lying beside the road in the shade of a big black oak. Sniffing dryly, David left the column to join him.
Balancing his forearms on his knees, he squatted nearby and tugged a long, green shoot of grass from the springwet earth. Meditatively chewing the tip, David let the bitter juice squirt against the back of his tongue and trickle down his throat. The old man watchedhim with his dark eyes ashine. After a while, David asked, “Well, how about it, old-timer? You feel any better today?”
The old man blinked slowly and jerked his chin toward the marching column. “Dead men,” he said. “Every mother’s son of them.”
David nodded and pursed his lips. “A good many, probably,” he agreed. He took the grass from his mouth, looked at the flattened, spitwet end, then replaced it. “What about you?”
The old man nodded, smiling now. “Have ye seen the devil?”
David frowned and shook his head. “I ain’t studying no devil,” he said.
“It don’t take study,” the old man answered. “It don’t take nothin’ but thought. Thought and breath, and our nature’s fueled.”
“What nature?” asked David, glancing sideways as the old man moved farther back into the shadows of the oak, crouching now on a length of root that knuckled its way through the grass.
“Killing and war,” said the old man.
David looked at him sadly. “You’re touched,” he said. “Some damn thing’s got you. What you ought to do is go on back and find you an ambulance. Let those boys fix you up. Shoot. Maybe they’d send you on home, being like you are.”
The old man shook his head, white hair waving soft and dazed about his leathern face. “The devil’s got him a dual nature,” he said.
“That so?”
“Yessir. And a name for each. Can ye guess them?”
“You go on tell me.”
“The one goes by Lincoln. And t’other?” The old man grinned again. “He goes by Davis. My opinion? We ought to hang ’em both from a goddamned sour apple tree.”
“That sounds like sedition,” said David.
“It is what it is.”
David took the stem from his mouth and threw it into the road, where it was quickly trod into the dust. He stood. “Well,” he said,squinting up and down the line of marching men. “I figure I got a job of work to catch back up with the rest of my outfit,” he said. He held out his hand, but it was ignored.
“Can ye cipher?” the old man asked him.
David sniffed and nodded. “I know my numbers,” he said.
“Well, cipher ye this, then. Over across the river—hell, probably this side of it by now—they’s going on 150,000 Yankees. Soldiers coming straight at us as Grant prefers. And do ye know how many we are?”
“We aren’t any 150,000, I know that.”
“No sir, not at all.” The old man grinned and clapped his hands. “By my guess, in the Second Corps alone old Ewell can only field no more’n 35,000 of us, all told. And we ain’t all told. Not by a long shot. Hell, you put in the rest of the army and it’s maybe 60,000, maybe a little more. And Longstreet ain’t up yet. Shit. You want yourself a job of work, you go on up the road a spell and you’re bound to find it. Probably find it tomorrow, ’less I miss my guess.”
The old man held his eyes a long moment, then finally stood from his root and took David’s hand in a hard, callused grip. “What will you do?” David asked him.
The old man grinned again and winked. “My share,” he said. “I got quite a bit of that old devil in me that’s wanting out.”
They stood with their hands clasped beside the dusty road where the soldiers marched eastward through the sun and slanting shadows. “I’ll see you when we get there, then,” David said, and the old man touched a finger to the side of his nose and nodded.
In the evening, that portion of the army with which Abel Truman marched encamped itself in the Wilderness around a burnt-out cluster of buildings known locally as Verdiersville but that many of them,
Balancing his forearms on his knees, he squatted nearby and tugged a long, green shoot of grass from the springwet earth. Meditatively chewing the tip, David let the bitter juice squirt against the back of his tongue and trickle down his throat. The old man watchedhim with his dark eyes ashine. After a while, David asked, “Well, how about it, old-timer? You feel any better today?”
The old man blinked slowly and jerked his chin toward the marching column. “Dead men,” he said. “Every mother’s son of them.”
David nodded and pursed his lips. “A good many, probably,” he agreed. He took the grass from his mouth, looked at the flattened, spitwet end, then replaced it. “What about you?”
The old man nodded, smiling now. “Have ye seen the devil?”
David frowned and shook his head. “I ain’t studying no devil,” he said.
“It don’t take study,” the old man answered. “It don’t take nothin’ but thought. Thought and breath, and our nature’s fueled.”
“What nature?” asked David, glancing sideways as the old man moved farther back into the shadows of the oak, crouching now on a length of root that knuckled its way through the grass.
“Killing and war,” said the old man.
David looked at him sadly. “You’re touched,” he said. “Some damn thing’s got you. What you ought to do is go on back and find you an ambulance. Let those boys fix you up. Shoot. Maybe they’d send you on home, being like you are.”
The old man shook his head, white hair waving soft and dazed about his leathern face. “The devil’s got him a dual nature,” he said.
“That so?”
“Yessir. And a name for each. Can ye guess them?”
“You go on tell me.”
“The one goes by Lincoln. And t’other?” The old man grinned again. “He goes by Davis. My opinion? We ought to hang ’em both from a goddamned sour apple tree.”
“That sounds like sedition,” said David.
“It is what it is.”
David took the stem from his mouth and threw it into the road, where it was quickly trod into the dust. He stood. “Well,” he said,squinting up and down the line of marching men. “I figure I got a job of work to catch back up with the rest of my outfit,” he said. He held out his hand, but it was ignored.
“Can ye cipher?” the old man asked him.
David sniffed and nodded. “I know my numbers,” he said.
“Well, cipher ye this, then. Over across the river—hell, probably this side of it by now—they’s going on 150,000 Yankees. Soldiers coming straight at us as Grant prefers. And do ye know how many we are?”
“We aren’t any 150,000, I know that.”
“No sir, not at all.” The old man grinned and clapped his hands. “By my guess, in the Second Corps alone old Ewell can only field no more’n 35,000 of us, all told. And we ain’t all told. Not by a long shot. Hell, you put in the rest of the army and it’s maybe 60,000, maybe a little more. And Longstreet ain’t up yet. Shit. You want yourself a job of work, you go on up the road a spell and you’re bound to find it. Probably find it tomorrow, ’less I miss my guess.”
The old man held his eyes a long moment, then finally stood from his root and took David’s hand in a hard, callused grip. “What will you do?” David asked him.
The old man grinned again and winked. “My share,” he said. “I got quite a bit of that old devil in me that’s wanting out.”
They stood with their hands clasped beside the dusty road where the soldiers marched eastward through the sun and slanting shadows. “I’ll see you when we get there, then,” David said, and the old man touched a finger to the side of his nose and nodded.
In the evening, that portion of the army with which Abel Truman marched encamped itself in the Wilderness around a burnt-out cluster of buildings known locally as Verdiersville but that many of them,
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