briefly thought on if they might simply take the rebels captive,surprise them unawares--but the hard voice of his experience discarded that thought. It might assuage his guilt, make him feel better about what must be done, but there were too many things that could go wrong. Too many ways his men and himself might end up on the wrong end of things to take the chance. He frowned, and saw what he had before him. Saying a silent prayer and asking for forgiveness, He turned back to his men and gathered them together.

*****

Theodore Hailey Coulton was so happy, he could burst. His mother and father had meant well, he knew that, but at last he had escaped their will and joined up. Now here he was, a soldier, and serving alongside men that were real hard cases--veterans! Sure, he still tended to step wrong when ordered to march, he made mistakes of course! But these fellows, they knew their business,and he was learning from them everyday. Okay, so shooting that critter had drawn a little ire from Will, but hadn’t he remarked later what a great shot it was? No one said a cross word once that groundhog had started sizzling on the fire neither, and that was a fact. He sat back against the tree, his musket in hand as Joe had taught him, and looked about at these men who he secretly worshipped. They were real fighters, and he longed to be seen as one of them. So far, he was ‘boy’ to them--but that would change. He would earn his place here, if it was the last thing he did. Joe and Will were up watching, Henry Dowd and his brother Frank looking at the old letters from their mother. Daniel was turning the groundhog on the small fire they had, lord but that smelled good! They had been living off of the land a lot lately, since the damn Federals had cut their supply lines again. Seemed sometimes that the cavalry--which was supposed to work at protecting their supply lines--was truly good for nothing more than parades, like Joe said. Joe would know, he’d been the in regular army during the war with Mexico--and he looked it. Turning his head, Theodore saw Joe stop suddenly as he looked about into the gloom of dusk. As Joe started to turn to whisper to Will, a shot rang out and the side of his face was blown away. A  musket lead whizzed over the campfire and struck sparks from a rock not a foot away, while Will’s shout of alarm was cut short when a bullet tore through his chest and dropped him atop the Dowd brothers. Fear suddenly grabbed at Theodores throat,and he choked and sputtered as he flung himself across the ground in an effort to find cover. Henry was hit in the belly as he rose trying to get up from under Will, the well read letter from their mother scattering about. One of the pages fell into the flames, and was slowly consumed. Daniel rose and sighted on something before firing back, only to had a bullet skim off the top of his musket and through his right eye. He collapsed and began to scream horribly, thrashing about with his legs and kicking the groundhog fully into the fire. The smell of the meat intensified, and then changed as it burned and charred. Frank was trying to haul his brother away towards the woods, and Theodore lost sight of them when he heard and then felt a musket lead slam into his right shoulder. He was thrown down, and he ate dirt and grass, the pain not registering at all until he felt for his wound and came back with blood and chips of bone--his own. He vomited, wanting to go home--wishing he had never joined. Daniel lay with his feet in the fire now, no longer moving. A soldier appeared in the red light of the fire and dusky sky, he was compact and his eyes were hard. This was the enemy, Theodore thought as the man swung his musket and slammed the butt into his jaw. He heard a crack as his head snapped around, the world turned upside down, and then all was dark.

He felt himself floating, an irresistible urge to sleep.

He realized as he let go, and floated away into a place where he felt no more pain, that indeed he had made his place as one of them--as they last thing he did.

Across the Black River

To French, it almost felt as though he was caught in a nightmare. Sound seemed distorted, movement slowed and yet  everything was moving so fast at the same time--his vision narrowed to take in only the men around him. The enemy was drawn up in the large open field, standing in rows of patchwork quilt shades of color. The column burst from the thicket which screened them from the enemy in two places; officers growling orders, the sound of brogans pounding at the double quick as the snaking blue battle lines broke opposite before being roughly refused by shoving and barking sergeants. French was shoved into his place in line, the now familiar rush of feeling and clarity of awareness washing over him. Anxiety, excitement, fear, elation, the madness of the battlefield churned within him. He forced himself to breath, breathing out deeply with a sigh as lines of blue continued to double quick behind his row. “Bastards were just sitting here, waiting on us!” Someone said from down along the rank. French had to agree with the sentiments, though it left him with a sinking feeling he knew was widely shared. The rebels seemed in no rush to engage, and their position was such that they clearly had a good spot. In numbers, the odds favored the Federals some--unless of course the enemy had men in the trees which lined the far side of the field. A call sounded to fix bayonets; followed by a discordant symphony of steel drawn and clattering metal. Someone behind him slapped his shoulder, his touch bringing everything else out of focus for a moment. “Luck French--see you after!”

French smiled grimly. Orders were shouted which he hardly heard, but his body knew what came next, and he shouldered his musket along with the rest. The rebels eyed their lines, and suddenly the distance between them didn’t seem so far. Close enough, but across that short and deadly space fate awaited. Chance. Some men believed that if you were killed it was simply your time. French had lost such belief; for he had seen the waste and meaningless end of far too many. Death was random, and fell as often upon the undeserving as deserving. The line was standing firmly, but you could feel the pent up energy of the men all around them. It reminded French of the way you can feel a horse straining to move forward when halted after a canter, forcing itself to mind when nature demands something different. In this case though, the desire was to get through the task at hand--to survive--and many a man fought within himself the urge to seek cover or run. The order was given and the lines moved --their enemy raising muskets level in murderous intention. Some steps faltered then, but the lines continued forward across the field despite dread anticipation welling up like cool water from the depths of their thoughts. French was counting his steps, a habit which always seemed to come unbidden in moments like these. When he had counted his eighth step, the enemy opened fire.

