When This Cruel War Is Over Read Online Free PDF Page A

regiments from Indiana.”

    â€œTell us how many you buried. I dare you!” the same voice shouted.
    â€œOur losses were heavy,” Colonel Schreiber said. “But I can assure you they died like men, with their faces to the enemy. You can be proud of every mother’s son of them.”
    â€œEvery mother’s son of them got what they deserved!” someone else shouted.
    â€œYeah!” howled another Democrat. “What every nigger-loving one of them deserves.”
    â€œNow wait a minute,” Colonel Schreiber said. “There ain’t a man in this regiment who’s fightin’ for the nigger. We’re fightin’ for the Union.”
    â€œDo you deny Old Abe’s fightin’ for the nigger?” someone howled. “Haven’t you read his Constipation Proclamation?”
    â€œMore like his Diarrhea Proclamation.”
    â€œEither way, it’s a lot of shit!”
    Laughter swept the crowd. Colonel Schreiber wiped his streaming forehead and cheeks with a red handkerchief. “I’m not here to debate politics. I’ll be over in Gentry’s store, ready to give any man who signs up with us a cash bounty of three hundred dollars.”
    â€œLiar or fool!” bellowed a half-dozen voices.
    â€œLiar or fool!” the crowd chanted.
    â€œYou’ve let the Democrats destroy this rally, Major,” Captain Otis said. “That regiment won’t get ten men now.”
    Maybe that’s ten more than they deserve to get, the Gettysburg wound whispered in Major Stapleton’s aching skull. “Then they’ll have to go to the draft,” Paul said. “Worse things could happen.”
    â€œMoreover!” Colonel Schreiber shouted above the din. “Through the generosity of our friend and neighbor, Colonel Henry Gentry, I’m prepared to add a hundred dollars to that bounty for every man who signs up today!”

    â€œTell Henry to shove his money up Lincoln’s ass!” shouted another Democrat.
    Working his way toward them through the crowd was Colonel Henry Gentry in the flesh. His big body swayed erratically, as if the arm he had lost at the battle of Shiloh in 1862 had forever unbalanced him. Those who knew him better were inclined to blame bourbon for his wobble. His once-handsome face, with a Roman nose that should have guaranteed dignity, was marred by the sagging cheeks, the jowls, of middle age, compounded by the protruding veins of the heavy drinker. Even now, when he was relatively sober, he had the slightly dazed manner of a man who had barely survived a carriage or railroad accident that had left him in a state of constant apprehension.
    â€œMajor Stapleton,” Gentry said, “I’m sorry to spoil your holiday. We’ve got a report that as many as five deserters are hiding out at the Fitzsimmons farm.”
    Paul stifled an impulse to curse like an Irish sergeant. “We’ll be on the road as soon as this meeting is over,” he said.
    â€œMaybe when you drag them back in handcuffs you can persuade them to enlist in Lincoln’s Own,” Dr. Yancey said.
    â€œI wish that were possible, Walter,” Gentry said. “But the army doesn’t give deserters a second chance.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference whether they get shot at sunrise by a firing squad or at moonrise by a rebel?” Andrew Conway said. “Ain’t it cannon fodder your murderous friend Lincoln needs?”
    â€œNow, Andy,” Gentry said. “You know in your heart Abe doesn’t think that way.”
    â€œI’ve engaged to meet your cousin, Miss Todd, at the ferry landing, Colonel,” Major Stapleton said. “I hope you can serve as my replacement and express appropriate regrets.”

    â€œNow that’s the sort of service I’m ready to volunteer for,” Dr. Yancey said.
    â€œPrecisely why I asked Colonel Gentry,” Stapleton said, smiling at the dissolute