Fight it out of this line, or go up!

He chewed the end of the cigar, and rolled his tongue about to spit the loose bits of tobacco leaf at his feet. It was hot--damn hot for so early in May--and he took his hat off to swab his face with a handkerchief. Around him stood his staff, hand-picked and proven boys all. He trusted them, and they him. That probably was one of the greatest joys to him, helping to ease slightly the nagging self-doubt which plagued his private thoughts. He had failed a great deal in his life; being a civilian for him had not been easy--not that he had truly loved being a soldier either during his days at the Point. “Some men fight the harness and bit all their lives,” his father used to say--it seemed maybe that he was one of those.

General Grant lifted the field glasses to his eyes again, and scanned the ridges beyond. Jackson, subdued and occupied, was quiet--but he knew better than to think Joe Johnston would have moved far off. That man was no fool, and he had sand when push came to shove. Grant lowered the field glasses and pointed to the road which wound off to the right. “That is which--the Canton Road?”

“Yes Sir, The Canton Road is there, Sir. Over that way, about 4 miles distant is the Raymond-Edwards Road.” Major Morgan pointed with his long arm to the two roads--first one, then the other--and stood looking out at the distance.

“You look tired, Major,” remarked the General, bringing the field glasses to his eyes again.

“It’s been a jaunt General, but I’m fit to serve.” Grant looked at the bearded Major and nodded with a smile. Colonel Rawlins strode up with a message and saluted as he extended his other hand with the written order. The General took it and nodded acknowledgement of the salute.

“John, how are you fairing?” Colonel Rawlins only smiled. General Grant read over the report and crossed to a campaign table which had been set out by his aides, jotting down a response before passing it back to the Colonel.

“Take that back straight away Colonel, if you will.”

The Colonel nodded and saluted. “Of course General, my pleasure.” The officer set off, General Grant watching him briefly before clearing his throat. The day to come was going to be rough and dangerous for his men, but he couldn’t think of them for now. There was work to be done, and that was that for all the blood that likely was soon to be spilled.

*****

Private Job Sykes had often wondered if perhaps in the moment of his birth, his mother--rather than being a God-fearing religiously-inclined woman--had actually been visited with some sort of prophetic vision of the ups and downs of her son when she had chosen his name. Like the more famous Job from which his name descended, Job Sykes had led a life in which it seemed he was sometimes being tested by Providence. Still, being an optimistic kind of lad, Job had carried on through the trials of life; school--courtship--learning the trade of carpentry--and when the war came he had become a soldier. It was about this time that Job began to go simply by Joe, and with that slight change things went pretty well--at least so far. Dust blew about, making Joe Sykes cough deep in his throat and reflexively drag his canteen around for a mouthful of water. It was hot and he was tired of marching across the state of Mississippi; to be honest the shine had pretty much gone wholly from being a soldier now for most of them. Joe swished the tepid water around in his mouth, and then swallowed it down a bit at a time. Next to him was a man he had met when they mustered in during that cold winter at Fort Snelling, Abraham Hendrickson--but everyone called him “Hen”. Hen looked over and slapped him in the shoulder with a grin. “Getting tired Sykes? Ha! I could keep going all day!”

“Yeah, yeah Hen, feel free to walk for me too,” Sykes quipped back with a playful scowl and pushed his canteen back in place. Hen just laughed, maybe a little too loud since he was quickly told to shut his mouth by a cranky set of stripes behind them. The rutted dirt road stretched along before them, slowly rising and falling in low hills off into the distance. It had been almost three days since they had engaged with the enemy, a tense and wild affair when they had gotten a good twist on the rebels and blunted their attempt to block the Union advance towards Vicksburg.

*****

He hadn’t tented with Hen since muster, but he often ended up in line near him since they were of height. It was a funny thing in ranks, knowing most everyone in your own company yet still being surrounded by men you really didn’t know well. Sykes knew the fellows of his own tent intimately; those of his mess very well; his rank to the four in front and beside him well; and his company at large passibly. There were a few in other companies he knew as acquaintances, but no one by name in companies below C--the boys in D through K weren’t exactly strangers but more like distant relations seeing as they were in the 5th Infantry like him. They might not be well known to him, but they were still brothers when push came to shove, that was certain. Sykes often gave himself over to such thoughts when on the march; it seemed to help with the boredom. Some men seemed to just pass the miles on march in a catatonic state, hardly noting the passage of time or mile until they stopped. Then they would seem to snap out of some sort of trance, and become wholly animated beings once more. Others, like himself, seemed to need to keep the wheels turning, and have something to chew over mentally. The down side to this practice was that one would end up in subjects less enjoyable than others--and for Sykes this was to wonder if he had gotten himself a rebel yet. The truth was, he couldn’t be quite certain he had killed anyone yet. He had been in several smaller engagements and even a few large ones at this point, but he still had yet to draw a bead on a target and see that man fall. He struggled with this question, as a thoughtful man should of course. The faith of his forefathers said he should not desire to kill--yet still do what must be done in the service of country and the greater good. He should not desire to kill his enemy, but turn the other cheek. However, at the same time (to quote the tune) “He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never sound retreat!”--not exactly the actions of a God seeking peace and mercy. There was also another driving code of morality to contend with as well: this war was being waged to reunite a nation which had been torn apart by the wickedness of slavery and Southern inhumanity. These people had broken apart what great persons the likes of George Washington and their generation had bled and sacrificed to achieve. They threatened his country, and now as a soldier his life. These people were rebels, and the enemy. He had been trained to kill the enemy with bullet and bayonet, and had seen his fellow soldiers slain by that enemy. When they mustered into the army, and bore the trials of training as Fort Snelling, they had been praised when they hit the wooden target on the rifle range or engaged the burlap bayonet target with enough force to “kill” their enemy. The rest of the time they were shouted at, or shoved to keep pace with a line in drill. They learned to appreciate those who did not hesitate, and sought to become skilled as a soldier. They all wanted to kill the enemy--to know they had actually done it. Such was a matter of pride, and boasting rights. This had proved harder than expected, than any of them could have predicted. A battlefield was nothing like the clear, purposeful scenes of heroism and valiant force of arms suggested in Harpers or such. In reality battles were often more confusion, terror, choking clouds of smoke and noise--all of which left one lacking a complete picture of what was going on most of the time. You would see men fall; hear the buzz, zip and crash of bullets--but with so many weapons firing and rarely having the time to truly aim and see the result of your volley, it was hard to tell just whose lead had found the enemy. Sometimes though, there was no question, and those men knew and in turn everyone knew who they were. In his company there were two--Henry M. Gregg and Corporal Hans Jordt. They had seen their targets fall, and had known they could kill when the moment came. They didn’t really talk of these things amongst themselves all that often, and certainly everyone knew this was not something anyone back home could begin to understand, but it persisted.