*****

They say that in the heat of battle, everything slows down. Life is slow motion. Whomever ‘they’ are that says so, French decided, was wrong. The engagement seemed to happen in anything but slow motion, their lines moving across a field of screaming bullets and the smell of blood tinged with gunpowder. Before he knew it, he was reaching the tree line, chasing an enemy that had chosen to fall back. It seemed to him that he had slept through the moments from their first volley to now--having no clear recollection of when the enemy had started pulling back. It did not matter though; having seen the backs of their foe a frenzy had set in to the Federals, a bloodlust which seemed to erase the fear and uncertainty of their opening moments on the field which made sane men rush headlong without breaking stride.In his head a voice of reason was shouting for him to stop, but he ignored it--French was angry. His heart was pounding in his chest as he rushed headlong after the grey and brown clad enemy,  the underbrush nearly sending him sprawling but catching his footing with a shout of rage. No, you won’t escape me that way, he thought. Even if the land itself rises up and tries to halt my steps, I will have you! These were not men anymore to him, they were like prey now and he was the wolf--his fear of death and injury boiled away and leaving only a stabbing worry that they might escape and elude his wrath. Men were shouting, some on the verge of hysterical screaming as they charged on up a hardscrabble rise and into the edge of the trees. A volley met their charge--singing lead dropping men, leaves and branches with equal conviction. French slid to a halt amongst leaves, the smell of mildew and soil filling his nostrils as he brought his musket up. He tried to calm his breathing, sighting down the barrel at the back of a man who was doing his best to scramble away though the thin tree trunks. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, willing that the lead loaded within to seek his enemy. He would have liked to have said this was for all those that had died in this God forsaken campaign--a sacrifice to the frustration and senselessness of the war--but he knew better. Men don’t think of such lofty things in the blood, pain and dirt; vengeance rarely if ever encourages greater morality. He gently squeezed the trigger and the musket roared flame, smoke curling and drifting like phantoms amongst the trees. His target jerked forward, his musket clattered away as the man tumbled to the ground. French bit too low on the paper cartridge as he reloaded, spilling powder down his chin and filling his mouth with an acrid taste. Smoke billowed through the trees, as the wind changed and the combined discharge of musketry and cannon drifted heavy opaque around them. Everywhere came the crack and flash of weapons, and before long the smoke obscured the visibility of the field. As he returned the rammer to its place, French realized with a shock that he was wholly alone--but for the man he had shot down some distance before him. The heat within his heart ebbed, and utterly failed as he became aware of how exposed and alone he was. He turned, scanning what he could make out through the slow clouds which hung thick in the humid air, feeling his heart race. A noise from somewhere off before him pricked his ears, and French knelt on instinct. He sighted along the barrel, but the only movement which drew his aim proved to be the feeble attempts by the man he himself had shot down to crawl away. The snap-hiss of a musket lead passing too close forced him face down, eyes wide like a rabbit who has the scent of a fox but doesn’t know yet where he stands. A nearby tree suddenly erupted in a geyser of splinters and bark as bullets collided and cracked loudly in his ears. Sound was hard to distinguish, the sound of battle continuous all about but difficult to place for distance or direction. All at once it wasn’t so hard, and French brought his musket up best he could and sighted ahead as the movement of men became plain before dark shapes began to appear from the smoke. His courage failed him at the last moment and laying sprawled face down, he did his best not to breathe. So many, too many, he thought. I’m dead, he thought, run right by me. No one takes note of the dead, especially not ones enemy. Ignore me, run right on by me! The first pair of brogans went by what little he could see past the soil and his bent visor; the second stepped on his musket and pinched his fingers--but he stifled the shout of indignation stoically. Suddenly his plans were dashed, as the heavy thump of feet stopped behind him, and he felt hands upon his coat sleeve. Are they robbing me? Oh God, they will discover me now! He was flipped over, and sure he was about to be found out and made prisoner, he instead saw a familiar powder smeared face. At first the eyes held him in sorrow, but all at once the face broke into that lopsided grin and shouted--”Look, it’s French! I took you for dead, but you look alright! What happened?”

French blinked hard, and shook his head. “I tangled with that one there”, he said gesturing to the rebel whom he had shot down, “but I tripped and knocked myself silly. I’m alright Dawes, help me up.” He was pulled to his feet, and Dawes ushered him on back towards the lines.

“Nasty business ahead, and no doubt they will be coming in force back at us. Them bastards was drawin’ us in French--we got our dander up and charged ‘em alright--straight into a further mess of them formed up in ambuscade!” French looked at Dawes in surprise.

“More of them?”

“Thats right friend, plenty more--and organized. Only thing what saved us was our boys aint afeared of using cover and ducking! They peppered the trees but good though, and we all just lit off back. Lost a couple I’m sure, but it’ll be more further if we don’t get back!” He didn’t wait for his words to register, but followed along with others that came loping out of the fog of war back the way they had come. French looked back once with a sense of alarm towards the drifting opaque cloud before setting off quick after Dawes. Every step towards the relative brightness of the tree line he expected to hear the zip of lead chasing him, but only a heavy silence chased him into the open fields where officers and sergeants awaited with shouts and indignation.

“Sons of bitches! Get the hell back in line! Charging off like that--the fool thing to do!” Shouted someone as a hand roughly shoved him towards the reforming lines. French didn’t fight the rebuke, but fell in beside Dawes and nodded to a wave from Keller. It wasn’t immediately apparent who was missing simply because men kept appearing from points along the woods, so French stopped worrying about it and focused on checking his gear. In throwing himself down, he had lost some cartridges, but not too many. This is why--he chided himself--you always button up your box! As it turned out the sergeants were passing around extra ammo anyway, so he simply took a few more for himself. Sergeant Willingham appeared before them, with Spoonts and Erikson in tow. He cast his mean little eyes over the ranks for a moment before turning his head and launching spittle at the ground before him.

“French! You’re nominated, got a detail for you.” Dawes slapped his shoulder, and murmured a wish of ‘good luck’ quietly. Willingham started off towards the knot of officers where the Colonel was sure to be, French looking from Spoonts to Erikson for some sign of what he had been “nominated” for exactly. Spoonts simply looked ahead, while Erikson mouthed ‘no idea’. French swore silently to himself, and knew that his mother would be shocked to hear the curses her son had learned to use so well.

