Large dark eyes and a straight, well-formed nose were spoiled just a bit by a mouth that took on an almost cruel thinness when he was determined.
The Georgia twilight had a curious, cold quality despite the huge red ball of the sun dropping over a patch of woodland where leaves were changing to yellow and vermillion. Or perhaps he only thought the oncoming dusk seemed cold because he was alone. It was Sunday, the twentieth of November 1864, the eve of winter.
Grunting softly, his hand searched to the right, to the left.
Nothing.
He jammed his eye up next to an opening between two higher slats but saw only darkness. Lord, was the crib empty?
He looked disreputable, kneeling there. His cadet-gray tunic, designed to cover his trousers to a point halfway between hip and knee, was torn in five places. From the two rows of seven buttons, just four remained. His point-down chevrons had come half unsewn, and the light blue trim that edged the tunic and identified him as an infantryman had almost raveled away. Dust and weather had soiled the light blue collar and cuffs as well as the matching sides and crown of his kepi-style forage cap that hid the white streak in his hair. A duck havelock hanging down from the back of the cap to protect his neck from the weather had turned from white to gray. A canvas shoulder sling held his imported .577-caliber Enfield rifled musket upright against his back.
Like any good soldier, he had strong personal feelings about his weapon. It was his companion, his means of survival. And he was good with it. That was a surprising thing he’d discovered during his first weeks of service. Perhaps it was his upbringing—his grandfather had taught him how to shoot. But whatever the reason, he’d quickly become a proficient marksman. He was fast at reloading, with an instinctive feel for the intricacies of handling firearms—such things as wind velocity and tricks of sun and shadow that could affect accuracy. He’d been complimented more than once on being a fine shot. The compliments helped develop a conviction that, without a weapon, he was not complete. His gun had become an extension of himself.
Straining to find something inside the crib, he failed to hear the footsteps. The farmer must have slipped out of the house in a stealthy way, somehow spotting him on his passage across the field. His first warning was a shadow that fell over the side of the crib.
“Y’all get up from there, you damn thief.”
He jerked his head around, saw the man: paunchy, gray-bearded; old, weather-worn clothing; filthy toes showing at the tip of one worn-out boot.
Thick-fingered hands clasped the handle of a pitchfork. The tines caught the sundown light and glittered like thin swords.
“I said get up!” the man yelled, lunging from the corner of the crib.
The soldier reared back. The tines of the pitchfork stabbed into the slat where his cheek had been pressed a moment before.
The man yanked the pitchfork loose. The corporal steadied himself, feet spread wide, hands held up in front of him. “Look, I only wanted a little food—”
The pitchfork flashed red. The corporal eyed the points. Would they stab at him again, without any warning?
The man’s slurry voice showed his fury. “What corn I got belongs to me and the missus and my two little girls. You ain’t gonna touch it.”
“All right.” The corporal backed up a step. “Just be careful with that fork. I still have a ways to travel.”
The man squinted at him. “Where you bound?”
“Home,” the corporal said, resorting to an evasion he’d used before. He was thankful he’d ripped the Virginia regimental emblem from his cap, in case the man could identify the insignia of state units.
“Where’s home?”
“What’s it to you?” the corporal shot back, resenting the man’s hostility to someone in Confederate gray.
The farmer came forward again, the fork held horizontally, the tines a foot from the younger man’s belly.
“Goddamn
The Georgia twilight had a curious, cold quality despite the huge red ball of the sun dropping over a patch of woodland where leaves were changing to yellow and vermillion. Or perhaps he only thought the oncoming dusk seemed cold because he was alone. It was Sunday, the twentieth of November 1864, the eve of winter.
Grunting softly, his hand searched to the right, to the left.
Nothing.
He jammed his eye up next to an opening between two higher slats but saw only darkness. Lord, was the crib empty?
He looked disreputable, kneeling there. His cadet-gray tunic, designed to cover his trousers to a point halfway between hip and knee, was torn in five places. From the two rows of seven buttons, just four remained. His point-down chevrons had come half unsewn, and the light blue trim that edged the tunic and identified him as an infantryman had almost raveled away. Dust and weather had soiled the light blue collar and cuffs as well as the matching sides and crown of his kepi-style forage cap that hid the white streak in his hair. A duck havelock hanging down from the back of the cap to protect his neck from the weather had turned from white to gray. A canvas shoulder sling held his imported .577-caliber Enfield rifled musket upright against his back.
Like any good soldier, he had strong personal feelings about his weapon. It was his companion, his means of survival. And he was good with it. That was a surprising thing he’d discovered during his first weeks of service. Perhaps it was his upbringing—his grandfather had taught him how to shoot. But whatever the reason, he’d quickly become a proficient marksman. He was fast at reloading, with an instinctive feel for the intricacies of handling firearms—such things as wind velocity and tricks of sun and shadow that could affect accuracy. He’d been complimented more than once on being a fine shot. The compliments helped develop a conviction that, without a weapon, he was not complete. His gun had become an extension of himself.
Straining to find something inside the crib, he failed to hear the footsteps. The farmer must have slipped out of the house in a stealthy way, somehow spotting him on his passage across the field. His first warning was a shadow that fell over the side of the crib.
“Y’all get up from there, you damn thief.”
He jerked his head around, saw the man: paunchy, gray-bearded; old, weather-worn clothing; filthy toes showing at the tip of one worn-out boot.
Thick-fingered hands clasped the handle of a pitchfork. The tines caught the sundown light and glittered like thin swords.
“I said get up!” the man yelled, lunging from the corner of the crib.
The soldier reared back. The tines of the pitchfork stabbed into the slat where his cheek had been pressed a moment before.
The man yanked the pitchfork loose. The corporal steadied himself, feet spread wide, hands held up in front of him. “Look, I only wanted a little food—”
The pitchfork flashed red. The corporal eyed the points. Would they stab at him again, without any warning?
The man’s slurry voice showed his fury. “What corn I got belongs to me and the missus and my two little girls. You ain’t gonna touch it.”
“All right.” The corporal backed up a step. “Just be careful with that fork. I still have a ways to travel.”
The man squinted at him. “Where you bound?”
“Home,” the corporal said, resorting to an evasion he’d used before. He was thankful he’d ripped the Virginia regimental emblem from his cap, in case the man could identify the insignia of state units.
“Where’s home?”
“What’s it to you?” the corporal shot back, resenting the man’s hostility to someone in Confederate gray.
The farmer came forward again, the fork held horizontally, the tines a foot from the younger man’s belly.
“Goddamn
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