“You’re quiet today.” Hen’s baritone broke his internal monologue.

“Just thinking on what’s coming,” Sykes replied.

“Hmmm,” said Hen thoughtfully.

“I ‘spect it’s gonna be a right donnybrook!” threw in Harris from behind Hen in rank. Hen nodded and looked back briefly.

“I imagine so. The Rebels won’t want us near Vicksburg either way.”

“Maybe I’ll get one this time,” said Sykes a little more earnestly than he intended. “I can’t say for certain yet that I’ve killed a rebel yet.”

“I do what I must, and try not to think about it.” Hen responded dismissively. He was one of those who openly avoided the discussions of killing and the competitive aire amongst many of the men. Harris just scowled. “Old Hen--no bloodlust left in you!” Some men laughed at this, but before more could be made of it a set of stripes lit into them and ensured that the conversation ended abruptly. As it happened that was just as well, as whispered word from further up the line made it clear the enemy had been sighted and they would be going into action shortly.

*****

General Grant shook his head and had to acknowledge a grudging approval for Pemberton’s choice of position; the three mile long defensive line commanded the highest points of Champion Hill and easily controlled all the ground in range. The only weak point Grant was already busily exploiting, having sent a column along the Jackson Road against the underprotected left flank of the enemy position. He had not wanted to do so, but McClernand had been assigned to that movement, and given his feelings on the man, Grant knew there was a risk. Still, it was almost wide open--even McClernand surely couldn’t make a mess of that! Looking things over, Pemberton’s position was good, but he seemed to be busy shifting his troops about in rank.

“Came on in reversed order--those reports he was after our supply lines heading to Raymond must have had some weight to them,” said Major Morgan as he scanned the enemy ranks. The General struck a lucifer and lit up his cigar, puffing a cloud which swirled around in the light breeze. He nodded and spit a bit of tobacco leaf into the dirt at his feet, working out the possibilities which might have conspired to put John Pemberton so ass over tea kettle on the march.

“General, looks like artillery moving up near Champion House.” The Major’s pronouncement drew Grant’s attention, and training his field glasses upon the spot saw the truth of it. He called a runner, and bade him ride with all haste to alert McClernand to expect fire and begin his assault. The battle began not slowly, but suddenly then--crashing with the violence of cannon as the hour of ten o’clock  struck.

*****

A shell barrelled through the air and exploded amidst a small grove of pine trees to their right, causing splinters and bits of bark to rain down as they advanced up the hill.

“Hells bells!” shouted Allen as he grasped at a seven inch splinter which had embedded itself in his right forearm. Harris reached over and yanked it clean, tossing the jagged sliver away to the ground. A call went out to pick up the pace, and the lines advanced with a shout. The rebels loomed upon the hilltop, some of them opening up with musketry as they tried their luck at aimed shots. Most of the enemy leads went high overhead, ripping through the air with buzzing shrieks and whistles. Geysers of soil shot up before the lines as the enemy adjusted their aim, the captain shouting the order to charge. The line surged; Price crumpled forward, shot through the head, his musket bouncing away before him.

“Mind your step!” men yelled over the whooshing sound as a shell soared overhead and crashed tumbling through the lines of flesh and bone behind the advance. Sykes tripped over the musket, or body (he never was sure which) as the surging force of the charge carried him onward like flotsam before water. Men fired as they neared the crest of the hill, even as their enemy poured flame, lead, and shell back at them. The air was a choking, blinding, burning and frantic mix of fury around them. Sykes ran until his legs ached, his eyes stung and his chest heaved. Hen was there nearby as they closed on an enemy gun, the crew trying to win the fatal race between them. The maw of the gun looked like the dark eye of some terrible beast asleep, but liable to explode awake at any moment and tear them apart. Everything was happening at once: the gun crew trying to clear the muzzle as the gunner was moving to clip the lanyard to the primer. Sykes drew his musket up, his aim drifting with each step even as the hammer snapped and his weapon roared with a curl of flame. He missed the gunner, his round splintered through the corner of the caisson behind with a sound like two wooden planks slapping together. The bearded artilleryman’s eyes were wide, as he reached towards the primer and the side of his face suddenly exploded; the broad man collapsed hard against the side of the gun, his blood bright as it sprayed over the bronze of the cannon. The crew knew they had lost this race, and turned in an attempt to run back up to where their lines were moving to reform. An artillery lieutenant took two steps and stopped, drawing his heavy revolver and training it towards the blue wave of soldiers which threatened to overwhelm him. He fired twice before someone crashed headlong into the artilleryman and clubbed the grey clad officer with his musket. Sykes passed that horrible muzzle of the gun, and felt the sense of impending dread represented in that black maw ebb away to be replaced with determination as he charged after the fleeing crew.

Elias Swift felt elated, he had hit the gunner before he could prime the cannon and turn that destructive power loose on his fellow soldiers. He rammed home a new round and jogged after his line, bullets still zipping down from the enemy higher up on the hill. He fired with his fellows when the order came, a beautiful crisp volley into what looked almost like a grey-brown cloud undulating on the hill above the swirling smoke of battle. As Swift began to reload, he realized he stood over the very rebel gunner he had shot not moments before. The gunner wasn’t dead, but he lay like some horror from nightmares unimaginable--his face awash in blood, his tongue visible through the ruin of what had been his jaw and cheek. His eyes stared wide and full, seeming to seek out Swift and plead with him. The wounded man’s eyes were smouldering hate and pain, and Swift felt fixed in place when suddenly this wreck of his enemy was grasping at his leg and trying to pull him down off his feet. Swift cried out, bringing his friend Cy to his side who brought the butt of his musket down hard into the nightmare face. Cy seemed to smile a little as his second blow drew a loud crack, and a gasping ragged escape of air from the rebel at their feet. Swift just stared dumb.

“Had fight left in ‘em,”smiled Cy, not looking away from the crushed ruin of the man at their feet before catching Swift’s eye and nodding with a slap to his shoulder. The order came to keep moving, and Cy wiped the butt of his musket in the grass before starting off up the hill. Swift followed after, slipping once on the bloody ground.

