over the pommel and leaned forward. “My mother always told me that the Almighty sends us only as many trials as he believes we are capable of enduring.” He looked at the boy looking up at him and smiled hesitantly. “Tell this Cornelius next time he calls you a runt that it requires more than height and broad shoulders to be a good soldier.”
“Sir, I’m so sorry about your brother.”
Twenty-year-old Eugene Ransom had fought with the Eleventh Illinois at Donelson, been wounded in the arm and captured, Lieutenant Bennett had told him, by a Rebel horseman in the command of a Colonel Forrest. He was in a prison camp in the South, his exact whereabouts unknown.
“Thank you, Private Davis.” He briefly touched the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me, what reward can I give you for your care of Lieutenant Bennett?”
“I would love to ride your horse, sir.” The boy was still looking up at the colonel, who seemed unable to avert his gaze.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes, the officer frowning his confusion, then with what seemed like a superhuman effort, he broke the spell, laughing nervously as he ran his hands over Old Bob’s glossy neck. “Then you may ride Old Bob.” He gathered up the reins. “Yes, that can be arranged. Good-bye.”
“When, sir, when may I ride Old Bob?” Jesse called out, but the lieutenant colonel had already ridden away.
Jesse walked back to the recovery tent to find the surgeon standing there, blocking the way, his pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth, his hands buried deep in his apron pockets.
“How very touching,” he said with that twisted grin. “What the hell’s between you and that pompous idiot, anyway?” He raised both eyebrows significantly. “You know what
I
think, don’t you? But then it ain’t my business. I’m a doctor, not a judge of folk’s morals.”
“The colonel isn’t pompous, sir,” the boy said calmly, “and he certainly isn’t an idiot.”
“Well, I guess it’s your business. The pamphlet,” he thrust it at the boy’s chest, “on miasmic diseases. You’ll find the correlation between the presence of marsh miasmas and an increased incidence of malarial fever fascinating. Oh, and as I said before, some very good thoughts regarding the emanations arising from all the excrement found around the camps.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The surgeon moved slowly aside, just barely enough for the boy to squeeze by, and as he did so, the breath caught hard in the surgeon’s throat and something like an electric shock jolted his system. He stared after him, his mouth slightly open in an uncharacteristically dumbfounded pose. Then he swallowed and gasped. “Well,
I’ll be…goddamned—
” His voice rose to a crescendo of incredulity and then tailed off into silent shock. His pipe drooped. He looked like a man who had at last found the answer to the eternal question.
Pittsburg Landing had been named for Pitts Tucker, long dead, which was just as well, since he’d made a living selling gut-rot liquor to eager river men. These days he’d have found equally enthusiastic patrons among the soldiers, for in the last week the area had mushroomed into an enormous army camp the like of which awed even old warriors, let alone raw recruits.
Every day transports brought up more men from Savannah, twelve miles away, often docking at the narrow landing beneath the bluff, five deep, and the tents now spread as far as the Eastern Corinth and Hamburg-Savannah Roads, under trees covered with light foliage. Forty-five thousand noisy troops, five divisions, were bivouacked across these once-peaceful fields, and any day now, Buell and his Army of the Ohio would be marching southwest along the Central Alabama Railroad, swelling their ranks to eighty-two thousand men.
Soldiers never before drilled in barrack courtyards found themselves drilled and inspected in the middle of peach orchards where the blossoms had already turned to
“Sir, I’m so sorry about your brother.”
Twenty-year-old Eugene Ransom had fought with the Eleventh Illinois at Donelson, been wounded in the arm and captured, Lieutenant Bennett had told him, by a Rebel horseman in the command of a Colonel Forrest. He was in a prison camp in the South, his exact whereabouts unknown.
“Thank you, Private Davis.” He briefly touched the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me, what reward can I give you for your care of Lieutenant Bennett?”
“I would love to ride your horse, sir.” The boy was still looking up at the colonel, who seemed unable to avert his gaze.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes, the officer frowning his confusion, then with what seemed like a superhuman effort, he broke the spell, laughing nervously as he ran his hands over Old Bob’s glossy neck. “Then you may ride Old Bob.” He gathered up the reins. “Yes, that can be arranged. Good-bye.”
“When, sir, when may I ride Old Bob?” Jesse called out, but the lieutenant colonel had already ridden away.
Jesse walked back to the recovery tent to find the surgeon standing there, blocking the way, his pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth, his hands buried deep in his apron pockets.
“How very touching,” he said with that twisted grin. “What the hell’s between you and that pompous idiot, anyway?” He raised both eyebrows significantly. “You know what
I
think, don’t you? But then it ain’t my business. I’m a doctor, not a judge of folk’s morals.”
“The colonel isn’t pompous, sir,” the boy said calmly, “and he certainly isn’t an idiot.”
“Well, I guess it’s your business. The pamphlet,” he thrust it at the boy’s chest, “on miasmic diseases. You’ll find the correlation between the presence of marsh miasmas and an increased incidence of malarial fever fascinating. Oh, and as I said before, some very good thoughts regarding the emanations arising from all the excrement found around the camps.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The surgeon moved slowly aside, just barely enough for the boy to squeeze by, and as he did so, the breath caught hard in the surgeon’s throat and something like an electric shock jolted his system. He stared after him, his mouth slightly open in an uncharacteristically dumbfounded pose. Then he swallowed and gasped. “Well,
I’ll be…goddamned—
” His voice rose to a crescendo of incredulity and then tailed off into silent shock. His pipe drooped. He looked like a man who had at last found the answer to the eternal question.
Pittsburg Landing had been named for Pitts Tucker, long dead, which was just as well, since he’d made a living selling gut-rot liquor to eager river men. These days he’d have found equally enthusiastic patrons among the soldiers, for in the last week the area had mushroomed into an enormous army camp the like of which awed even old warriors, let alone raw recruits.
Every day transports brought up more men from Savannah, twelve miles away, often docking at the narrow landing beneath the bluff, five deep, and the tents now spread as far as the Eastern Corinth and Hamburg-Savannah Roads, under trees covered with light foliage. Forty-five thousand noisy troops, five divisions, were bivouacked across these once-peaceful fields, and any day now, Buell and his Army of the Ohio would be marching southwest along the Central Alabama Railroad, swelling their ranks to eighty-two thousand men.
Soldiers never before drilled in barrack courtyards found themselves drilled and inspected in the middle of peach orchards where the blossoms had already turned to
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