1862

Chapter Thirteen

Brigadier General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne sat on the edge of his cot in his tent and wondered just what had caused the world to fall in on him so suddenly and so totally. A couple of days ago he was the darling of the Confederate army; now he was a virtual prisoner.

Cleburne's unit was one of the few to have emerged from the battle of Shiloh with its reputation enhanced. His rise in the Confederate army had been meteoric. He had begun the war as a private and now was a highly regarded general. His intelligence: bravery: charm: and personal experience in the British army had stood him in good stead. He had commanded a division, and was told he would soon get a corps. He was a man whose star was rising rapidly.

But that was then and this was now, and there was a guard at the flap of the tent with orders to shoot Cleburne should he attempt to leave.

How had this happened? Cleburne was an immigrant from Ireland who had worked hard and finally made good as an attorney and a military man. He enjoyed the fighting and his men seemed to love following him into combat. Why not? He was a winner and the winners not only had the glory but, generally, fewer casualties. And now he was under arrest at the order of General Braxton Bragg and charges of treason were likely to be levied against him.

“Damn Bragg,'^: Cleburne muttered. He was not the first man to utter such a curse. Braxton Bragg now commanded the renamed Army of Tennessee and was heartily disliked by virtually all under his command. Bragg's prickly temper and ability to find insult where none existed or was intended was making him the source of ridicule, a fact that made matters worse. Virtually none of Bragg's general officers had any respect for him, which was causing the morale of the Army of Tennessee to deteriorate rapidly.

“And damn Flynn,” Cleburne again muttered. His assessment was correct. Cleburne was under arrest for consorting with a known Irish radical who supported the Union, one Attila Flynn. Two of Cleburne's sergeants, fellow Irish immigrants Red Coughlin and Gus O'Hara, had seen Attila Flynn come and leave and, having recognized him, had run to Bragg's headquarters with the information that General Cleburne was consorting with the enemy. Worse, there was the strong possibility that the charge would stick since it had the virtue of being true. Cleburne cursed himself for not having arrested Flynn instead of talking with him. But no, he had honored the implicit truce and this was his reward.

“Penny for your thoughts, Patrick.” Attila Flynn stood in the entrance to the tent.

Cleburne did not rise, although his anger did. “For some reason I expected you, and I do not want a penny for my thoughts, as it would be a bad penny coming from you.”

Flynn sat on a camp stool across from Cleburne. They were so close in the small tent that their knees almost touched. “But I've done you a favor, lad. Now you know what their mighty Confederate lordships think of you and what your real future is with them. They don't like or trust you, Patrick. You're Irish, and they don't like the Irish. I've heard that some think you're a Catholic despite your professed Anglicanism.”

Cleburne almost complained about the injustice of it. But Flynn was fairly correct. Cleburne was an Irishman and an immigrant and, while Anglican instead of Catholic, was looked upon as being almost Catholic in a land where Catholics were far from universally loved. At times he'd thought that he'd become an Anglican because it was the closest one could get to Catholicism and still be a Protestant.

“After all was said and done. Patrick, it was the Negro thing that brought you to the attention of Braxton Bragg and Jefferson Davis. Without the Negro thing you might have gotten away with meeting with me. But with it, your goose is cooked.”

Cleburne had always been against slavery and. as the war had dragged on without any signs of a future letup, he had authored a report that suggested that an army of Southern colored troops be formed to protect the Confederacy. His report was logical and concise. The Southern white man was outnumbered by the Northern white, and the North was already arming Negroes for service against the South, which would further improve the North's dominance in manpower. Cleburne simply wished to augment Southern manpower by utilizing “loyal” Negroes in the military. His suggestions had gone to Bragg, who had forwarded them to Jefferson Davis.

As a foreigner, Cleburne was not fully aware of the depth of fear felt by Southern whites towards their Negroes. Arming them was and would always remain an impossibility, and, for suggesting it, Patrick Cleburne had been severely chastised by Bragg. Admittedly, he had not comprehended just how anyone held in bondage could be “loyal” to his keeper. As a result, Cleburne had become an untrustworthy pariah to the government at Richmond. The incident with Flynn had merely provided Bragg with the excuse needed to remove him.