*****

General Grant paced back and forth along the ridge. Cast-off empty cartridges littered the ground at his feet. His boys had fought hard for this ground, and the enemy had not sold it cheap either. Valiant and courageous men on both sides had fought and died here, it was a sad waste incumbent  in this business. The rebel lines were pulling back, redeploying again back up the slope in good order. These rebels were not made of tin; steel was in their veins and they were slowing the Federal advance. McPherson was in the thick of it now, but his men were braving the fire. “Send this to McClernand--- ‘you must move up, your force is out of position’.” One of the runners nodded and took off upon his horse at a gallop. Grant shook his head and swore loudly. It wasn’t only that McClernand was a political rival, the man was cowardly in his execution of the field. Had he not given him the position on the enemies open flank? How could anyone with a largely open field lag behind a command facing concentrated and stiff resistance?

“Damn him, I swear this man will fight up this line or go down!” spat the General, hurling his cigar stump into the weeds. He stood breathing hard for few minutes, hands on his hips watching as his own batteries scored a good hit amongst what he knew were Arkansas boys. “Go boys!” he said to no one in particular. “Run down Pemberton and make that arrogant son of bitch sorry he took a stand here!”

**********

Stevenson’s Division tumbled past them, men scrambling with wild eyes that reminded Sykes of the look horses got when lost to their fear. These men simply had had enough, and nothing was going to stop them now. He felt his own feet longing to join them the as the infectious fear swept over the lines, but Sykes gripped his musket tighter and stood his ground. Bullets zipped overhead, shells screeched in a lazy arc through the clouds above. As the thought made itself known in his own head, someone along the line voiced it for him-- “What the hell are we doin’ sittin’ here?”. Sykes was startled by a hand that slapped down on his shoulder and he flinched slightly as the dirt- and powder-smeared face of Hen appeared behind him.

“Whoa there, jus’ me--still behind you, Sykes. Haven’t lost me yet!” The man smiled, crooked and big toothed but it somehow brought a sense of calm into the rising panic which had begun to creep into Sykes’ belly.

He nodded acknowledgment, and in turning back forward took in the forms of the sprawled bodies of Davis and Moore on the torn ground before the line. The company had routed three enemy batteries, only to have the Rebels counter-attack and drive them back again down the hillside. Despite that the men were still eager; their blood was up enough to ensure there would be few stragglers when the order came to move again. If they would just give the order! There was little which could leave a soldier more on the knife’s edge between fighting it out and running in panic than moments like this--still eager to charge but all too aware that the enemy before them were not to be moved without effort. Just let us go! As if someone had heard their silent pleas, a cry went up behind them that Sherman’s boys had arrived from Clinton. The news passed from man to man with lightning speed, whipping their determination to take the hill into a madness amongst the Union lines. A roar sounded as they were let loose, like the barbarians of old thirsting for the blood of Roman spoils--and Sykes felt himself propelled forward upon a wave driven to smash against the grey and brown lines which clung to the hill.

There was almost no sound, as he thought on that charge later--or maybe that the roar and tumult of the guns mixed with the wild animal fury of the soldiers’ voices cancelled out all awareness. Instead, it was only fury and instinct, living at the height of terror and rage risking survival. The beating of his heart, quick and deep breathes echoed in his ears. Everything was sharp, bright focus--shifting between things seeming to speed up and slow down like some awful dream. His musket seemed to be an extension of himself, he hardly seemed to notice firing and reloading. He knew the barrel was growing hot, but he could not feel, he could only react to what was before him. He was advancing in loose ranks, Allen was beside him when suddenly the other man jerked and crashed against his left side. The world spun violently akimbo as he was knocked from his feet into the dirt--Allen was screaming and thrashing as he tried without success to stem a pumping geyser which erupted from his neck and splashed onto Sykes’ eyes and mouth, making him gag and scramble to get away. He shoved Allen from atop him, and frantically spat and wiped away at the hot, sticky mess which made him want to vomit. The drive to advance and attack was replaced with panic as Sykes realized he had dropped his musket, but he found it straight away and would have risen to rejoin the ranks had Allen not begun to grasp at his arm and ankles as he shouted in a wet pleading for help. Humanity found Sykes again with an urgency of purpose upon making contact with the bulging eyes of the wounded man, who was begging and crying first for him, and then his mother. The haze in which he had advanced cleared and the danger, violence,  noise and smoke seemed to close in around Sykes as he scrambled over to the thrashing Allen. Sykes leaned over him, looking into his terror filled eyes as he tried to calm the wounded man--but Allen heard nothing for the fear and panic he was in. He was desperately trying to stop the rapid flow of blood from his throat, but his fingers simply slipped and fumbled in the flow of scarlet and shook in fear for awareness of his wound. Allen fought with him, forcing his fingers back as he tried to help, the wounded man babbling with pleading eyes. Sykes reached out, forcing back his own revulsion as the warm blood soaked the cloth and ran over his fingers. He tried to calm Allen down, shouting as much as soothing with his own excitement and trying to ignore the zip and snap of lead. He pressed hard, trying to stop the flow of blood, and cast his gaze about trying to find inspiration as to what to do next. He saw others limping, crawling, even men being dragged back away from the fighting--but no one noticed him. Sykes swore, knowing he would never make it to the rear and help by himself before Allen bled out. He looked down into a glassy gaze and knew Allen’s fate, but he refused to accept it. From above on the hill, the regular sounds of fighting slowed to the sporadic pace of personal aggression and those unwilling to cease the attack until made to come to heel by the sergeants. A corporal loaded up with several canteens approached, his head wrapped in a bandage which left his cap perched at a rakish angle.

“You wounded?” The rough looking corporal asked, swinging a canteen from his collection and handing it out towards him. Sykes looked at him a moment, but the corporal seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry ‘bout your pard no more son, anyone can see he’s beyond caring. Go on, take the canteen.” Sykes looked down at Allen, growing pale and waxy where he wasn’t spattered in grime or gore, and took his hands away from the soaked cloth he had been holding. “You sure you aint hurt none?” prompted the corporal again, removing the cork and taking a pull from the canteen himself. Sykes looked back and wiped his bloody hands on his trousers before reaching out and taking the offered water. When he took his first drink, he coughed and sputtered before relaxing and gulping it down. The grizzled corporal went and knelt over Allen, shaking his head. “Poor bastard, that bullet signed his name and sealed the letter, no doubt.” Noting Sykes’ gaze, the man frowned and added quickly--”Sorry ‘bout your pard.”.