*****

“Simply put, I need to know the ground.” Shaw didn’t even look at them when he spoke, standing in what French imagined might be seen as a heroic pose if seen in some musty larger than life painting.

The Major nodded’ and looked to the Captain. The Captain frowned and turned to the Sergeant. Chain of command, French thought as he, Spoonts and Erikson stood nearby. The Captain nodded to Willingham and looked over the rest of them. “Use caution, no heroics Sergeant.” The Captain said stiffly.

Willingham nodded and saluted. “We have no idea where the enemy is, and I must know!” Added Colonel Shaw stamping his foot--the petulance of the Colonel’s action gave a sudden fire to his frustration and dislike for the man, and French lost all control.

“Begging your Colonel’s pardon, Sir,” French spat staring hard at Shaw’s back, “but the enemy is just over there--”. Willingham was trying to shout him down, whilst the Major was going red in the face--but French would not be stopped. “--and according to those that just saw them, Sir, they are coming en masse.”  

Sergeant Willingham shoved him hard into place, and was frothing at the lips in a low guttural growl  until the Colonel gently elbowed his way to stand before French himself. The officers cool blue eyes scanned his own, a slight smirk showing at the corner of his thin lips. “You will forgive me Private, if I desire to have such reports verified. I have only seen those enemy which were engaged here, and pursued against orders into the wood. I require more intelligence before I commit my forces to engagement.” Shaw turned and looked hard at Captain Arkins, and then gestured towards French dismissively.

“This, Captain is an example of why discipline is so necessary in ranks. I can see that Colonel Hubbard has been too lax with his officers--it shows so keenly in the temper of the men. Major, I want my report as soon as it may be had. I won’t be caught unawares by the enemy!” The Colonel turned and stepped back towards where some maps had been arranged upon a stump, making it evidently clear that they were dismissed. The Major frowned and Sergeant Willingham was already shoving them away, leaving Captain Arkins standing with a look of absolute fury as he stared off in no particular direction. When the Sergeant had led his detail out of sight of the officers, he suddenly rounded on French and jammed the butt of his musket into his gut. The air was driven suddenly from French, and doubling up he collapsed to his knees with a wet sounding grunt followed by a wheezing cough. Spoonts backed off and watched with great round eyes, but Erikson and knelt down and threw an arm around French as Willingham stood menacingly over them. “Sergeant! There was no call--” Spat Erikson before the Sergeant interrupted with a bark. “Shut your mouth or I’ll give you one too--and French! One more boy, one more time out of line and so help me I’ll see you beaten to mush--I swear to God! Now get up, we have work to do!” Willingham didn’t wait, but turned and started for the treeline, Spoonts falling in behind him eagerly.

“That weren’t right, he had no call to strike you like that.” Growled Erikson as he helped French to his feet. After a few steps French was sore but able to carry on himself, and they jogged half-heartedly after the Sergeant. French coughed, and shook his head.

“I’m more worried that that bastard Shaw won’t listen to the word of a man that saw how the ground lies already. We shouldn’t be here Erikson,” The Sergeant and Spoonts ducked into the trees ahead of them as French frowned. “We are gonna wish we never was before this is over.”

Erikson just nodded, and the pair passed under the branches into the dimness beyond. Willingham was looking back for them, and waved for them to come along quick. The four of them spread out, muskets held low and ready. It was moving into late afternoon now, and the shadows were thick under the trees. Smoke still drifted in dense clouds, making the view before them into nothing more than grey hazy outlines. Every sound was magnified, and French would have sworn that the others must have been able to hear the pounding of his heart, but he knew that wasn’t so. A snap of a twig made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and all four dropped to a knee as one. French peered hard into the trees and gauzy smoke, but could see nothing. They started forward once more, and soon came upon the man that French had shot down himself, turned to one side on the forest floor. Willingham kicked him, savagely--then grunted in satisfaction that he was in fact, dead. He wasn’t terribly old, this dark haired pale man-- who had been the enemy and now looked simply rather sad and forlorn as French looked down at him. Spoonts went over, and immediately started to rifle through the dead man’s pockets under the watchful gaze of the Sergeant. Spoonts held something in his hands for a moment, showed it to Willingham before tossing it callously away into the brush. French reached down and retrieved it, discovering a small crude frame holding a cracked image of a woman with dark soulful eyes. Erikson watched about nervously, Spoonts simply announced that the dead man had nothing of value on his body, and Willingham called that they should move forward a little further. French looked at this man whom he himself had shot, and felt a sudden fatigue to the depth and core of himself. Erikson looked back, and cocked his head.

“You coming?” He did not seem to notice the man, dead before them. French felt the fatigue turn cold within him, and allowed the object in his hand to fall without a sound at his feet. He nodded and followed after the others--the soulful eyes of the woman in the image staring on into the sky.

In the end  the enemy had pulled back, leaving only the man they had come across in the trees as evidence of what the second platoon claimed they had run into during their charge. They had been lucky to this point, and though there were a few men with grazes and shoulder wounds, the regiment was still largely in good order. As they returned from their scout, the column was in a state of preparation and it was easy to see why--a great drifting cloud of dark thick smoke was rising just off on the horizon from just about where the bridges were located. Willingham swore, and shoved the three of them back to get into line.