“No man should be a slave,” Cleburne said angrily. “If the South is so outnumbered, she should free her slaves and have them protect her from the North. That would guarantee their loyalty.”

Flynn shook his head. For such a clever and intelligent man, in some ways Cleburne was so naive. What slave would fight for his master? Or for his ex-master? Or for someone who had flogged him or sold his family? When the war ended so, too, would any need for their freedom. They would be returned to bondage. “So now what will you do?”

“Hang and be damned to them all.”

“Would you like to escape and go north?”

“I cannot fight for the Union.”

“Would you fight for Ireland?”

Cleburne paused. He was intrigued. “How?”

“Tonight you leave here with me. When you've gone: some others may follow, particularly when they find out what you can offer them.”

“And that is?”

“A chance to form an Irish army and strike at England in Canada. Patrick, I promise you that neither you nor any other Irishman who comes over will ever have to fight against the Confederacy.”

Cleburne could not hide the fact that he was interested. If what Flynn said came to pass, he could lead an army again, and possibly a larger one then he^’ d had before his arrest. Better, they'd all be Irishmen fighting England.

“There's no longer any place here for me in the South, is there?” Cleburne asked with a wry smile. “Might you have an idea where I'll live when this is all over?”

“Not one thought, lad. You'd be too Northern to ever return to Arkansas, and maybe too Southern to live in the North. However, you would still be alive and not hanged, which is what Bragg wishes to do.”

It was a good and compelling point. Then a thought struck Cleburne. “Flynn, what happened to the guard stationed outside my tent?”

“Let’s just say he's not guarding much right now. Hopefully he'llbe up and about in a few days when the lump on his noggin heals. Now, if you're willing, let's get the hell out of here before anybody notices.”

Lord Cardigan was livid. He was not used to being scolded, and the lecture he'd received from the governor of Canada, Viscount Monck, had infuriated him.

What was worse. Viscount Monck was entirely justified in his anger. While Cardigan had assumed almost dictatorial powers as military commander, he had largely left the civil administration of the Province of Canada in the very capable hands of Viscount Monck. That the governor had many friends back in London was another reason for Cardigan to pay attention to the man.

“General, the fact that Americans have crossed onto Canadian soil is extremely upsetting to the loyal population of Canada, and that means just about everyone. My office is being bombarded with multitudes of sincere entreaties every day. I must know what you intend to do about it.”

Cardigan glared at him. “I will be the first to admit that the Americans surprised me by invading at Windsor. After that, the logic behind their move puzzles me. They are more than two hundred miles from Toronto as the crow flies, and I'm assured that the real distance they must travel is in excess of that. Therefore their move baffles me. It will take a major effort to march an army from Windsor to Toronto.”

“Not that much of an effort,” Monck responded. 'You are new here, so I'll forgive you your lack of knowledge of the area. A road called Dundas Street runs almost directly from Windsor to Hamilton, where it follows the lake to Toronto. It is a decent road, and there are no geographic problems that will delay the Union horde. I would also remind you that a railroad parallels Dundas Street and I presume that that, too, is still in excellent condition.”

Cardigan winced. “We have damaged the rail as best we can, but the Americans are even better at repairing it. They have indeed begun advancing, and there isn't much we can or will do about it until they draw closer to my army.”

Monck glared. “Which means you will be surrendering the richest and most heavily populated part of Canada to invaders from the United States.”

“Temporarily, I assure you. Whether we like them or not, Viscount Monck, I have my orders. I must defend Toronto and the Niagara peninsula, which means that I may not send my army too far afield to fight the Americans. I will not assist the militia mob that is forming near London, and I will not split my army to defend that city.” Cardigan chuckled as he thought he saw humor in the situation. “If it were the London on the Thames in England, I might feel different. However, this is the London on the Thames in Canada, which is far less important.”