“His name was Allen, and he wasn’t  a bastard.” The growl in his tone made the corporal blanch a little, and he held up his hands. “No offense intended friend, seen so much you know? Sometimes it leads me to sounding rougher than I meant.” Sykes made himself relax, realizing he had balled his fists unconsciously and was gritting his teeth. The sound of recall floated from the hilltop, and the corporal reached out to retrieve the canteen. Sykes passed it over with more force than he intended, but if he noticed the other man didn’t show it. He watched the corporal as he made his way along up the hill, stopping to check others that lay further up, and Sykes wondered at this anger inside of him. It was intense, yet unanchored--it was a hollow feeling. He looked down at Allen as he rose to his feet, and felt nothing. Allen was dead, and he felt nothing about it. He thought about the corporal, and how his comments had flared a rage within him--yet now he saw the truth. The rage Sykes felt was without tether, it simply was. He wanted to fight, he needed to--as little as that made sense to the sensible portion of his mind. He almost laughed at the thought of anything sensible here, and gathered up his musket. He stood a moment looking down at what used to be Allen, and then stooped down to take what he could of the dead mans’ caps and cartridges. He didn’t require them anymore, and Sykes did. He had not yet been certain he had killed an enemy, and he was determined he would not be cheated of that knowledge.

*****

The afternoon sun shone high over them, casting short pools of shadow around the feet of the General and his staff as they surveyed the Baker’s Creek bridge. The enemy had fought hard but finally been pushed off Champion Hill, then (thanks to McClernand’s buffoonary in large part) escaped the Federals to reform on Baker’s Creek. The General would have blazed with indignation for this turn of events, but he was aware that it would not truly help matters. Sometimes doing what one wanted served no one but your own vanity; one of the very few vices which he did not generally possess. There was the possibility that they might still box up and utterly destroy Pemberton--but Grant recognized a tenacity in his enemies’ style which he could not help but admire. Pemberton would not go down easily, nor would he walk into favorable maneuvers for the Federals lightly.  Persistence would be the key here, and an acceptance that the best they might hope for would simply be blocking his escape towards Vicksburg. Then they would have a real chance to force the enemy’s hand, and leave him no option but surrender. The General’s aggravation flared again briefly, making him grit his teeth as he thought on how they might have already done so had his officers followed orders--but once more he realized his anger served no purpose beyond helping along his ulcer. He turned and gazed down the hill, taking in the charnel house scene strewn before him in the dead. Broken bodies, gear, and guns lay in disarray and heaps where they had fallen. Already there was collection underway, but the process would take days. Major Morgan stepped up quietly beside him.

“General, the battalions are almost formed up and the batteries are deploying now,” he said in that firm, quiet tone. Grant nodded and gestured to the sight below. “While a battle is raging,” he said, looking at the Major, “one can see his enemy mowed down by the thousand, or the ten thousand with great composure.” The Major nodded quietly as the General turned on his heel and the pair faced again the brook where yet another battle was about to commence. A rider arrived and was sent back confirming the order to begin a mass salvo of artillery before the infantry was to advance. As the guns began to fire he began to absentmindedly chew upon his cigar. He crossed his arms, and spoke quietly to himself as he watched the lines of his men begin to advance towards the enemy positions. “After the battle these scenes are distressing, and one is naturally disposed to alleviate the sufferings of an enemy as a friend.” One of their batteries scored a direct upon the enemy line, and a cheer went up amongst his staff. Major Morgan smiled and pointed it out, handing him his field glasses.  

“A fine hit General!” The General nodded and surveyed the field. He could see writhing shapes amidst the smoke, an enemy flag which had fallen was snapped up and rose again--waving back in forth in defiance. He lowered the glasses, and wondered if they would ever again see their enemies as friends.

Three Days under a Canvas Sky

Rain could come in many forms -- but Private Job Sykes (who went by Joe, but that’s a long story) thought that he had never fully appreciated that fact until he had become an infantryman. Perhaps with the exception of sailors, and maybe farmers, few other persons spent so much time acquainting themselves with the myriad of moods of the Good Lord’s weather. Rain could be light (drizzle), it could be moderate (proper rain), it could even come down in large forceful ways (torrential downpours). Add some wind, or a variation in temperature, and these categories would expand exponentially. When rain coupled with wind, rain could defy gravity itself and fall sideways, or even seem to magically come from below. Though he could not prove it, there were times Sykes truly had to fight the thought that rain was not only intelligent enough to be alive, but also out to ensure he and his fellows were kept as miserable as possible. So it had been, for the portion of the day before and now starting a new day -- rain.

Rain in an army camp was nothing like rain back home, and though he could think that observation, his fellows in the tent with him would never have allowed him to utter that thought again -- he had already mused on that subject twice and was told it was no longer welcome. He cast his eye out onto the company street -- well named “Old Muddy”, which it certainly was now -- and shook his head. It seemed that the skies of Mississippi might be aligned with the rebels, for it certainly appeared that nature herself was trying to drown them in camp. Yes, rain at home was different. He would be sitting in the kitchen, helping Marnie to peel potatoes or carrots -- listening to her complain about how nothing she washed would have a chance to dry. He had always loved rain, the smell of it as it brought down dust and made the world green. Even working in the rain seemed a lark, when it was your choice.

Rain in the army was simply one more obstacle to overcome -- and tended to make roads impassable. Everything became wet, and the “Canvas Sky”, as Gus Dahlgren had taken to calling the ceiling of the tent, tended to leak if it rained for more than one full day. Add to that the underlying heat of this part of the country and one quickly spent days wet, woke clammy, and generally came to bad spirits. Everyone grumbled, and tempers were short. They had the advantage at least of having the forethought of trenching around their tent, so at least they weren't being flooded as some were. It had been ordered done, but few had seen the need at the time (days before when the sky had been nothing but blue and dry). Charlie Elstren (whom everyone called the “Professor” since he had gone to the University of Wisconsin in Madison before the war) had lectured on the practice of trenching by the armies of Napoleon, and whether it was from a desire to see the reason in the task or simply to get the Professor to be quiet, they had dug the long trenches around their tent in the end. The Professor and Milton Lewis were playing dominoes, while Dahlgren was watching, though with his tendency for being a josher, he may have been filching the pieces. 

Sykes whetted the thread, and made his third attempt with the needle -- his fourth proved the trick. He cast a long glance outside once more, and returned to mending his trouser buttons. Thunder rolled gently overhead, seeming to echo along forever into the distance.