*****

The enemy, wily as ever, had engaged them in an attempt to delay their advance towards the bridges so as to give sappers time to destroy the crossing. The column stood in a wide cleared field which ran to rutted mud and pebbles close to the water, watching as the tall wooden supports and remaining bridge decking smoldered--or in some places still burned with a hiss and pop. Several empty barrels lay strewn near the waters edge, the remains of the pitch which the enemy had lain over the bridges to ensure that little would halt the fire’s work once begun. The sudden disappearance of the enemy now made perfect sense to French, as he wrinkled his nose against the lingering acrid smoke made vile by the presence of pitch. The men might have felt inclined towards venting the rage at finding their objective destroyed had the Colonel not been so magnificently engaged in doing so himself in plain view of everyone. He stood half in and half out of the water, swearing loudly and waving his sword about so that his officers were wisely inclined to await his pleasure some distance back. Willingham was scanning the ranks, daring anyone to smirk or chuckle at the Colonel’s display. At last, Shaw seemed to have shed his demons, for he quieted down and stood for a bit simply staring at what was left of the bridges as the brown water coiled and swirled past. When his sword had been returned to its scabbard with a faint snap, his officers approached him--but cautiously. They conferred, leaving the men still standing as before in the setting sun and humidity. Dawes whispered to no one in particular that ‘that was that’, but French didn’t think so. The bridges were gone, but the Colonel remained. In short order there was a call for the battalion to stand at attention, and they were marched to form a crescent facing the destruction. As French turned with the others to front, he knew his suspicions were about to be proven true.

The Colonel paced as he waited for the evolutions of protocol to come to an end, and everyone stood quietly watching him. For a moment he simply stared about, and then all at once he took a deep breath and spoke loudly for all to hear. “As you can see, the enemy was here before us.” He turned a moment and looked hard at the smoldering ruin, before taking up a slow pacing to and fro before the assembled men. “I am very disappointed in you all--ashamed of the conduct of this battalion!” Spittle flew from his lips, and French felt the words like a slap across his face. Glancing to his side he could see many of the men felt the same. Ashamed of their conduct? What had they done, but follow orders?

The Colonel continued unabashedly. “I don’t know what sort of command you are used to--I suspect one lacking in professional merit--but this will change! This failure is yours--and I expect better!” There were some grumbles now, but they went unheard by the Colonel and the sergeants silenced any further efficiently. “This is the United States Army, by God!” Shaw half screamed it, but then seemed to gain his composure and straightened his blouse before looking to Captain Arkins and barking--”We camp here tonight. See to it Captain!” Arkins saluted smartly, and somewhere in the ranks French heard a soldier mutter a curse.

Their camp, such as it was, proved comfortable enough. It may simply have been that everyone was so exhausted that anywhere would have done as well, but French had found it was best not to examine such things too closely. For one thing, who had the energy to do so--and if it proved lacking, what could you truly do about it? He tented with Dawes, Erikson and Grady, and after a great deal of trial and error they found a way to button together their shelter halves so that everyone was happy. Grady proved his worth in returning with an armload of cattail leaves which made for dandy bedding--though the ever quiet man merely nodded when lavished with praise. French wanted so badly to remove his brogans, but hesitated. If they were called upon to move suddenly, he might regret doing so. In the end, he couldn’t stand it and removed them anyway. There was a hush from the others, but shortly they too followed suit and all four of them moaned with the pure pleasure of release from confinement.

“That’s the first I’ve had them off since we went in the river and I had to dry them out.” Mused Dawes, rubbing his feet with a shiver.

“Smells like it too.” Smiled Erikson, and everyone chuckled. Everyone began to stretch out, men finding comfort for themselves half tangled up with others and not caring. It reminded French of his youth, and sharing a bed with his three younger siblings. He suddenly wondered how they were--and where now in this never ending affair. He gave a silent prayer for them, trying not to think of them any other way but well and whole. “You know”, French mused quietly,”I cannot for the life of me recall the faces of my brothers.” It was silent a moment as everyone chewed that over. To his surprise, it was Grady that answered. “You’ll see them again, and you’ll realize that you never forgot them--not really.” French puzzled on that response a moment, and would have answered but Grady rolled to his side and pulled his cap over his eyes. No one else spoke, and so French held his tongue--listening instead to the soft breathing of Erikson beside him, already asleep. The sky was was growing red-orange, and somewhere nearby someone was snoring to wake the dead. French thought a moment of the woman in the broken photograph and closed his eyes. No he decided, even that noise would never wake the dead.

The next morning they broke camp, eating cold rations on the march under a sky which promised rain. The Colonel was in fine form, and seemed quite recovered from the day before. A place where the river could be forded was found a short ways upstream, though it meant that everyone was to be wet through once more. Accoutrements and musket over his head, French followed in ranks through the chest deep water--cold snapping him awake--and up the other bank. They appeared to be headed back, which was good--but on the opposite side of the river. There was trading of whispers and prognostication of course amongst the men as to what they were doing exactly, but no one could guess. They broke from the brush and woods by late afternoon and found themselves on a road--an honest to goodness road--and as the whole of the battalion marched the sound seemed to bring the men to life. They stood taller, wet and caked in mud, but fierce and determined. French felt it, a surge within him of energy and purpose. Something about the sound of their marching feet reminded them that they were one--and for that time the aches of feet and shoulders were forgotten. As they turned a bend in the well pack earthen roadway, they saw a town before them--no, more a village nestled along the river. Still, it boasted some taller buildings of good masonry, and French thought they must be warehouses or some such regarding the river. Men whispered at the sight of the settlement--like explorers returned to civilization after being lost in some wild place--as they passed a small farm where an elderly woman halted rocking on the porch and watched them with some surprise. Three children were working a small garden near the house, and each one gathered up their things and scurried towards the back of the house. French wasn’t sure which side this community was one--he knew this area had quite a few pockets of Union loyalists--but when the order came for arms port, he felt a little better being prepared. Women and children surely were no threat--but what if there were others out of sight? They marched but a short way before they were halted, and platoons were divided and dispatched from the column to search the town and grounds for signs of rebel activity. For once, Shaw’s orders were not met with grumbling--if they were going to be here any amount of time, everyone wanted to be sure there weren’t any enemy sharpshooters just waiting to take a shot on them. The platoons peeled from the column from the rear of the battalion, and so French didn’t see but only heard the old woman shouting at someone as she took them to task for bothering ‘decent folk’. The musicians played a simple beat at the order of the Colonel, which somehow sounded all the more intimidating as the drum beats echoed back from the buildings which rose up around them. People were gathering now, a few here and there at first--but shortly little clusters formed in doorways to the warehouses and one near a small inn and tap house whose sign named it ‘Plow and Dell’. Colonel Shaw strode erect, followed by his officers and the colors--French glanced around at high windows and he marche, his gut clenched as he wondered if they might be under an enemy rifle even now. A tall,plainly dressed man in a simple coat and vest broke away from the group near the taphouse and approached the Colonel with his hands clearly visible--Shaw halted and nodded to the man. Eyes fixed on them, ready for trouble--the journey behind them and its troubles near to their minds, and no chances taken. Above him and slightly behind, there was movement suddenly from a window in the warehouse,and someone shouted ‘He’s armed!’ as half of the second platoons muskets turned and there was a short volley followed by the sound of shattering glass. That was the last that French could honestly speak to with any clarity. In times later, he would try very hard to understand how the events had unfolded afterward--but it was a blur. Someone was shouting ‘Don’t shoot!’--as the smoke of the first volley tumbled down amongst them--they heard what they thought was musket fire and suddenly everyone simply leveled and opened up. Dawes was attacked by someone,and seeing his struggling French fired at near point blank and blew the mans head away in a jet of flame. Dawes just stood looking down at the dead man as French and others poured into the warehouses in search of the enemy. Everywhere was shouting, somehow a fire had started in the second of the large masonry buildings along the river, and now thick black smoke drifted everywhere. French followed two lads he didn’t know up a flight of stairs and through several long hallways.One of the two ahead of him crashed hard through a green door, and into a room shouting ‘He was in here, I know it!’.

