Heaven and Hell by John Jakes Page B
Authors: John Jakes
Tags: United States, Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Romance, Historical, United States - History - 1865-1898
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gathered. So training could last two months or two days. That didn't speak well for the postwar Army, Charles thought.
Most of the instructors were older noncoms putting in time until they retired. Charles worked hard to look inexperienced and awkward in front of them. During a bareback equitation class, he deliberately fell off his pathetic sway-backed training horse. He fumbled through the manual of arms, and at target practice never hit the bull, only the edge of the card. He got away with it until one trainer got sick and a new one took over, a runty corporal named Hans Hazen. He was a mean sort; one of the men said he'd been busted from top sergeant three times.
After a saber drill, Hazen drew Charles aside.
"Private May, I got a queer feeling you ain't no Carolina militiaman.
You try to look clumsy, but I saw some of your moves when you thought I was watchin' somebody else." He thrust his chin out and shouted. "Where were you trained? West Point?"
Charles looked down at him. "Wade Hampton Legion. Sir."
Hazen shook a finger. "I catch you lyin', it'll go hard. I hate liars near as much as I hate snobs from the Point--or you Southron boys."
"Yes, sir," Charles said loudly. He kept staring. Hazen looked away first, which shamed him to anger.
"I want to see what you're made of. A hundred laps of the riding ring, quick time. Right now. March!"
After that, Corporal Hazen stayed on him, yelling, criticizing, questioning him daily about his past and forcing him to lie. Despite Hazen--maybe, in a strange way, because of him; because Hazen rec°gnized an experienced soldier--Charles felt happy to be back in the
^nny. He'd always liked the dependable routine of trumpet calls, as 66
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Page 72
semblies, drills. He still felt a shiver up his backbone when the trumpeters blew "Boots and Saddles."
He kept to himself and didn't find a bunky, a partner. Most soldiers paired up to ease their work load and share their miseries, but he avoided it. He survived three weeks that way, although not without some sudden bouts of despondency. Thoughts of the past would return suddenly, the burned-out feeling would grip him, and he'd call himself a prize fool for donning Army blue again. He was in that kind of mood one Saturday night when he left the post and crossed the main approach road to the nameless town of tents and shanties on the other side.
Here a lot of noncoms lived with their wives, who took in post laundry to supplement Army pay. Here civilians hawked questionable whiskey in big tents, docile Osage Indians sold beans and squash from their farms nearby, and elegant gentlemen ran all-night poker and faro games. Charles had even seen a few earnestly stupid recruits betting on three-card monte or the pea and shells.
Other amenities were available in any tent with a red lantern hung in front. Charles called at one of these and spent a half hour with a homely young woman anxious to please. He walked out physically relieved but depressed by memories of Gus Barclay and a feeling that he'd dishonored her.
Two young boys ran after him as he walked through the tent town.
They taunted him with a chant:
"Soldier, soldier, will you work?
No indeed, I'll sell my shirt ..."
The public certainly held the Army in high esteem. As soon as the war ended, soldiers had again become the unwashed, the unwanted.
Nothing ever changed.
He'd been at Jefferson Barracks four weeks when orders came through: He and seven other recruits were given twelve hours to prepare to leave on a steamer bound up the Missouri River to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, all the way across the state of Missouri. Established in 1827
by Colonel Henry Leavenworth, the great cantonment on the right bank of the river was the most important post in the West. It was headquarters for the Department of the Missouri and the supply depot for all the forts between Kansas and the Continental Divide. At Leavenworth they would find transportation, they were told, to
Most of the instructors were older noncoms putting in time until they retired. Charles worked hard to look inexperienced and awkward in front of them. During a bareback equitation class, he deliberately fell off his pathetic sway-backed training horse. He fumbled through the manual of arms, and at target practice never hit the bull, only the edge of the card. He got away with it until one trainer got sick and a new one took over, a runty corporal named Hans Hazen. He was a mean sort; one of the men said he'd been busted from top sergeant three times.
After a saber drill, Hazen drew Charles aside.
"Private May, I got a queer feeling you ain't no Carolina militiaman.
You try to look clumsy, but I saw some of your moves when you thought I was watchin' somebody else." He thrust his chin out and shouted. "Where were you trained? West Point?"
Charles looked down at him. "Wade Hampton Legion. Sir."
Hazen shook a finger. "I catch you lyin', it'll go hard. I hate liars near as much as I hate snobs from the Point--or you Southron boys."
"Yes, sir," Charles said loudly. He kept staring. Hazen looked away first, which shamed him to anger.
"I want to see what you're made of. A hundred laps of the riding ring, quick time. Right now. March!"
After that, Corporal Hazen stayed on him, yelling, criticizing, questioning him daily about his past and forcing him to lie. Despite Hazen--maybe, in a strange way, because of him; because Hazen rec°gnized an experienced soldier--Charles felt happy to be back in the
^nny. He'd always liked the dependable routine of trumpet calls, as 66
HEAVEN AND HELL
Page 72
semblies, drills. He still felt a shiver up his backbone when the trumpeters blew "Boots and Saddles."
He kept to himself and didn't find a bunky, a partner. Most soldiers paired up to ease their work load and share their miseries, but he avoided it. He survived three weeks that way, although not without some sudden bouts of despondency. Thoughts of the past would return suddenly, the burned-out feeling would grip him, and he'd call himself a prize fool for donning Army blue again. He was in that kind of mood one Saturday night when he left the post and crossed the main approach road to the nameless town of tents and shanties on the other side.
Here a lot of noncoms lived with their wives, who took in post laundry to supplement Army pay. Here civilians hawked questionable whiskey in big tents, docile Osage Indians sold beans and squash from their farms nearby, and elegant gentlemen ran all-night poker and faro games. Charles had even seen a few earnestly stupid recruits betting on three-card monte or the pea and shells.
Other amenities were available in any tent with a red lantern hung in front. Charles called at one of these and spent a half hour with a homely young woman anxious to please. He walked out physically relieved but depressed by memories of Gus Barclay and a feeling that he'd dishonored her.
Two young boys ran after him as he walked through the tent town.
They taunted him with a chant:
"Soldier, soldier, will you work?
No indeed, I'll sell my shirt ..."
The public certainly held the Army in high esteem. As soon as the war ended, soldiers had again become the unwashed, the unwanted.
Nothing ever changed.
He'd been at Jefferson Barracks four weeks when orders came through: He and seven other recruits were given twelve hours to prepare to leave on a steamer bound up the Missouri River to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, all the way across the state of Missouri. Established in 1827
by Colonel Henry Leavenworth, the great cantonment on the right bank of the river was the most important post in the West. It was headquarters for the Department of the Missouri and the supply depot for all the forts between Kansas and the Continental Divide. At Leavenworth they would find transportation, they were told, to
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