“I say, they’ll still make us do parade,” quipped Dahlgren as he casually tossed water from a near-to-full mucket outside the tent, and replaced it under a leak in the roof. “No question,” remarked Lewis. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt their schedule of activities -- not for a little rain!”

“Or on account of our discomfort -- don’t forget that! Lord knows them big bugs always gots our comfort in mind!” added Dahlgren with a sardonic grin. 

“I don’t know about that,” said the Professor, looking thoughtful. The dominoes game ended, and Elstren produced his pipe and began to stuff it from his tobacco pouch.

Dahlgren sat back and gave the Professor a stern look. “You don’t know? Balls! What would you know about it Professor?”

“I am simply of the opinion that it is very easy to lump officers together into a faceless ‘them’ -- ,” the Professor halted long enough to light his pipe and blow a billowing cloud of smoke. “ -- a wholly human tendency but far too often the impetus for our greatest vices.” 

Sykes and Lewis broke into applause, while Dahlgren simply stuck out his tongue and shook his head. “Well, I still say officers know more about applying polish than good sense generally. I got twenty-five cents pledged that we will be enjoying parade tonight in the muck and wet.”

The Professor took his wager, but only after a great deal of encouragement from the others. He himself hardly cared one way or the other -- but he shook on it and the wagers were entrusted to Lewis. The hour being as it was, such things were quickly forgotten in favor of clearing away their game and readying themselves for duties they knew would be assigned them shortly. Whatever else life in the Army was, one could count on the regularity of fatigue details. The Professor had worked out the most common time for the arrival of such summons after their first year -- now well into the second.  Even Dahlgren could sense the approach of the corporal to their canvas shelter. Right on cue, the corporal -- looking more drowned rat than man -- arrived and unceremoniously delivered his message for them each. He did not wait about for response, but simply stood up from his stooped posture and hustled on along the company street. 

Sykes forgot for a moment the dread for his own duties, and felt a little pang of sympathy for the corporal going about his appointed rounds. Dahlgren was growling about assignments, which partially snapped him from his thoughts on the corporal trudging through the rain. For his part, Sykes had stopped trying to understand how details were assigned, as there seemed no logic in who ended up on wood, water, or that which was most despised -- digging sinks. All he knew for certain was, it seemed that if there was work to be done, he himself seemed the favorite choice. He wasn’t one to gripe or complain generally -- the Army was well stocked with such types already.

“Damn them all!” groused Dahlgren, proving to be the rule rather than the exception. “I hate this blasted country! Rain, rain every day and night -- and these damn officers, these gentlemen -- ” Dahlgren burst out into the grey rain pulling his gum poncho over his head as his muttering went on. This tirade had sucked the energy from any further complaining, so everyone simply put themselves together and filed out into the puddle-filled street. Sykes waved to Lewis as he set off after Dahlgren, turning with the Professor and making their way to their own detail.

“Gus is a flatulent old nag sometimes,” said the Professor, grimacing as he pulled his cap down hard in response to a direct hit in the eye by a raindrop, “but this weather has been intolerable. Three days it’s been -- three days under a canvas sky is enough to make anyone fear that the Almighty may have switched allegiances!” Sykes just drew his gum closer around him and nodded as they walked along, passing out of the thickest areas of tents to where they could see a ways into the meadow west of the camp. There in the rain, a gang of negroes was toiling with spades and pickaxe to furrow the earth and bury the dead. They did not seem to notice the rain, but worked with a determination of purpose at their task. Sykes felt a chill, and the Professor who turned to look as well chuckled wryly. “There are worse things, though, than enduring many days of rain, I suppose.”

By the time they arrived and drew their tools from the Quartermaster, the rain had mercifully slaked -- but the air remained heavy and misty. One would have thought that given the amount of moisture they had experienced over the last days, the digging would have been easy. They had progressed almost two feet with ease when they hit a dry layer of compacted clay, and suddenly their work truly became work. An hour passed as they toiled, their sack coats beaded with tiny droplets of moisture. Sykes wiped his face with a limp and soggy handkerchief, resting on the handle of his pickaxe. The Professor stood and tossed a spade of dirt out of the trench, setting aside his tool to stretch out his back with a grunt. 

“My turn?” asked Sykes stuffing away his handkerchief and straightening up. 

“No, I do think this masterpiece of engineering is finished. Help me out, if you will.”

Sykes ducked under the edge of the canvas fly which they had rigged over their work (nothing is worse than digging with rainwater filling in around your ankles -- they had learned this simple truth previously) and took his friend’s hand in his own before pulling him out. They might have stood a bit and enjoyed their labor, but Corporal Ross came wandering over right about that time so they set to dragging the logs and plank from the old sink to the new one. It was never a wise thing to appear without work to do around Corporal Ross -- he seemed to delight in finding tasks for those without them. Ross simply stood, hands on hips, and observed their progress, wandering in a circle about the new sink when they had set the logs and plank in place. 

“Good work boys!” he said at last. “Right fine job. Now, make sure you cover that old one up good, the lime will be up for you shortly.” The corporal smiled his thin little smile, and went back the way he had come. As soon as he had gone out of sight, the Professor grunted and took a seat on the plank behind him. Sykes cocked an eyebrow, but shortly sat as well.

“Not like you, Charlie -- you’ll tarnish your reputation as the upstanding man of education!” joked Sykes, poking his friend in the arm. The Professor smiled and shook his head.

“It’s entirely Gus Dahlgren’s poor example I assure you -- you lot will be the ruin of my broader reputation! Besides, we can’t very well fill in that sink before the lime arrives -- logic, dear Sykes.”

“Logic? Have you noted where you are, Charlie?”

He smiled. “Yes, I suppose I deserved that. Here comes our lime; back to slaving for Pharoah.”

*****

As they finished their work and returned to the tent, the sky had actually begun to clear and though the sun itself was still elusive, the mood had improved considerably in camp. Fires seemed a little brighter that evening, and for the first time in days they spent time out of their tent willingly. The sky finally cleared just before the call for lights out and with a swelling of joy, Joe Sykes was able to once more say his nightly prayer for the friends and loved ones back home whom he imagined looking upon the same stars. As he mouthed the final words to the shadows, the long-burning stars shone with the same determined effort of the ages -- little noting the struggles and prayers of humanity, themselves ghosts of distance and time. Joe crawled into his spot in the tent and settled in for the night, feeling that if he had to be so far from home at least he was surrounded by a fine gathering of men. Dahlgren chose that moment to suddenly explode into a short symphony of gastric eruptions which reminded Joe of the sound of a dying hog, before turning over and settling back to peace. Well, perhaps “fine” was pushing it -- but they would do. Sykes waved away the remains of Dahlgren’s odorous fumes and closed his eyes to sleep.

