by Maria Hummel
Clouds arched over their game, whiting out the sun. Although they heard the fighting start and stop again about a mile away, its seriousness did not reach them, and they threw themselves into their play, staring alertly over the grass, thinking up strategies to foil the other team.
After awhile, they stopped for a brief lunch of hardtack. Laurence learned from the whispered voices of the other team that the Canadian’s name was Louis Pacquette, that he had been tutoring a girl from a rich family in Allenton before he enlisted and was sent to Virginia.
Laurence recognized the name with a start. Louis Pacquette was his cousin’s tutor, the one who had taught her to read the Lais in French. She had mentioned him several times in her letters. “I am pleased to finally—” he started, but was interrupted.
“Why the devil did you give that up?” hissed one of the men sitting nearby. He was the oldest of the new recruits and had the sun-stained, leathery skin of a lumberjack.
“To fight for the freedom of men,” said the Canadian. From anyone else’s lips, it would have sounded like a mockery, but Pacquette’s grave face showed no signs of humor. He bit a piece of hardtack and chewed with slow precision.
The lumberjack guffawed soundlessly, revealing a dark set of gums, few teeth. “Must not a been pretty, that one.”
With a quick flick of one arm, Pacquette clapped the man under the chin and knocked him on his back. From that single, definitive gesture, Laurence knew that there must be some secret affair between Bel and this serious-eyed Canadian. He lowered his head, too outraged to continue with his introduction.
The lumberjack sat up and rubbed his chin. Breath steamed from his mouth in silvery clouds, but he said nothing more and the companies lapsed into an uneasy silence. Trying to look anywhere but at Pacquette, Laurence saw Woodard rise and creep away through the trees. Addison followed soon after. When it came to Woodard and Spider, the sergeant behaved like a jilted lover, always trailing after them with a strained expression on his face, as if he wanted to ignore their trespasses against his rules but couldn’t allow himself to. A few minutes later, Woodard returned alone with a sullen frown, patting his pockets as if they had recently been emptied of something precious.
There was a sudden crack of gunfire. With a common mind, the soldiers rose from their slouches against tree roots and stones to line up opposite one another, shivering.
By the late afternoon, the teams were tied. They had stripped their coats, warmed by the exertion, and the heat and unwashed reek of their bodies filled the clearing. Their blue legs rustled through the cold grass in zigzagging, root-tearing strides. Whistling softly through his teeth, Pacquette streaked for the back quarter of the glen, then spun and held his arms up high. The sock sailed in his direction. At the last minute, it bumped into the branches of the oak and ricocheted off to the side, where a stand of pines sprayed a green wall against the latent light of winter.
Laurence was close behind him. His feet lifted and sank through the rotting leaves. He wanted Pacquette to drop it. He willed the balled sock to roll off the branch and tumble beyond the tutor’s hand, and when he saw the man cup it in his palm, casually, as if he did not have to reach at all, Laurence hurtled forward. The point won, it was too late to tackle, but he threw himself around the waist of the unsuspecting tutor, driving him into the sycamore. The impact pleased Laurence, for he felt the man’s body lift and give way as his own heels kicked skyward. For a moment, the sweetness of momentum overtook him and he heard the tutor’s head thud against the peeling tree trunk.
The collision jarred his shoulder. Then, with blinding speed, the tutor’s knee rose and cracked him in the mouth. Laurence fell to the damp skin of leaves. One tooth was loose and he hacked a red spray onto the earth, his tongue throbbing. When he had finished coughing, his anger about Bel was gone, replaced by a dull regret. Nothing in this world would ever be truly his, Laurence realized, staring at the dirt. It didn’t matter what he wished for.
As he rolled over, he saw Pacquette standing over him, touching the base of his skull. “We won,” the Canadian said softly to the low pink light dying in the west. “Not that anyone cares.”
Laurence sat up on his elbow to look back at the two teams, scattered now, for the order must have come from Davey to break up and retreat back to their camp. The men were hitching on their haversacks, slinging their muskets over their shoulders, as if the game had never happened. Pacquette extended his arm.
“Lindsey, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice calm. “I think I know your aunt and uncle.” But the hand that helped Laurence to his feet was bloody and shaking.
Chapter Thirty-three
So many nights on winter picket had passed without incident, Laurence had taken to propping himself against a smooth beech tree and falling into a state of half sleep. His ears remained alert in case Addison rode by on his nightly patrol, but he shut his eyes and slipped into daydreams of stealing away in the dark and walking west until he reached the Rocky Mountains. There, he would change his name and embark on a new life, sailing a ship down to South America, or setting off to explore the Arctic. He had just hitched up a sled of dogs to explore some bare, frozen lake, when he heard a loud cry from the next post.
“Friend or foe?” Laurence yelled, and lifted the muzzle of his gun.
“Desert-ers!” came a shout, the word pronounced as if it were a band of Saharan inhabitants. It had to be Louis Pacquette. “Desert-ers!” he cried again.
“I’m coming,” Laurence called back, and began to run through the woods beside the corduroy road that led to Richmond.
It was so quiet, the whisper of his footsteps surprised him as he passed across the leaves. Desertion was serious. Every man thought about it, toying with the idea of hiding in the woods until the army moved and there was a safe chance to run. They all knew the rebs shirked, but the rebs had a different code of honor and a lot fewer men to spare, making Laurence doubt if their officers carried out its consequence, which in either army was public execution. As he reached the clearing, he wondered what company would drive men to try to escape, when the whole regiment was promised a furlough in January, now less than a month away.
