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| About the Book |
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| Read An Excerpt |
Camp Cleveland, Ohio – December 1862
In the
center of the square, under the American flag, a loose halyard slapped the
pole, out of rhythm with the swirling wind. The gritty snow, sharp as sand, had
taken up residence in the air and sucked the color from the scene. To Shire,
the surrounding brown barrack huts, a tied bay mare, the blue uniforms, were
all shaded towards grey. If ever the snow met the ground, it was soon collected
into short-lived eddies and whipped back up to prickle his hands and face. He
half closed his eyes against the sting, tried not to lick his cracked lips; it
only made them colder. It still felt strange to be marching beneath that flag.
‘Right face!’
shouted Sergeant Bluffton.
The
whole of Company B swiveled ninety degrees.
‘Forward!’
Half
the men – the ‘ones’ – stood still, while Shire – a heartbeat late – and the
other designated ‘twos’, stepped forward and to the right of the man in front.
The company was magically converted from two lines for battle into four lines
of column.
‘March!’
Step
off with the left leg. Keep your distance constant to the man in front. Don’t
give Bluffton any excuse. Shire could feel the shape of his scar.
The freezing wind defined it for him. The rest of his face was raw, a dull ache
under the skin, but the scar itself felt wet. He recalled a kiss from his
mother in some other life, long ago.
Could
he call it a scar yet? Had it finished healing? At first the burn had wept a
clear but constant discharge. But by the time he’d travelled with Dan from New
York to Dan’s parents’ home in Medina, Ohio, it had crusted red and yellow.
He’d tried not to pick at it but it itched, inside and out. The scab had only
yesterday come away completely, leaving a glassy red tear, the size of his
thumbprint.
‘Left
wheel – march!’
Don’t try to anticipate; Sergeant Bluffton
mixes up the orders. To think at all was ill-advised. Just
drill until your body did whatever Bluffton said. March, turn, stop, present
arms, march again and try to forget it was Christmas Eve.
A lone,
lanky soldier was standing outside the commissary store, watching them. What
was he about? Bluffton halted the men. The bay mare, tied outside the officers’
mess, defecated wetly, steamy warmth wasting into the air.
‘Fix
bayonets!’
Shire
pulled his bayonet from the sheath attached to his belt. His numb fingers
vaguely registered the deeper cold of the barrel as he slipped the bayonet ring
into place.
‘Shoulder
arms!’
Everyone
who mattered was so far away. He imagined his friends at Ridgmont; the church
with the nativity set out, the farm with the horses all stalled, the school
empty for Christmas – Father alone at home.
No
letters. It was hard sometimes to feel the same impetus with which he’d set out
to keep his promise. He’d tried not to let this show in his latest letter home.
And he’d written that he’d enlisted for nine months, not for the three years
which was the only option. The war couldn’t last that long.
‘Order
arms!’
Three
years. Fighting a war that wasn’t his, to keep a promise made sitting in a tree
when he was seven. He moved his rifle to his right hand and rested the butt
beside his foot, holding the barrel lightly. A clatter of tin came from the
kitchen hut, followed by some prize cursing. Bluffton scanned the line, daring
anyone to so much as smile without his permission, then turned his back. Shire
relaxed. At last he’d got through a drill without a mistake, despite his
wandering mind. Perhaps that was the trick.
Someone
behind kicked the butt of his rifle. Shire dropped it on the hard dirt. He
heard laughter and spun round on a burst of anger. Cleves was wearing a stifled
smile in his weasel face. It was always bloody Cleves. When he turned back,
Bluffton’s face was barely an inch away, his brown beard almost up to his
scowling eyes. Shire felt as if he was about to be mauled by some great bear.
‘Extra
fatigue duty,’ Bluffton spat. ‘You must be getting good at digging latrine
ditches. Let’s see if you can hang onto a shovel better than a rifle.’ The sergeant
turned away.
More
hours out in the cold. Shire picked up his rifle and wondered how many more
weeks Cleves and Bluffton would keep this up.
The sergeant
called over the soldier outside the commissary store. The tall man had no rifle
and his uniform was too short, an inch of pale skin showed above his boots. He
had an odd gait as he walked, rather than marched; his lower legs and forearms
appearing to swing past the usual stopping point, as if a vital ligament was
missing. He came to a stop, arms relaxed by his sides, slightly hunched as if
he were sitting back on a fence rail.
‘This
one’s from Kentucky,’ said the sergeant to Company B. ‘I don’t know why we
can’t fill this company from Ohio, as it should be. And I don’t know why this
boy hasn’t seen fit to join up with his own kith and kin. What I do know is I
ain’t got the time to teach him the drill. Stand to attention, boy.’
The
Kentuckian, untidy dark hair under an ill-fitting cap, straightened himself;
though to Shire’s eye it wasn’t a stance that came naturally to the man. He
gained two or three more inches in the process, a proportion of which
translated to his trousers and showed off more skin.
The sergeant
looked down. ‘You planning on turnin’ heads with those pretty white legs?’
There
was laughter in the ranks.
‘Commissary
store didn’t have a fit, sir. Said they’d see what they could do.’
‘You
address me as Sergeant. Corporal
Lyman!’
‘Sergeant?’
Amazing
how the corporal could strip any hint of energy or enthusiasm from a single
word.
‘This
man will replace Rittman in your section.’
Rittman
had deserted with his sign-up money a week ago; bounty jumping they called it.
‘You’re
to teach him the Manual of Arms and the drill.’
Lyman’s
heavy sigh didn’t carry past Shire. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘And
take him back to the commissary hut and get him some gaiters or longer socks.
Our Kentucky boy might be feeling the Ohio cold.’
There
was more laughter, tolerated by the sergeant. Shire smiled too. The new recruit
was shown to the spare place in the section, immediately to Shire’s right,
still drawing amusement both on account of his height and trousers.
‘Shoulder
arms!’
He was
keeping a neutral face, and Shire felt for him. But he was sick and tired of
being the company’s whipping boy. It was time for someone else to take a turn.
‘Left
face!’
The
poor man was facing straight at him. Despite a nugget of guilt he couldn’t
quite escape, Shire broke into full-throated laughter along with the rest of
Company B. He looked up at the hapless man, received a thin smile and a raised
eyebrow. Only then did Shire realize the Kentuckian was facing the same way as
everybody else.
You might also like
books written by Helen Hollick
Website: https://helenhollick.net/
Amazon Author Page: https://viewauthor.at/HelenHollick
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Thanks so much for hosting Richard Buxton today, with such an enticing excerpt.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club
My pleasure :-)
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