The next day was bright, and the clammy warmth of the rainy days was replaced with real heat. The churned-up muck which the company street had become dried into a rutted, pock-marked surface which made close-order marching precarious if one didn’t watch his step. Despite it all, the mood was high enough amongst all concerned --  the days of relative inactivity had led to a sense of pent-up energy and desire to be set to a task which was palpable. There was little doubt that the officers would oblige them, and at noon the word began to go around in the usual method -- word of mouth.They were going to move out. Where? When? Was it going to be an extended move -- light or heavy order? No one knew for sure, but of course that didn’t stop anyone from thinking on the subject. Figurative speculation led to rampant rumor, ensuring that when the orders were finally announced with everyone drawn up in formation, the men were proved wrong in general assumption -- but correct that they would be moving shortly. Hurry up and wait -- there are few more patiently impatient than an infantry soldier.

Standing fixedly in place as the officers did their inspection of the ranks, Sykes felt excited and nervous all in one. It was always like that for him, maybe for every man here if they were truly honest about it -- but that was not the way of it when one was headed out. Chests were puffed out, bravado and devil-may-care attitudes fully on display. Some meant and truly felt such emotions surely, but most knew the unspoken rule of conduct -- look brave for your pards, and they do the same for you. One of those mad aspects of being a soldier which those at home would never understand: you are brave because your friends need you to help them be brave, or you don’t want them to think you aren’t brave, so you push down your fear and do your best to ignore it. In turn, your pards are doing the same for you.

Such is war.

Sykes snapped from his thoughts as the Captain came to him in turn and took his musket for inspection. The weapon was shoved back towards him and he took it in hand, lowering it to his side with a thump. When the officers were satisfied with the state of the battalion and kit, they were ordered at rest. The officers gathered together in a little knot, leaving the men at rest with a growing curiosity as to what was on offer for today’s action -- they were sure that they were going to see some real use at last.

“Always the same, the hens gots to gab,” someone groused quietly near him, drawing a grin from Sykes.

“If they don’t mean to make use of us, they ought to turn us loose,” grumbled a sour faced soldier in the next company down.

“Loose to do what, exactly?” spat back a corporal Sykes knew was named Dills.

“To sit on his arse and watch the flies buzz about I reckon!” added someone from that direction which caused a general eruption of laughter, drawing the ire of Captain Sheehan. The captain lit into his company with a quick vehemence and flashing eyes, and the mirth died right quick. The colonel joined them then and everyone resumed a state of attention and silence without a further word.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen,” said the colonel, looking about with a gentle ease which worked to make the cold steel of his eyes all the more striking. “I know you are all as pleased as I to be past the rain -- ,” the gathered mass of companies cheered this, and when the sound died away the colonel nodded and went on, “We are moving out today boys, and will be moving all day. You will draw marching rations, and make yourselves ready to fall in at -- ,” the colonel turned to a major and spoke quietly before he turned back to continue, “ -- in one hour, boys. We haven’t much time, so see to your duties boys, and be swift. Attention, Battalion!” Everyone snapped to attention in place, and the companies were set loose to their tasks.

“We still don’t know where we are off to!” groused Dahlgren as he re-tied the cord that kept his canteen cork from being lost on the move.

“No,” said the Professor with a nod, ”that is true -- we don’t know our destination.”

Dahlgren smiled and looked up. “Well, that’s one to be remembered, I dare say! He agrees!?” Everyone chuckled, as they took down their tent and packed away the ramshackle sign which christened it “Ramsey Place” and advised “Rooms, Bath reasonable.” Sykes stuffed the sign into the folds of his blanket roll and hefted the knapsack that so many derided him for still lugging about. Others had tossed gear to lessen their weight on the march, but Sykes just couldn’t bring himself to do it. As they gathered the last of their kit, they were called to form up to receive their marching rations. Sykes could feel his stomach doing cartwheels, as his anticipation of what lay ahead kicked again. He smiled, though, laughed at a crude joke Lewis was telling, and fell into line with everyone else.

*****

They trained often enough for such a situation, but generally the worry of enemy cavalry rarely entered his mind much given the usual proximity of their own cavalry to screen them from such attacks. This time had been different, and the surprise of the rebel cavalry troopers upon their column had caused a good few moments of disarray. In the end, despite some cuts and scrapes here and there, no one had been seriously injured and their formation had driven off the dozen or so enemy troopers who had burst upon them. For Sykes, it was the thunder-like pounding he had felt in the ground as the enemy men and horses had charged out towards them from cover that he would most long remember. He had never felt such a sudden and determined desire to run as this before, but he had stood with his pards all the same. This had happened the second day of their march towards some crossroad town called Adams Station. Union cavalry showed up not long after, and shame-faced for their gap in protection (an attitude which one was not oft to see in the high-and-mighty cavalry troopers on a regular basis), they were ever-present companions to the flanks until they reached the summit of the Port Gibson road, just outside of a little village named Womack. A battered and ragtag collection of rebels were there, dug into the rise of the opposite hills from them, across the shallow basin in which the unfortunate Womack was situated, and the Union officers meant to make the enemy quit and run. By the end of that day however, it was apparent to everyone that for the time being no one was going anywhere  -- though at least the enemy couldn’t get at them without great risk either.

“Why do you say that?” asked Dahlgren between bites of salt beef and hard cheese.

“The ground, Gus  --  they chose it to halt us here, but if they meant to do more than that with it their choice was a poor one indeed,” answered the Professor with a thumb hooked towards the enemy lines. This comment only made Dahlgren look more confused, so with their backs to an overturned wagon in the pickett line, the Professor schooled them in the the lay of the battlefield between long glances through his spyglass across to the enemy positions. The land to their west was boggy with sudden quagmires and pools  --  not the kind of place one would want to be caught under an enfilade of fire by the enemy. To their east was a bend in the equally troublesome bayou Pierre, the nearest bridge being well south of Womack, and while fordable, it was narrow enough at the point where it could be crossed to make reforming under fire nearly impossible.

“So, my guess would be these fellows are to slow us down so that Port Gibson can be evacuated -- or so more forces can be brought up against us. Either way, the route to attacking the enemy here is bad for whoever has the misfortune to be the first across the ground out there.” The Professor snapped his spyglass shut with a finality to the click which gave Sykes a chill down his spine, and made his mouth dry.