French ran through the doorway, only to stop suddenly when he found the pair standing still in the room before him.His feet crunched in shards of window glass as he peered around the two soldiers he did not know. A boy, not much more than 12 or 13 lay curled up on the floor in a slowly expanding pool of blood. Laying at his side, the fabric furled in a tight roll about the dark colored pole, was a flag--the Federal emblem, Old Glory--slowly soaking in the pool of blood.

“It was a flag Johnson--son of a bitch, it was a flag!” Shouted the younger man. The other, whom French assumed must be Johnson just shook his head as he mumbled--”It was a musket, I saw it in his hand as he started out the window...I saw it...I saw it....”. French stumbled back into the hall, suddenly sick. Outside he heard shouting, a scream broke through that and then more musket fire. Johnson and the other soldier came into the hall, looking at him only briefly before trotting off back towards the stair. After one last look at the dead boy, French followed them. The lower floor was engulfed in smoke now as well as the fire he had seen from next door was spreading to this building--he hardly noticed as he came back into the street again. Someone was cuffing him hard across the head suddenly, and then he was shoved into ranks--The Colonel standing with his revolver drawn and held expectantly at his side. The man French had seen previously in the plan coat and vest lay dead in the gravel behind Shaw--flames were beginning to break through the windows of the other warehouse. Dawes laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him. “Why French?! Why did you shoot him?!” No words came to his mind, but he saw the boy curled up with the Federal Flag slowly drinking up blood--a boy shot because someone thought he had a musket. Dawes just stared hard at him, and shook his head.”Why French?! These people are Unionists, that man was begging us to stop shooting!” Willingham shoved Dawes, and told him to shut up--the battalion was called to attention and everyone fell into place. Nothing made sense to French anymore.

The fire was a red and orange monster, which danced among the tall brickworks of what had been warehouses along the river. Dusk was coming on, and the sergeants had to shout loudly over the roar of the fire as it consumed goods, timber and masonry--orange and yellow reflected from the green-grey water of the river. Ash fell upon their shoulders like black snowflakes, as their column marched away from the billowing smoke. A man, whose coat was scorched in places, shouted at them in a voice hoarse with emotion--but the soldiers steeled themselves as best they could. French couldn’t hear him over the thoughts within himself. The man wept as an ember fell and slowly burned on his shoulder--before the smoke billowed about and he was lost to view. As the column marched across the rough street and further on the road that took them out of town, the light of the fires cast their shadows across the ground ahead of them. The shadows danced, and altered in the flickering blaze--sometimes the shapes of men, and other times reminiscent of devils.

“Keep on boys--I know you are torn over it, but what been done is beyond making different.” Said a sergeant as he walked along the column to the left. “It’s war, and it is a cruel thing.”

What makes a man cruel, French thought suddenly, or war so horrible? He caught a glimpse of Spoonts, jealously examining a gold watch he had clearly stolen--and then Dawes, whose eyes ran with tears and whose face was a mask of misery and grief. Which was he in the end, if measured against the realities of this war which would leave his generation a scar that would never fully heal. He could not answer his own question, and hanging his head, French simply concentrated on making each step on the road before him.

Along the Black River

 He had been frightened before as a soldier--but never so much as he was that night.

They had been packed onto steamers--cramped but most men finding ways to achieve sleep all the same--working their way along in the growing dark. The battalion had set off at dusk, taken a passable meal of pre-cooked beans and salt beef, and settled into the rocking gait of the pair of riverboats as they made their way to where they were told the new campaign was going to begin. The landing they had been bound for was just within the area of control of the enemy; but as usual, anyone below a lieutenant knew next to nothing about their ultimate objective or intentions.

