for it received a medal for honor. He had traded it for some pickles and a stack of dime novels at a camp store near Gettysburg.
“You’ve lost some weight,” Lew said lightly, in the biggest understatement of his verbal history.
“The South seeks to cure me of gluttony.”
“Is there a place we can . . . ?” He looked about.
“Aye. You’re in it.” Men in front, men behind, men on both sides, jostling, pushing past. “There’s no gettin’ out of it, Lew. There’s only gettin’ used to it. Come —I’ll take you to Hotel Ford. You can mess with us, as one of our members was paroled last night.”
“Paroled?” Lew began hopefully, but Harris shook his head.
“He’s dead. Come, I’ll give you the lay of the land.”
—
“Don’t take it in all to once,” Harris advised as they threaded through the crowd. “You must take time to accustom.”
A man stumbled into Lew and moved on. Lew noticed a few vermin on his sleeve from the encounter and quickly brushed them off. “I am not sure I wish to.”
“First day is bad, next are worse, but after that you fashion tactics. Don’t try first thing to see the place as a whole. You’ll set a course for despair. I’ve seen it happen to men I thought possessed of strong inward constitution. You got to make friends early with an old-timer; he’ll steer you right. For now, you be as a stone skippin’ off water, boy-o, and don’t sink in just yet. Get them blinders up a spell.”
“Where are the barracks? Where are the tents?”
He spread his arm. “You’re lookin’ at ’em. Take it as is. Speculate later.”
Any “tents” Lew saw were low-slung affairs of sun-bleached pieces of calico or burlap, shirts or coats, strung together and pitched on sticks. A quick guess said maybe one of every ten men had shelter. The “tents” were scattered about, no rhyme nor reason in their placement. It was nothing like a camp or bivouac. There were no orderly rows with tents laid out in lines and men walking along paths or avenues. The impression clung, and it troubled him almost more than the men he passed who showed clear signs of starvation. There was no order. Everywhere he looked was thick disarray, and it made Lew’s mind see not individual men, but a spikey brown mass of confusion.
A skipping stone, he told himself quickly. He averted his eyes.
“Some of the guards are good men, especially army regulars. But it’s mostly militia now, and they’re not worth half a plug. They’re mostly old fellas or young fellas, trigger-happy and green.”
“Trigger-happy . . .”
“Aye. I have to talk to you about the deadline.”
He steered Lew to the outer edge of the crowd. A thin split-rail fence held up by posts ran all along the perimeter, twenty feet from the stockade wall.
Harris pointed to one of the sheltered sentinel posts, small booths spaced at intervals along the top of the stockade, all the way around. “See them boys? Mark ’em. They have orders to shoot if you go under that rail, and they’ll do it. I make it my duty to tell newcomers about it; if a lad hadn’t told me, I’d be dead. I was at the creek and he fetched me back just as I was dipping for cleaner water on the other side of the line. He pointed, and I look up and see a boy young as Charley Reed with a gun trained on me. He had an idiot grin I would’ve given a French leave to wipe off.”
“I don’t expect they give French leaves around here.”
“I haven’t seen a woman in a month,” Harris sighed.
They began to thread their way north along the deadline path. Other than the “street” that opened into the stockade from the north gate, this path seemed to be the only sort of order.
They came to a man lying in the path along the deadline. Lew knelt to check him. “Harris —I think he’s . . .”
“Just keep walkin’, Lew,” Harris said softly. “They’ll collect him. Sometimes I just about envy ’em.”
They walked on.
“What about
“You’ve lost some weight,” Lew said lightly, in the biggest understatement of his verbal history.
“The South seeks to cure me of gluttony.”
“Is there a place we can . . . ?” He looked about.
“Aye. You’re in it.” Men in front, men behind, men on both sides, jostling, pushing past. “There’s no gettin’ out of it, Lew. There’s only gettin’ used to it. Come —I’ll take you to Hotel Ford. You can mess with us, as one of our members was paroled last night.”
“Paroled?” Lew began hopefully, but Harris shook his head.
“He’s dead. Come, I’ll give you the lay of the land.”
—
“Don’t take it in all to once,” Harris advised as they threaded through the crowd. “You must take time to accustom.”
A man stumbled into Lew and moved on. Lew noticed a few vermin on his sleeve from the encounter and quickly brushed them off. “I am not sure I wish to.”
“First day is bad, next are worse, but after that you fashion tactics. Don’t try first thing to see the place as a whole. You’ll set a course for despair. I’ve seen it happen to men I thought possessed of strong inward constitution. You got to make friends early with an old-timer; he’ll steer you right. For now, you be as a stone skippin’ off water, boy-o, and don’t sink in just yet. Get them blinders up a spell.”
“Where are the barracks? Where are the tents?”
He spread his arm. “You’re lookin’ at ’em. Take it as is. Speculate later.”
Any “tents” Lew saw were low-slung affairs of sun-bleached pieces of calico or burlap, shirts or coats, strung together and pitched on sticks. A quick guess said maybe one of every ten men had shelter. The “tents” were scattered about, no rhyme nor reason in their placement. It was nothing like a camp or bivouac. There were no orderly rows with tents laid out in lines and men walking along paths or avenues. The impression clung, and it troubled him almost more than the men he passed who showed clear signs of starvation. There was no order. Everywhere he looked was thick disarray, and it made Lew’s mind see not individual men, but a spikey brown mass of confusion.
A skipping stone, he told himself quickly. He averted his eyes.
“Some of the guards are good men, especially army regulars. But it’s mostly militia now, and they’re not worth half a plug. They’re mostly old fellas or young fellas, trigger-happy and green.”
“Trigger-happy . . .”
“Aye. I have to talk to you about the deadline.”
He steered Lew to the outer edge of the crowd. A thin split-rail fence held up by posts ran all along the perimeter, twenty feet from the stockade wall.
Harris pointed to one of the sheltered sentinel posts, small booths spaced at intervals along the top of the stockade, all the way around. “See them boys? Mark ’em. They have orders to shoot if you go under that rail, and they’ll do it. I make it my duty to tell newcomers about it; if a lad hadn’t told me, I’d be dead. I was at the creek and he fetched me back just as I was dipping for cleaner water on the other side of the line. He pointed, and I look up and see a boy young as Charley Reed with a gun trained on me. He had an idiot grin I would’ve given a French leave to wipe off.”
“I don’t expect they give French leaves around here.”
“I haven’t seen a woman in a month,” Harris sighed.
They began to thread their way north along the deadline path. Other than the “street” that opened into the stockade from the north gate, this path seemed to be the only sort of order.
They came to a man lying in the path along the deadline. Lew knelt to check him. “Harris —I think he’s . . .”
“Just keep walkin’, Lew,” Harris said softly. “They’ll collect him. Sometimes I just about envy ’em.”
They walked on.
“What about
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