were frozen in an assortment of poses, some of them poised in a bayonet charge while others stood at attention with their rifles on their shoulders.
Now Vernon Ray was falling into the fantasy, becoming as self-absorbed as his father, only dimly aware that this was both the closest emotionally he’d ever get to his father and, in an odd way, the best way to get revenge for the years of neglect-he was overriding his father’s orders. He commanded three more soldiers off Mulatto Mountain, chiding them for nearly missing the action to come.
“Do you gentlemen want to live forever, or do you want to be laid out in glory with your brothers?” No good officer ever asked his men to tackle any danger or hardship he wouldn’t face himself, and Vernon Ray knew when Gen. Stoneman came thundering through the pass, he’d be standing in the dirt road himself, pistol in hand, a wide-open target. Vernon Ray could almost smell the dust, the rot of the oak leaves, the horse manure, the sulfuric tang of fresh gunpowder, the faint coal smoke of the last steam locomotive.
“Sgt. Childers, take three men and cover the west side of the mountain so they don’t dismount and follow Skin Creek into town,” he said, snapping off the palm-up salute in response to his sergeant’s salute. A few more orders and the remaining men had advanced down the slopes of the mountain and into harm’s way.
“Capt. Davis,” said Sgt. McGregor, his most trusted noncom. “If enemy troop strength matches the reconnoiters, we’re set up for a slaughter.”
Capt. Davis gave a grave nod of his head. “War is hell, Sergeant.”
“If we fall, we lose the town.”
Vernon Ray nudged the toy sergeant toward the fence line, where he would die shortly after his captain. “We don’t get to win this time. Our job is to slow them down.”
“The men are sticking with you, sir. Even the conscripts.”
“Good. That will be all, Sergeant.”
“Aye-aye,” the soldier said. He was Scottish, and such men were foolhardy and brave as long as you kept them sober. Leadership came with its own worries, and though Capt. Davis had already accepted his fate, the certainty of his followers’ deaths weighed on him, making him feel much older than his 13 years.
The ground shook with the distant rumble of a hundred hoof beats. The Room fell away, and it was 1864, October, birds taking wing as they sensed the coming calamity. The dirt roads of Titusville would be stained red before this day was done. Capt. Davis was almost ready to take up his position in the pass.
But there was one more soldier, a special volunteer, who was awaiting orders.
“Vernon Ray, you can’t sit out on the side forever,” Capt. Davis said. “You’ve got to join the dance sooner or later.”
He fondled the toy drummer boy, the one he’d touched so often that its lead was shinier and less tarnished than the other pieces. It was half the height of the other soldiers, his little kepi askew, head bent down to his instrument. The snare was cocked on his right thigh, angling the drumhead so his dull gray wrists could roll out the signals.
“I’m ready, Dad,” the drummer boy said in a small voice.
“Might get dangerous, son. Keep your head low.”
“I won’t blink an eye, no matter what. I’ll make you proud.”
“I know you will. You already make me proud.”
The drummer boy smiled at this, at least in that autumnal fantasy land, though the grim lead face stayed as set as it had been since the day it was cast. He’d drum even if he lost his sticks, even if a cannon blast took his hands. He’d beat his splintered bones against the leather head of the snare, pound until his sinews and ragged flesh fell off, he’d roll reveille until the gates of Hades opened up and the soldiers followed his cadence into the pits of Gen. Grant’s infernal prison.
Because Daddy had given him a duty.
Vernon Ray was lost in the imaginary battle, the sun filtering through the yellow-and-red forest,
Now Vernon Ray was falling into the fantasy, becoming as self-absorbed as his father, only dimly aware that this was both the closest emotionally he’d ever get to his father and, in an odd way, the best way to get revenge for the years of neglect-he was overriding his father’s orders. He commanded three more soldiers off Mulatto Mountain, chiding them for nearly missing the action to come.
“Do you gentlemen want to live forever, or do you want to be laid out in glory with your brothers?” No good officer ever asked his men to tackle any danger or hardship he wouldn’t face himself, and Vernon Ray knew when Gen. Stoneman came thundering through the pass, he’d be standing in the dirt road himself, pistol in hand, a wide-open target. Vernon Ray could almost smell the dust, the rot of the oak leaves, the horse manure, the sulfuric tang of fresh gunpowder, the faint coal smoke of the last steam locomotive.
“Sgt. Childers, take three men and cover the west side of the mountain so they don’t dismount and follow Skin Creek into town,” he said, snapping off the palm-up salute in response to his sergeant’s salute. A few more orders and the remaining men had advanced down the slopes of the mountain and into harm’s way.
“Capt. Davis,” said Sgt. McGregor, his most trusted noncom. “If enemy troop strength matches the reconnoiters, we’re set up for a slaughter.”
Capt. Davis gave a grave nod of his head. “War is hell, Sergeant.”
“If we fall, we lose the town.”
Vernon Ray nudged the toy sergeant toward the fence line, where he would die shortly after his captain. “We don’t get to win this time. Our job is to slow them down.”
“The men are sticking with you, sir. Even the conscripts.”
“Good. That will be all, Sergeant.”
“Aye-aye,” the soldier said. He was Scottish, and such men were foolhardy and brave as long as you kept them sober. Leadership came with its own worries, and though Capt. Davis had already accepted his fate, the certainty of his followers’ deaths weighed on him, making him feel much older than his 13 years.
The ground shook with the distant rumble of a hundred hoof beats. The Room fell away, and it was 1864, October, birds taking wing as they sensed the coming calamity. The dirt roads of Titusville would be stained red before this day was done. Capt. Davis was almost ready to take up his position in the pass.
But there was one more soldier, a special volunteer, who was awaiting orders.
“Vernon Ray, you can’t sit out on the side forever,” Capt. Davis said. “You’ve got to join the dance sooner or later.”
He fondled the toy drummer boy, the one he’d touched so often that its lead was shinier and less tarnished than the other pieces. It was half the height of the other soldiers, his little kepi askew, head bent down to his instrument. The snare was cocked on his right thigh, angling the drumhead so his dull gray wrists could roll out the signals.
“I’m ready, Dad,” the drummer boy said in a small voice.
“Might get dangerous, son. Keep your head low.”
“I won’t blink an eye, no matter what. I’ll make you proud.”
“I know you will. You already make me proud.”
The drummer boy smiled at this, at least in that autumnal fantasy land, though the grim lead face stayed as set as it had been since the day it was cast. He’d drum even if he lost his sticks, even if a cannon blast took his hands. He’d beat his splintered bones against the leather head of the snare, pound until his sinews and ragged flesh fell off, he’d roll reveille until the gates of Hades opened up and the soldiers followed his cadence into the pits of Gen. Grant’s infernal prison.
Because Daddy had given him a duty.
Vernon Ray was lost in the imaginary battle, the sun filtering through the yellow-and-red forest,
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