“Except to the people who live there,” Monck snarled. “My London is approximately halfway between Windsor and Toronto. If the English government is going to hope to retain the loyalty of Canada's people, your army must do something more than just sit here on its arse. I have always pressed for more of a military presence in Canada to help keep the rapacious Americans at bay. What will you do if the Americans advance and then stop? What will you do if they choose not to attack where you wish, but, instead, are simply content with conquering the breadbasket of Canada?”

Cardigan sighed. Of course the man was right. But what was he to do? If he sent his army west towards London, then he'd run the risk of it being in the wrong place should the Americans thrust north with another force at Niagara. Damn this Grant. The Union army was indeed a couple hundred miles away, but after spending several days crossing the river and consolidating its base, it had begun to move east down Dundas Street, just like Monck had said.

Cardigan was determined not to leave Hamilton until and unless he was reasonably assured of victory over the Americans. There was too much to risk. If he was not careful, he could lose Canada in an afternoon. Palmerston had made that simple fact plainly obvious to him.

“Would a token suffice?” Cardigan asked. “Who commands this mob you have gathering at London?”

“A journalist named D'Arcy McGee.”

“God help us,” Cardigan said. “May I safely presume that McGee knows nothing about forming an army?”

“You may presume that he knows far less than nothing.”

“Then I will send him a general. I will send him no less than the recently promoted hero of the New York attack, Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey. Will that suffice?”

“Of course not but if you won't send an army with General Wolsey: then it'll have to do. However, I doubt that the Canadian militia will obey him. McGee has formed this army, and he is hot tempered enough to throw out someone who tries to usurp his command.”

Cardigan groaned. Damn these Canadians. Do they want to be British or not? First they demand a degree of independence from Mother England, then, when threatened, they demand that Mother England rush to save them. What the devil did they truly want?

“Then I will send Wolsey as an adviser. Will that be acceptable to McGee and his militia?”

“I hope so.” Viscount Monck said fervently. “And God help those people gathering at London.”

Colonel John Rawlins handed the telescope to Nathan. “Here, would you tell me what those addled fools are up to?”

Nathan smiled and took the telescope. He didn't really need it to analyze the situation, but peered through it as a courtesy. Nathan had come to realize that John Rawlins was as bad an aide to Grant as he was a good friend. General Grant endured Rawlins's incompetence only because of that deep friendship. On several occasions, Nathan had seen Grant writing his own clear, lucid orders while Rawlins watched because Rawlins was such an abominable writer.

As a result, Nathan had begun to do some of the things that would normally have been done by a man who proclaimed himself Grant's chief of staff, a title that did not exist in the U.S. Army. Rawlins didn't seem to mind and Grant seemed grateful. Nathan sometimes wondered if Grant's extreme loyalty to his friends might not someday cause trouble. Right now it was a nuisance, but might it contain the seeds of tragedy?

Nathan returned the telescope. “I see a mob forming on the other bank of the river.”

Rawlins chuckled. “But not an army, is it?”

This fact had been reported by Union scouts as they advanced towards the Canadian city of London. Riding forward to confirm the sightings had been Rawlins^’ s idea.

“No, John. It is not an army.”

Rawlins shook his head sadly. “If they mean to fight us, they will be slaughtered.”

Nathan shuddered at the thought. All through their slow advance through the Ontario peninsula, he'd been pleasantly surprised at the prosperity of the area and the size of the population. If he hadn't known that he'd crossed the border into a foreign country, the land would have seemed just like Indiana or Ohio, with gently rolling hills and numerous prosperous farms, homesteads, and small towns. It saddened him to think that his was a conquering army marching across this pleasant country.

It saddened him more to think that the mob just across the Thames was willing to die for it. Rawlins had used the wordslaughter, and that was accurate. Union scouts reported the Canadian force at between eight and ten thousand men. Most had rifles or shotguns, but not all. The odd pitchfork or scythe was present as a weapon. There were few uniforms, and most wore red sashes to identify themselves as an army, and even the sashes were of varying shades of red.