“Sometimes,” added Dahlgren with a frown, “I regret even askin’ for answers from you.” The Professor shrugged and clucked his tongue, but said nothing more. Lewis poked his head up around the bed of the overturned wagon, then scurried back as someone on the other side tried his luck at hitting something. It wasn’t remotely close, but Lewis jumped back from where he had peered over their cover all the same. A corporal with a bushy mustache was wandering by them, and he tossed out two extra wrapped packages of rounds to each of them from a crate being lugged along by a sallow looking private Sykes didn’t know. 

“Take ‘em boys, stow ‘em somewhere safe. We will be going over after dark -- don’t bother moaning to me ‘bout it either, I don’t make the orders I jus’ pass ‘em along!” Everyone watched him continue on his way, repeating his speech as if it were a mantra special to his assigned task. He may not have waited about to hear the complaining, but there was a fierce bit all the same as men grumbled and spit like angry cats but started with almost second nature to ready themselves for action just the same. The Professor pulled his pocket watch from his vest and looking at the face announced that it was just after six o’clock.

“We have three, maybe two or three hours left of the light,” said Dahlgren absently, who set his musket aside and settled down in the grass. “May as well get some rest then -- gonna be plenty o’ work later, by God.” He was right of course, but it was still hard for Sykes to just sit knowing what was before them come dusk. He tried for some minutes before finally he made an excuse to find somewhere to do his business simply so he might walk a bit to calm himself. Lewis decided to tag along at the last moment, and so Sykes and he started along the line towards a copse of trees. They had only just gotten out of earshot when Lewis cleared his throat.

“I hate admitting to it, but I’m scared -- well, no more nervous I suppose going forward on what’s coming tonight, Joe. Damnation I hate admitting that, but it’s the truth.”

Sykes stopped dead and looked Lewis in the eye -- his own fear suddenly easing. “Don’t talk so Lewis -- it’s a sane man feels trepidation when faced with such odds and obstacles. Hell -- I’m none too pleased with going over there myself if I’m honest, but we’ve been and done this and worse before now.” Lewis nodded with a wan smile, but Sykes knew they would be alright. He held onto that mad glimmer of positivity right through until the sun began to dip on the horizon, and the order came quietly along the line for every man to fix bayonets.

*****

Everything was grey, a trick of the light which drained color from the world and the men about Sykes as their lines moved forward quietly into the basin in which the ramshackle homes of Womack were situated. The lines snaked between buildings abandoned and forlorn in the growing darkness and little more than outlines in the pale moonlight. Sykes found himself wondering where those people had gone, only to have all thought torn away as a cry of alarm sounded from the enemy side and flashes of musketry began to erupt in the darkness. The shots were going wild, well over their heads towards the lines the Union had left behind -- but they all knew this wouldn’t last. They had achieved as much surprise as they were apt to get here, so when the command to charge was given the orderly advance became an eruption of pure, fear-induced aggression. In response, the enemy began to find order at last and rounds began to pour through the space between them like angry hornets. Someone off to the far right of Sykes grunted and spun from his stride -- he felt something bite the left edge of his ear, leaving a burning behind -- but ignored it. He was the charge now, like those around him. His vision was a tunnel, absolute focused determination to reach the enemy lines.

In the advancing darkness, the distance seemed nothing to cross -- and suddenly Sykes found himself charging up the berm and crashing into a man with onion breath who cried out in terror on contact. They rolled over and back down the shallow berm together, arms tangled as they fell -- muskets clattering down somewhere amid the confusion. Sykes took a hard shot to his jaw, and he spat blood as he lashed out and caught the enemy soldier in the throat. Bullets ripped through the air and everywhere men were shouting, screaming, feet running. Sykes hit the enemy soldier hard, so hard he felt his knuckles tear on the rough stubble of the man’s face, his own head swimming a bit from the blow he had taken. Someone pulled Sykes to his feet, and a face he knew swam into focus before him -- Hendrickson. He shook his head, dragged a little ways back towards their lines by Hendrickson before the clouds seemed to lift a bit and he shook off the help.

“I’m alright Hen’ -- lemme’ go!” he spat, suddenly aware that he had lost his musket. Hendrickson obeyed and trotted with him back where the fight was still raging. The enemy had begun to fall back, and in some places were already in full flight for their lives. Sykes snapped up a musket, and fired off the round loaded within at the backs of some enemy shadows who were running towards the bog land. As he reloaded, Hendrickson looked aside at him and gave a nod. 

“You look tough pard -- you sure you are all right?” Sykes just nodded and hearing the call for assembly sounding, he and Hendrickson jogged off to fall in. It was bedlam at first, men shuffling amongst one another in the semi-darkness -- many with minor wounds (though a few sounded less than healthy, but that might have been those seeking to escape to sick call) and everyone stinking of sweat and gunpowder. The officers made a count, asked for reasons or excuses for those not present, and only once they were satisfied that all were accounted for, they set to the task of setting up for the night. Sykes found Lewis, and shortly after the Professor and Dahlgren, in relative good shape for which he was greatly relieved. A corporal with salt and pepper beard and sharp eyes was moving along their lines, as they stood in their company awaiting their assignment. The man was shorter than Sykes, so when he stopped before him and looked hard at the others ear while holding a candle lantern up in his hand, the corporal was obliged to lean in very close -- he had the scent of pipe tobacco and mint about him.

“You came close as any this night to meeting the Lord hisself -- some rebel has clipped part of your ear son. You hurt any otherwise?” The corporal had a strength to his voice, but kindness too. Sykes found himself reminded strongly of his grandfather, long since laid to rest but a fond memory from childhood. The thought brought the burning pain of his ear back very suddenly, along with a fatigue and melancholy he didn’t really understand. In a slightly shaky voice he answered with a shrug.

“No corporal, creased a little was all. Lucky given the state of the affair I’d say.”

The corporal nodded and lowered his lantern. “Well, best get it looked at in case son -- be quick about it too!” Sykes nodded, Yes corporal, but he had no intention of getting anywhere near the surgery if he could help it. The Professor passed him a handkerchief, and he gingerly clapped it to his ear -- he was rewarded with a new and more intense burning pain that made his eyes water.