Though it rankled them to admit to the fact, for the most part it was not truly necessary most of the time for the vast majority of the army to know more than when to show up. The rank and file knew this, but admitting to it would not have been as easy. But whatever plans may have guided them as they swayed in the dark of the moonless night aboard their respective steamers, such things mattered little after the first explosion. A torpedo, anchored in the muddy depths to float just above the surface, struck the Zephyr at the starboard bow and exploded, raining water and wreckage. Men shouted from the burning foredeck, some injured and some simply in shock. The pilot of the Zephyr steered as best he could, but ultimately the craft chose its own way and grounded itself against the port side shore with a great splintering sound. The impact shook still more men loose from the deck, bodies splashed into the shallows and against the sandy banks. The second steamer, the Greek Laurel, pulled hard away to port and escaped hitting a torpedo itself, but caused many on the decks to tumble and curse with the force of its turn. In short order the search for the injured and overboard commenced with eagerness, so that within an hour of their hitting the torpedo only one man was wholly unaccounted for. They had lost three men in the initial blast, with two others who were sure to pass on from their wounds. During their search they came upon two further men who had drowned when they went overboard. There were eleven wounded by flying splinters and debris, but in that respect they had been fortunate for everyone agreed it might have been worse.  All the same, it was well after midnight before everyone was assembled upon the shore. A guard was posted, and fires were lit to help dry out those that had ended in the river. The night did not pass well, and as expected the severely wounded passed on before dawn. They buried their dead beside the river, and marked them as best they could. Leaving their comrades behind in that place seemed wrong--but it wasn’t the first time they had had to do so. They were bound for a strategically important pair of crossings (General Staff parlance for “We want it, but you have to risk your lives to get it”) up river almost eight miles from where they had struck the torpedo, and everyone assumed it wouldn’t be a leisurely walk.

*****

A mile into their march, as the column was winding along the rutted road through the gentle hills and farmers fields, they came under fire. The first shots whizzed loudly overhead, and well experienced men in the ranks dropped to their knees or found what cover there was. The second group of shots found those who were not as quick, and two men cried out with head and shoulder wounds. The front of the column came into a firing line facing the clump of trees from which the enemy had fired, and discharged a volley of lead which tore bark and leaves into the air. One man scurried away from the copse, his head down and an greyish musket clutched in his hand as he ran seeking the safety cover behind the hill. Muskets erupted all along the ranks, unbidden and without orders as the Federals strove to halt the enemies escape. Dirt and dust shot up in geysers all around the rebel as he sprinted towards the top of the hill, when suddenly the man jerked hard backwards in place as a bullet ripped through him, and he fell hard into the soil. His body jumped several more times as men continued to take shots at him, before the officers and sergeants finally regained control and forced them by words and fists to cease fire. George French was shoved from behind, making him trot forward out of the ranks. He looked back to see who had pushed him, only to come toe to toe with sergeant Willingham who gruffly made it clear he was to follow him. The sergeant called out three others from the line, and they jogged out towards the copse--muskets at the low ready position with bayonets fixed. The few tangles of branches and wild grapevine gave way before them with little effort, revealing two of those whom had fired upon the column. French wondered at the motivation which would encourage three men to fire on a column of almost 1200--did they not know the odds against their escape? As if reading into his thoughts, the sergeant shook his head.

“What a waste--but there will be more of them about, and like as not nearer than we’d like. French! Look them over, see if you can figure out who we are dealing with here. Garman, you hike over the hill there and look that fella that run. Get moving, lazy ass!”

Garman set off at a trot, and French leaned his musket against a tree as he knelt down near the first of the two dead rebels. He wasn’t squeamish, but French always felt a little disrespectful of the man who had once inhabited the body by rummaging through his pockets and personal things. He set items taken from the first mans pockets on his back, and tried to resist the guilt he felt when he came across a small carte-de-visite. He avoided looking at the image, and having come up with nothing suggesting this mans regimental affiliation, he stepped over and started on the other man. French found what he was seeking right off, a letter which clearly listed this man’s regiment--they were dealing with the 27th Arkansas dismounted cavalry. He passed the letter to the sergeant’s impatient grasp, and stepped back.

“I’ll take this is the first sergeant, let’s go. McCree, go fetch back Garman to the lines. If he found anything more with his man over on the hill, be sure to have him report to me.”

As the remaining men turned to go, Private Spoonts stepped forward and took up a pocket watch from the pile on one of the bodies--but stopped in his tracks as the sergeants grating voice shouted aloud.

“Spoonts, you no good thief! Put that back and get back in line or so help me--”

The threat need not be completed, for Spoonts immediately apologized to no one in particular and dropped the watch where he stood. Willingham watched them go, before stooping and collecting what treasures he could for himself.

*****

The going was even slower after the events at the copse, made worse by the change in terrain as they continued along the road. The open fields gave way to close tree lined,winding roads offering little visibility. The entire group was stopped for quite some time while the officers conferred in a bunch discussing the reports of the 1st company (which had been sent ahead to scout the road). The battalion was left to stand in the open road, a position which did not please the men very well at all--between the warmth of the sunshine and their lack of cover from rebel muskets which some had begun to suspect lurked in every stand of growth. French lifted one foot, and then the other in a vain hope of relieving the cramp and ache which was setting into his legs. Ahead of him in ranks, Benton Erikson settled down to one knee with a groan and sighed.

“Gods mercy--what are we doin’ here?”

“Waiting.” Came a reply from some smart-mouth along the line. It sounded like Michael Wade, but French wasn’t sure. Either way, one of the sergeants spat--”Quiet in the ranks!”--but that only held for a few moments.

“Hey, Erikson--you see them peacocks up there?” Called the familiar voice of Taylor from up front.

“I can’t see anything but Scott’s backside!” Shouted Erikson as Scott looked back with an expression of concern.

“Well, them peacocks are conferring--but the funny part is they aint even including the boys what brought the reports--you know, them what actually been forward of the column and have some idea of what is up ahead there.” Spat Taylor. There were general grunts suggesting this news wasn’t really all that much of surprise from the men in the ranks then, quieted once more by the sharp voices of more than one the sergeants for silence. This time the obedience to command lasted almost a full minute before the conversation resumed in earnest.

“Figures, what with that Shaw fella up there.” Said Powell sourly. A chorus of agreement followed from nearly every man in the section, and even French nodded his approval.