Nathan saw no signs of military competence. No entrenchments had been dug and no barricades thrown up. There was no cavalry in sight, and there were only a handful of pitifully obsolete cannon to confront Ulysses Grant and three corps of battle-hardened Union soldiers.

A courier rode up and informed them that General Grant wished to see them. When they arrived, Grant was sitting alone on a stool in front of his tent. The stub of a cigar was clenched in his teeth, and he chewed it angrily.

“You saw them, didn't you? Lambs to the slaughter, aren't they?”

Rawlins and Nathan nodded. There was nothing to add. Grant removed the cigar, examined it. and flung it away. “I will not be associated with a massacre. At least.” he amended, “if I can avoid it.”

The previous victories won by Grant had all been against determined and equivalently armed and skilled foes. While Grant did not seem to fight for glory's sake, neither did he shy from it. There would be no glory in massacring the Canadians gathered a few miles away from them.

“We're camping here,” Grant said. “Tomorrow, l^: m sending a man across under a flag of truce. That man will try to talk them out of fighting. He will give them every opportunity to disband and go home. Nathan: will you try it?”

Nathan hid his surprise. “Yes: General. And what will happen if I fail?'^:

“If they will not see reason:'^: Grant said, “then it will be their failure, not yours. We will be spending the night preparing for battle tomorrow. If they do not see reason, I will be forced to destroy them. And rest assured I will do that with a heavy heart but without any compunction whatsoever.”

Nathan rode slowly out from the security of the massive Union lines. He had a large white flag, made from a sheet, attached to a flagpole. A corporal carried it and rode just behind Nathan. The morning sun was bright and he felt the warmth on his back as he rode toward the Canadian lines. It was a fine day to die, and an even better one to live.

There was no immediate response from the Canadians who were drawn up in plain sight on the far side of the sluggish and shallow Thames. As he kept his horse at a steady, methodical pace, he hoped the Canadians understood a flag of truce and that no one was hotheaded enough to take a shot at him. Grimly, he understood his own selection. Rawlins, along with being incompetent, was Grant's friend and the general didn't want to lose him, while all the others on Grant's staff had needed skills and were busy preparing for the battle. Nathan was the only one who was both unnecessary for the staff to function, and reasonably likely to pull off the task of getting the Canadians, many of whom now stood in plain sight, to abandon their foolish venture.

Nathan reached the bank of the Thames and rode into it. The water was low, swirling around the horse's knees. It wasn't much of a river and nothing of an obstacle, and there was no high ground covering it. Militarily, it was useless. It could be waded by a child. He paused and waited. In a few minutes a pair of riders under a white flag broke from the Canadian mass and rode slowly towards him. He was somewhat surprised to see that one wore the scarlet tunic of a British army officer.

Nathan signaled the corporal to stay behind and urged his horse forward. The three men met in the middle of the shallow river. “I am Colonel Nathan Hunter of General Grant's staff,” he announced.

The civilian was short, dark-haired, and in his mid-thirties. He glared angrily at Nathan. “I am D'Arcy McGee and I lead this army of Canadians against you American invaders. And this,” he said as he gestured abruptly to the man in uniform, “is Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey. He has been sent to advise me in military matters.”

The snappish tone of McGee^’ s statement told Nathan that the Canadian didn't think he needed advice from the British army. The brigadier ignored the slight.

They did not shake hands. Nathan recognized Wolsey's name from the reports of the New York debacle that had appeared in Canadian newspapers. He was surprised that Wolsey was so young, although the obviously wounded eye spoke volumes as to his military experience.

“Gentlemen,” Nathan began, “General Grant has sent me forward to see if we can prevent unnecessary loss of life.”

“It would help if you and your army would get the hell back where you came from,” said McGee.