His company had fared fairly well in the attack, only one man had taken a hit which laid him up -- poor Henry Doughton, the unlucky man in all things. If Doughton played at dice -- he lost. Cards, leg wrestling, foot races, even in pulling guard more than any other in the company -- Doughton was unlucky, this time especially so. A musket lead had skipped off the top of his scalp and torn a good inch long gouge in his head: skin, hair and all. Of course, it could have been worse had the round been just an inch or two lower -- but Doughton was in enough pain he might have wished it had been. Some of the boys had passed around his torn and bloody bummer, shaking their heads and swearing that there but by the grace of God go I! They had been assigned to the left flank of their new position, with half of the company on pickett and the other sent to their rest. Sykes had volunteered to go first, since he never could sleep after any kind of action -- Dahlgren was happy for that. He could sleep anywhere,anytime.

Looking back through the brush and trees, Sykes sat concealed in a clump of what he thought might be elm trees -- it was hard to tell in the dark. Five feet along was Lewis, quietly chewing on an apple he had produced from somewhere. Lewis was like that, he just seemed to find, or produce something like an apple from seemingly nowhere -- Sykes had asked him about it more than once. “Magic pockets!” he had answered once after serious pestering.

“How is your ear?” Lewis asked quietly, his mouth obviously still full of apple.

“Hurts, what would you think?”

“You were lucky Joe, no question.” Sykes thought about that for a moment, and gave it a silent amen.

“Yeah, hurts like a bastard though. Trying not to think about it.” 

Lewis coughed and chuckled quietly.

“Such language -- what has become of our gentleman Mr. Sykes?”

Sykes smiled, and looked back towards the camp. He shook his head and resumed watching and listening to the thickets towards the Bayou where they had been stationed. Crickets were chirping, and he could hear frogs singing a little ways on. It was proper dark now, and though he knew they had to be diligent at watch, the chance of a counterattack tonight was slim. He remembered the first time he had ever taken part in a night or evening skirmish, and how surprised he was. The army doesn’t fight at night! There are rules to war, and this isn’t done! Oh yes it is, my boy! This is a new kind of war, no matter what the newspapers want you to think. No, don’t you think that just because Little Mac and the boys of the Army of the Potomac keep banker’s hours, that it’s going to be so for you in the West! Sykes frowned, and sighed quietly. Even out there in Virginia things weren’t so rosy and easy -- no matter how much the western boys might like to tease and taunt the “paper collar soldiers”. No, very little here was as anyone thought it would be when they signed up. It seemed such a long time ago now, a lifetime compressed into the mere two years he had now been a soldier. He knew he was different from the man he had been when he enlisted, and sometimes that truly worried him. It made him wonder just truly who he was anymore.

“Sykes,” Lewis whispered it but still startled Sykes from his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“I’m real glad you are alright.”

“Thank you Lewis.  Me too. Some thanks of that goes to Hendrickson. I need to be sure to thank him for pulling me up and getting me going again.”

“Good old Hen’ -- I bet he is fretting tonight, he tents with Doughton.”

Sykes frowned, and grunted a response. He grimaced as he felt the half moon shape missing from the upper lobe of his ear, so very very close to the side of his head. He thought of his family in a vague sort of way then, but as so often happened he couldn’t quite picture them. He pressed the handkerchief to his ear again, the musket across his lap a comforting weight in the darkness. The night noises filled the space around him, and he just tried hard to not think. He couldn’t calm himself though, the rush of adrenaline still throbbing in his body and leaving him with nervous excess energy that set his foot to tapping in the dirt. Not like home, he thought to himself. No my son, you are at war. There are no rules beyond survival, and anyone that tells you otherwise is a fool. He thought about that realization, and felt the truth of it. In some ways that helped, making his spirit hard as stone and accepting reality. He pulled the handkerchief from his ear, and wadded it up in his fist before stuffing it away in his breast pocket. The burning ache in his ear had become a companion, and he resumed listening intently to the night sounds -- waiting, listening for any possible approach by the enemy -- however unlikely. There was a rustle of grass somewhere, making Sykes snap his musket to his shoulder as he scanned the shadows. His breath became shallow as he stretched his senses for any sign of movement -- until Lewis spoke quietly making Sykes jerk with surprise.

“Sorry, nature called -- hope I didn’t put the fright into you over there. I made more noise than I intended watering the hedges.”

Sykes lowered his musket slowly, and settled back down in place.

“Not at all Lewis.”

In the dark, Lewis frowned as his glance lingered. The gentle, soft padding sound of Sykes’ foot tapping in the soil resumed again, mixing with the drone of night noises about them from the Bayou. The night passed without incident, and the next morning brought the grey and rain once more. The army massed once again as their baggage train and additional battalions joined them just beyond Womack, preparing for the next advance towards Port Gibson. The rain continued on, and at last they simply were compelled to march onward in the wet and muck. Port Gibson offered nothing more exciting than a sudden snap of unseasonable cold to add to their misery; it would seem that the enemy had no stomach to fight for the ground. They were arranged in what passed for a town square in Port Gibson, and while it wasn’t much to look at, it was at least paved. The rows of A frames stood like a little forest, lashed by the wind which made the rain all the more miserable for those who had the misfortune to be out and about in it. Inside their tent, Sykes lay against his knapsack listening to their “Ramsey Place” sign clatter quietly in the breeze. The rain was pattering against the canvas over his head, playing  a mad man’s form of tattoo in a seemingly never ending pattern.

“Talked to a local yesterday,” said Lewis suddenly to no one in particular. “He says this weather is off, not typical at all.” Hendricks had joined their tent since Doughton had been sent home due to his wound, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts and simply lay twisting a bit of straw around in his hand. Dahlgren and the Professor were unfortunate enough to be on guard, and Sykes felt for them in the rain. Lewis continued talking despite the lack of response. “I told him we had had our fill of this rain, and suggested that if it kept up we might have to give up and go home. This old fellow just laughed and seemed keen on the whole thought.” Sykes smiled despite himself, and shook his head. Outside the rain fell and splashed along the company streets; it fell in little rivulets from the brims of those men who stood with shoulders hunched against the cold. Inside houses nearby commandeered for the officers, stoves and old fashioned fireplaces crackled and burned merrily to the smiles and laughter of the men able to enjoy them. In the wide street outside, soldiers stood around spitting braziers which hissed and snapped  in complaint against the rain, smoke drifting with the wind. The soldiers frowned, watching the silhouettes of those within the warmth of the houses, and thinking on the day when they would return to their own homes. Overhead the clouds rolled over one another silently, looking like drifting cotton dragged through dirt and grime of the world below. From this dark undulating sky, the rain fell unrelentingly downward as if trying to wash away some stain which Heaven itself could ill abide to remain.