Colonel Timothy Shaw--former regular U.S. Army--had been recently added to their battalion as a temporary replacement for their own Colonel Hubbard. Hubbard was an influential and affable sort, and had been requested by Governor Swift to oversee the state’s recruitment of men to serve as replacements in currently formed regiments. Given that this matter was one which Colonel Hubbard had previously made himself a thorn in the flesh of the powers that be, he couldn’t very well refuse the request. Before leaving, Hubbard had arranged that the entire 5th Minnesota would be left to garrison and reclamation work at the depot in Vicksburg--which should have avoided trouble for his boys while he was away. But alas, such is life in the army--for not one week had passed before Colonel Shaw had been assigned by the powers that be and their quiet days forgotten. It had begun with drill, which in itself wasn’t unfamiliar to them--until they realized that their new master desired a level of perfection which seemed to border on maniacal obsessiveness. Used to long, but tolerable sessions of manual of arms, the men were soon treated to all day affairs of drill followed by terse dressings down when the Colonel was displeased--which apparently was most of the time. As such it wasn’t long before Shaw was universally disliked, and in some quarters down-right hated. The events of the day were not helping to improve the general opinion of the man. At long last, the column was brought to attention and started off again. It seemed that the decision had been made to march ahead, though no real explanation or intended plan was offered beyond the evidence of their own observations. In truth--even with Hubbard--this was nothing new, but it was easy to heap one’s discomfort upon an unpopular scapegoat. Two hours on, they emerged from the closeness of the woods unscathed by the rebels--but hot, tired, and having been devoured by biting flies and mosquitoes. There was still better than 3 miles to traverse, and with the heat of the day closing in the general desire was for rest and food. Command would not hear of it, and so they continued on.

The road here was sandy in places, and had returned more to follow the river. While the tall stands of trees were gone, a ratty density of shrubs and marshy land occupied the land through which they traveled.

“Pleasant country.” Said Powell sarcastically.

“Ain’t so bad,” said Hardee beside him, a cock-eyed grin on his scruffy young face. “At least the breeze gets in now and then, keeps them blasted flies and blood-suckers off.”  He was right at least in this, and Powell nodded. Another benefit was that, by Divine intervention or simply a fluke, the pace had at last been ordered to the route step so that the men might rest their muskets as they pleased. It wasn’t that marching in common time was so grueling in and of itself, but simply that there is nothing that pleases a soldier so much as variety and a perceived sense that they were being allowed some choice. French worked the sling as he wandered along in the ranks, extending the well weathered leather so he could carry it over his shoulder. Beside him, Donnelly was flexing his right hand with a grimace.

“Can’t hardly feel my arm anymore, you know?” Ahead of them, Burton spat a snide comment of some sort-but Donnelly simply told him off. At last a halt was called, and a general groan escaped the column.

“Quiet in the ranks!” Said Willingham from his place along the outside of the column. The men grumbled, but obeyed. Word came along the line that everyone was to relax and eat what marching rations they had. Luckily they were pretty well supplied that way, and the near-waterproof qualities of their tarred haversacks had largely protected their rations from the river. Drinking water though, was running low.

“Maybe two--maybe three more good swallows. That’s all I got left.” Said Powell as he replaced the stopper in his canteen. Whitlock chewed his salt pork beside him, a little grease glistened in the corner of his mouth. As the afternoon dawned with a cloudy sky which shrouded the sun, the heat of the day did not dissipate much and everywhere men did whatever they could to keep cool. Some used precious water to soak neck-stocks or handkerchiefs, others unbuttoned blouses as far as they could get away with in ranks.

“What do you think?” Asked Dawes looking first at the grey water of the marsh and back at French. “It’s scummy, but might be alright enough to drink.” French shook his head, but it was Donnelly that answered.

“Yeah, you go on and drink that! We’ll be leaving you in a quick dug bed and tucking you in with a crude marker from the Flux or fever you’d get close after!”

“He’s right,” Added Burton with his sour frown, “use yer head fer more than a place to set yer hat!” Tempers were short in the heat, and Donnelly was quick to round on Burton at the best of times.

“Shut that hole of yours, or I’ll feed you a fist--you sour shite!” Donnelly had hardly said the words before the lines became a tangle of the pair of men squirming through others trying to grapple with the other. Whitlock caught an elbow in the side of the head and nearly bit his tongue through, as the noise of this donnybrook quickly was drowned out by the shouts of support for various parties and the calls for a return to ranks and order. Sergeants arrived quickly, followed by the Lieutenant and Captain Arkins. The shouting died first, and soon the sergeants had the bruised Burton and Donnelly held between them. Sergeant Harris had lost his cap and taken a good slap across the face, evidence of which was already showing itself in a raw and swollen upper lip. The Captain was about to draw the participants away from the mob of the column when  Colonel Shaw arrived followed by Sergeant Willingham and Captain Sheehan of Company C. Captain Arkins grimaced a moment but then came to attention and saluted the Colonel smartly.

“Colonel Shaw, Sir--” Was all the captain was able to say before Shaw began shouting.

“What in God’s name is going on here Captain!? This is outrageous Sir, I have never seen such behavior in ranks before--I demand an explanation!”

There was a stunned silence for a moment, and instinctively the ranks reorganized themselves into order--and although none turned their heads to watch the situation unfold, all attention was there nonetheless. “Colonel Shaw Sir, I was about to remove the pair involved in the fight and--”.

“You mean to tell me that when I was drawn from discussing our options forward, you had still not dealt with these miscreants? That even now at this point--when I have been forced to intervene--the guilty have not yet been dealt with?”