Nathan saw Wolsey wince. Apparently, the two men did not see eye to eye on this. “Mr. McGee, the United States is at war with Great Britain, a nation that has sunk our ships and burned our cities. Since England is so far away and since Britannia rules the waves, the only way we can reach Great Britain is through Canada. We have no quarrel with Canada or Canadians. There is no need for you to stand and protect your land, as we have no desire to take it. We only wish to march through to where the British lie. We wish no harm to Canada.”

“You burned Windsor,” McGee snapped.

“Someone very foolishly built artillery emplacements in the middle of the town,” Nathan retorted. “The fires we started we put out, and our men have helped in rebuilding the homes that were damaged.” Nathan had no idea if that had actually occurred, but it sounded nice and McGee looked surprised. McGee also had no way to check on it.

“Further,” Nathan continued, “my army is paying in gold for all the goods and services it needs. There has been no plundering, no rape, no rapine. To the best of our abilities, we are harming no one and nothing.”

This part was true. Grant had been adamant that no terrorizing of the civilian population would take place and that everything would be paid for. They would even reimburse for that which was not offered for sale and had to be commandeered. Thus, Grant's rear area was remarkably tranquil if not content.

McGee seemed hesitant, while Wolsey looked over Nathan's shoulder. The British officer was examining what he could see of the Union army's positions. Thousands of men and scores of cannon were plainly visible in an attempt to overawe the Canadians.

“Mr. McGee, let me be blunt,” Nathan said. “One way or the other, we are going forward towards Toronto. You've seen Grant's army. It is sixty thousand strong and far greater than your host.” Nathan caught Wolsey's good eye. Wolsey clearly understood that the number of sixty thousand was a gross exaggeration, but just how gross was unknown.

The inflated number, however, seemed to shock McGee. His response was subdued. “We must fight for our homes.”

“Mr. McGee, you seem to have some idea of dying gloriously for your land,” Nathan said. “Let me assure you that, if you stay, you will truly die. However, your death will not be glorious. As General Wolsey has ascertained, there are several score cannon pointed at your lines that are well within their range, while the relics you possess cannot hit ours. Since you have not entrenched, your men will be torn to bloody pieces by a hailstorm of canister. When we've bombarded your lines to a bloody pulp, the infantry will move in and kill whoever remains with bullet and bayonet.

“Have you ever seen a modern battlefield? Try to imagine all those men who trust you lying in gory bits and pieces all over the field, while those who are wounded crawl about on bloody stumps and scream for help that will never come. Then, those who do survive and flee will be run down and gutted by the sabres of the five thousand cavalry who are already behind your lines.”

McGee looked ill while Wolsey looked interested. “You can't have cavalry behind us,” McGee sputtered.

“They were moved there last night, under cover of darkness. The cavalry forded above you and swung around the town. Trust me, they're waiting.” It was partly true. About a thousand men, not five thousand, under Colonel Benjamin Grierson, had indeed crossed the Thames and were in a flanking position.

“This isn't fair,” McGee said. He looked distraught.

“War isn't fair,” said Nathan. “Ask Brigadier Wolsey how he snuck up on sleeping men in New York and butchered them while they slept. Fair is for golf or tennis, Mr. McGee, not for war, sir, where there is only one rule, and that is to kill the enemy.”

Wolsey nodded and finally spoke. “You are indeed correct, Colonel Hunter, war is far from fair.”

McGee looked beaten. The great show was drawing to a close. “What does General Grant propose?” the Canadian asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Nathan took a deep breath. Maybe the massacre really could be avoided. “Very simple. You and your men will lay down your arms and depart for your homes. You will not take up arms against the United States again.”

McGee blinked in astonishment. “No imprisonment?”

“None for those who agree to our terms.” Nathan did not add that Grant had no desire to house, feed, and guard thousands of Canadians at this time.

Nathan made a show of pulling his watch out of his pocket. “We will give you two hours. Any armed men who remain here after that will be considered hostile and will be dealt with accordingly. Any who accept our terms will gather, unarmed, in a field outside of town, where our clerks will take their names and send them on their way. Any who are armed and heading eastward on Dundas Street or otherwise en route to Toronto will be destroyed.”

“But what about those who live towards Toronto?” McGee asked, a stammer in his voice.

Nathan stifled a grin of elation. It was going to work. “They will wait until our army passes. Then they may go wherever they wish as long as they are unarmed.”

McGee turned towards Wolsey. “Cardigan sent you here to advise me, General Wolsey. Advise me now, for God's sake.”

Wolsey shrugged. “Everything Colonel Hunter has said is true. You are outnumbered, outgunned, and poorly placed, and this river is no obstacle at all, which is obvious by virtue of the fact that we are in its middle and our horses are scarcely getting wet. General Grant, a man who has been successful in a number of battles, has it within his power to destroy thousands of lives without losing a man. Instead, he offers terms that are far more than generous. I strongly urge you to tell your followers to take them.”

“I will do that,” McGee said as he nodded sadly. He turned and rode back to shore, where he was immediately surrounded by a dozen or so men. In a few moments, the group broke up and the Canadians began to move away from the river, some laying their weapons on the ground and not waiting for them to be gathered later. Most of them were their personal arms, but losing them was a small price to pay for a future life.

“And what will you do now. General Wolsey?” Nathan asked. The two men had remained in the river, waiting and watching the tableaux unfold.

Wolsey smiled. “Why, Colonel, I shall be riding back to Toronto as fast as I can, all the while trying to avoid your phantom five thousand cavalry and your equally nonexistent sixty-thousand-man army.”

Nathan grinned in return. Under different circumstances, Wolsey would be an easy man to like. “I thought of saying we had a hundred thousand, but was afraid that was too great a lie to be swallowed even by a foolish man like McGee.”

“How many do you actually have?” Wolsey asked disingenuously.

Nathan laughed at the impertinence of the question. “You'll find out soon enough.” Nathan saluted the British general, who returned the salute.

“By the way, Colonel Hunter,” Wolsey said as he turned to ride off. “That was extremely well played and I congratulate you. There truly is no meaning or glory in the slaughter of foolish innocents.”

Billy Harwell was one of the first to arrive at Otto the Kraut's body. Otto had been standing guard during the night, and his relief found him facedown in the mud. He had been robbed and his throat had been cut.

On seeing his friend's pale, blood-drained skin and the gaping slice that had nearly decapitated him, Billy had howled and begun to cry like a baby. Others had looked away in understanding at the display; they had felt equally awful when their own companions had been killed in battle. This wasn't battle, however, this was slaughter. Otto had been butchered like a sheep.

Captain Melcher immediately called for a head count and it showed that Private Grimes, their disgraced former sergeant, was missing.

A hue and cry was raised with the entire regiment's several hundred men taking part in it. Within a couple of hours, Grimes was found in a nearby barn, dead drunk, and with a pocket watch that Billy identified as his own. He had loaned it to Otto, who liked to use it to tell time when he was standing guard. Grimes had some money on him, but it was impossible to determine where it came from.

The watch was enough. Grimes was court-martialed for murder and desertion, and quickly found guilty of both. Death by firing squad was the sentence.

Tradition said that the condemned man's comrades would form the firing squad, and, thus, Billy wasn't surprised that his was one of the six names drawn from a hat. Hell, there were only thirty men left in the company, and no officers or the first sergeant were eligible, which further reduced the odds. He also had his suspicion that the first sergeant and Captain Melcher had made damn sure his was one of the names pulled. He appreciated that.

Another one of the six, Joe Gruber, a corporal from Pittsburgh, had been one of Grimes's cronies. Billy looked at him angrily just before they marched out to shoot Grimes. “Hey, Billy, don't look at me. I had nothin' to do with this. Grimes thought it up all by himself.”

“Gruber, you're as big a prick as Grimes was.”

Gruber was older and much larger, but he respected Billy's skill with a gun too much to take offense. “Not so. Yeah, I liked getting out of duty with Grimes, and maybe I did borrow a couple of things that didn't belong to me, but, look, I never deserted and I never killed a comrade. Tell me, did you see me flinch at Culpeper?”