The Captain was quiet for a moment, clearly composing himself. The Colonel took his pause for indecision. “I don’t know how Hubbard deals with you..lot..but I can see clearly that discipline is lacking in this battalion--we’ll soon see to that! Sergeant!” 4th Sergeant Willingham, who had somehow found his way to prominence with Colonel Shaw, stepped up smartly. “We have our volunteers it seems.” Shaw turned his pale blue gaze back on Captain Arkins, who was slightly red in the cheeks. “I understand the men are low on water--clearly poor planning before this campaign was set into motion by command--and though it is a waste of my time and puts our objective at risk of accomplishment--I have decided to allow a detail to be formed to find a water source and refill canteens. These two men of yours will assist with that detail Captain, until I can think of an appropriate punishment for their lack of order here. I am disappointed in you Captain.” Colonel Shaw spun away from Arkins without further words, followed by Sheehan and sergeant Willingham who shoved Burton and Donnelly along ahead of him.

“What a jackass!” Mumbled Keller, before being rounded on by the Captain.

“Watch you mouth, private! The rest of you, back in line! Lieutenant, sergeant Harris--come with me.” He did not wait, but stalked away with a black look on his face. A pregnant hush fell over the column, men looking from one to the other but not uttering a sound. The column started forward again, and as he fell back into the step, George French began to feel a sense of growing dread. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was which caused this, but with each step it seemed to grow  more certain within him that they were marching towards something which would prove ill for them all.

*****

Donnelly and Burton had been sent forward to scout ahead with sergeant Willingham, and reconnoiter the short distance to the objective. It was early evening, and overhead swallows continued to swirl and swoop in the humid air. Thunderheads were sighted on the horizon, slowly building as the sky changed from blue to purple-magenta. Crickets became louder all around them, as the orange light of the setting sun leaked through the scrubby undergrowth. French leaned his musket against his shoulder, stretching his legs out before him and and flexing his toes despite the cramping pain it brought. He wanted desperately to to remove his brogans, but experience told him the folly of that. There was distance yet to travel, so this was no time to get overly comfortable. Someone apparently thought that they would be waiting some time, for a call went along the row that fires out to be lit but kept small and hidden. No one made a move to do any such thing--the ground was spongy and any kindling in reach was green. The best they might accomplish with conditions as they were would be smoke in their eyes and frustration for their labor--not to mention marking their position fairly obviously to anyone with even the most basic skills of observation. Men cursed the foolishness of officers in general--and Shaw in specifics. If he had been disliked before, this adventure was not helping his status much. In that, French reserved his venom somewhat--while Shaw was, without question, a royal pain in the ass--the Colonel also had orders to follow. French felt almost a hypocrite for a moment with such thoughts, but a sudden tap on the shoulder from Dawes quickly pushed that from his mind.

“They’re getting meaner to look on.” He said with a nod to the cloud system before them. “It’s gonna be rain tonight, you can bet on that.” French watched the clouds a moment and nodded in turn. “No bet there, not a fair one anyway. I ‘spose we’d be wise to get our gums pulled free from our gear.” Dawes smirked and shook his head.

“Only problem--” French nodded and finished Dawes thought.

“Most of us don’t have gum blankets anymore thanks to the explosion on the river--much of our gear went into the water.”

Dawes coughed. “I guess we will get wet later.”

“What else is new.” Shrugged French.

“The shine is off this, that’s for sure!” Groused Dawes, looking off into the distance as men moved about them. “I’ve about had enough of this war, officers, and the whole stinkin’ mess!”

French nodded, and patted Dawes shoulder. What more could he do? They were stuck--trapped between a sense of duty to their country and each other, and the moronic cold dirty hungry fatigue of the day to day grind which everyone grew to despise. There was always someone that would grumble about not being able to take it anymore, threats that soon they would light out and quit. French had thought about it more than once--he supposed that everyone had if they were honest with themselves. The men settled down as best they could, as a stiff breeze rattled through the trees above them while storm clouds rolled on over the horizon. They were fortunate at last--it did not rain--but French woke to being shaken by someone, and the panicked whisper “gear up, we’re falling in!”. The light was greyish-blue, the color of the last hours before the dawn finally claimed victory over night. French coughed, and rolled over to his knees, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. He pushed the sleep back within his mind; a trick universal to soldiers and (or so his own mother used to claim) new parents, and began to arrange himself to fall in. Others were doing likewise, and a pregnant hush hung over the camp driven with the like purpose of many minds aware of a common requirement. It was not yet at the point of the sergeants yelling, or even rousting some of the slower men to action with the toe of their brogans, but French felt the urgency as he slung his cartridge box strap over his shoulder and buckled his waist belt on over it. He grabbed his musket in one hand, and arranged the wayward parties of bayonet and cap box with the other as he made his way to fall in. Half of their number was already in place, and as always those that had been farmers before the war fared best by representation. Skilled labor and those who had made a living with their hands came next--the clerks, students, homebodies and civilized folks tended to wander in later--usually chased into ranks by the more zealous sergeants. French felt Dawes rearranging his straps for him from the rank behind, and turned a head.

“Your box strap was all twisted.” Said Dawes, as French felt a sudden release of tension across his chest.

“Thanks.”

“Fella might think you got yerself up in a hurry and threw this on!”

“He’d be right too. Any idea?” There was no reason to explain between them, Dawes had been in that space behind French for nearly every formation. Though of course in the mythical evolutions of parade maneuvering, he often wasn’t by the time that the company was arranged and engaging--something French had simply stopped trying to understand for the pain it tended to cause to his head. There was a pause, but Dawes spoke before French repeated himself.

“They spotted the rebels, and they mean to fix them in place and thrash them a bit.”

French chuckled. “What a way to say a thing--’fix and thrash ‘em’ huh?”

“Straight from the corporal passing a moment ago, I swear.”

“Don’t do that now, I’d rather you were wrong anyway!” Several fellows around chuckled at that, and someone to his right added ‘Amen to that!’, but French suspected it would prove true alright. The sergeants were starting to get testy at last with dawdlers, and the first of the officers had arrived before them. The ranks began to quiet, as every man began to check over his gear and ammunition. Some men checked on another, others passed extra rounds or caps amongst their comrades when they were found to be lacking.

It wouldn’t be long. 

Continued in "Across the Black River"...