Gruber was right on all counts, especially regarding the battle. Gruber had been beside Billy for much of the chaotic time, and had stood up to everything the rebs had thrown at him. “Okay, so you're not such a big prick after all,” he admitted grudgingly.

“That's right,” Gruber said. “All I ever wanted to do was make myself a little more comfortable in this shithole of an army, and there ain't nothin' wrong with that. And if that meant you got stuck with some shit details while I didn't, well, that was too bad. But I never deserted and I never killed no one.”

Before they could continue, Captain Melcher called them all to attention. He then had them draw lots to see who would draw which already-loaded rifle. Tradition said that one of the weapons was unloaded so that no one could ever be sure that he had killed a man who had once been a companion.

Billy was second to draw and he didn't give a damn about such niceties. He wanted to kill Grimes. He couldn't tell whether the gun he held was unloaded or not, but he sure as hell knew he could find out if it had been loaded after it'd been fired.

The firing squad was called to attention and, with weapons at port arms, was marched out to where the regiment was assembled in an open triangle. A wooden stake had been driven into the ground in the middle of the open end and, after the squad was drawn up before it, Grimes was brought out in front of them.

Grimes's hands and feet were shackled, and his uniform was in rags. He blinked at the sunlight and the assembly in disbelief. Was the man drugged, Billy wondered, or had he been kept in darkness? Maybe he really didn't understand what was happening to him? He behaved more like an animal than a man as he shuffled along under the firm guidance of his guards. Billy felt a twinge of pity for the man. It passed. If all he'd wanted to do was desert, that was one thing. People did that all the time, and damned few got shot for it even if they did get caught. But Grimes had sliced Otto's throat and that made it different by a ton.

Grimes's chains were removed and he was tied to the stake with his hands behind his back. He tried to say something but his voice was an incoherent gurgle that made a few men in the regiment laugh nervously until they were glared down by their officers.

A chaplain went to Grimes and whispered some words. Again, Grimes appeared to not comprehend and the chaplain walked off shaking his head. “Fuck it,” someone said loud enough to be heard. “Finish him; it's hot out here.”

A blindfold was offered Grimes, but he shook it off. Comprehension appeared to be returning and he smiled. Maybe he thought that none of his company would actually aim at him and that they'd all miss. Then he saw Billy in the firing squad and his mouth dropped. His body shook and he began to jabber in terror. Billy would not miss. If there was a ball in the rifle, it would go right through Grimes.

Captain Melcher raised his sword and gave the orders quickly. “Ready. Aim. Fire.”

The volley was a solid clap of thunder. Grimes's body convulsed and then slumped forward. There was blood on his chest that ran in rivulets down his legs. Captain Melcher strode over to see if Grimes was dead. If he still breathed, the captain would draw his pistol and shoot Grimes in the ear.

It wasn't needed. Melcher raised Grimes's head. There was a bullet hole right between the eyes, and the back of his skull had been blown out. Scores of soldiers looked toward Billy, who merely looked skyward, unsmiling. While others had aimed for the easier chest shot, he had aimed for the skull, right between the eyes.

The firing squad marched off and turned in their rifles. A couple of the men walked off and vomited. What they had done was terrible, horrible, and, however justified, had nothing to do with war. Captain Melcher caught up with Billy. “Feel any satisfaction?”

Billy shook his head. “I ought to, but I don't. He wasn't worth the price of the lead to kill him, but Otto was worth lots.” He felt tears well up in his eyes. “Damn it, sir, this ain't no life for men to live. When this is over, I ain't killin' a thing again.”

Melcher nodded sympathetically. He was an older man, maybe twenty-five.

“Sir, on the other hand, I sure am glad I didn't get the unloaded gun.”

Melcher smiled and walked away. Comprehension dawned on Billy. All of the rifles had been loaded. “Thank you, Captain,” Billy whispered.