Pacquette was lying behind a grassy hummock, his gun leveled toward a barn’s yawning doors. The building leaned in a quiet confusion of weeds, dirty and untended, the owner long absent. Inside it, Laurence could hear two men whispering and the heavy footfalls of a horse dancing in place. He lowered himself to the ground next to the Canadian, feeling the cold, snowy grass press his hips and stomach. They had not spoken to each other since the game between companies.
“We could fire on them until they come out,” Pacquette said seriously.
“That’s too easy. They’ll expect it.”
“Then I could wait here and you could get more soldiers.”
“It’s not safe for you to stay here alone,” Laurence said, rankled at the suggestion. “You’ve never even been in battle before.”
“I found them.” The Canadian did not budge from his position.
They stared at the barn doors. A cold wind blew silvery scarves of snow over their faces.
“Wait.” Laurence suddenly recognized the two voices. “I know them both.” He rose, then swaggered toward the entrance. He would show the tutor what it meant to be a soldier, sharp-witted and daring.
“Are you going to let them get away?” Pacquette challenged him. Laurence looked back at the Canadian, taking in his meticulously flat collar, the way his black hair swept back from a high, intelligent forehead. He could not see the other man’s eyes, and Pacquette’s neutral tone betrayed no emotion.
“Of course not,” Laurence retorted. “Keep your gun aimed. And fire if you think they’re going to escape.”
He approached the barn silently, his own rifle held loosely in one fist. The air smelled faintly of hay and animals. A heavy gray wasp’s nest hung from one corner of the threshold.
“It’s Laurence Lindsey,” Woodard hissed from within the barn. �
�Just block us a minute, Lindsey, and let us run. You know they’re going to kill us if they find out.”
“Let us go. For old times,” Spider pleaded. His eyes were like large silver coins.
Laurence hesitated, staring at the horse Spider held by the reins. It was Furlough, the bay stallion Addison had tamed so long ago by the pond. The stallion gave a loud, contemptuous sigh, as if to signify that his impression of humanity had only worsened since Laurence had last seen him.
“Why go now?” Laurence did not lift his rifle. He would show Pacquette how desertion could be averted without bloodshed. He understood these men. “We’ve got furlough next month. You can go home then.”
“When did you get so stupid, Lindsey?” asked Woodard. The old eagerness was utterly gone, and his face looked peeled and sharp, like a stick stripped of its bark. “I’m not going home. And I’m not waiting around for McClellan or Hooker or Sherman or Grant or even goddamn Lincoln to win this war. We saw fellows in New York living bully lives, didn’t we, Spider?”
The other soldier nodded, owlish.
“We watched them getting rich, while we’re treated worse than slaves, Lindsey,” Woodard added. Although Woodard was bowed under a swollen knapsack, Spider carried nothing but his old bent hat. “All along, I didn’t see it, but now…” He shrugged.
“What about what you said to Gilbert’s father?” Laurence retorted. “I thought you—of all people—understood we weren’t fighting for ourselves.”
Woodard shook his head solemnly and hitched the knapsack higher up his shoulders, fixing his eyes on the nest in the doorway. In summer, the holes would hold the slick brown bodies of the stinging insects, but now they were damp and empty. Husks of wasps curled on the earthen floor.
“I can’t do it anymore,” he said. “I can’t face another winter in camp, another battle, another march. I just don’t give a damn about anyone else.” His voice was dead. “Not even you, Lindsey.”
“Are you having trouble with them?” Pacquette shouted from the golden field beyond.
“Please let me shoot that French loon, Lyman,” said Spider, and started walking forward with Furlough, pulling a pistol from his coat.
“Fire, Pacquette!” Laurence yelled. A shot rang through the air above their heads and thudded into the far wall of the barn. Furlough screamed and started to rear. Spider managed to hold him down by the reins, his white fist tightening in the leather straps.
“Come out,” ordered Pacquette. But in the time it would take the novice to reload, Spider and Woodard would have their chance. Just as Laurence began to lift his own rifle, Woodard ripped it away and smacked him across his cheek, sending him reeling back against the wooden stall. The rifle clattered on the dirt. Furlough reared again and hay dust filled Laurence’s nostrils. He staggered toward the weapon, his head thudding with pain. It took him a moment to feel the cold metal of Spider’s pistol against his temple.
“Tell the idiot you’ve got us captured,” Woodard said. “Tell him now.”
“I’ve got them, Pacquette,” Laurence said, tasting blood. “Stop firing.”
“Sir?” came Pacquette’s voice, followed by the clatter of a ramrod tamping the lead ball into the powder.
“Louder.”
“Pacquette. Hold your fire. I’ve got them.” It was hard to shout over the noise of Furlough’s restless hooves. The pistol withdrew. Laurence kicked on the ground for his musket, but Woodard had already taken it.
“Get on, Spider,” Woodard said, mounting the horse. “He’s not going to run. I’ve got his gun aimed right at him.”
The other deserter climbed up behind Woodard, cradling the knapsack with his long white hands. “And now you’re going to lead us away from here like a good hostage,” Woodard explained. “Then we’re going to slip by you and ride out of this godforsaken camp. That way, you don’t get in trouble, and we don’t, either.”
“What about Pacquette?” Laurence said. He took a step, his legs shaky and loose at the knees. He wouldn’t let the tutor die.
“If he doesn’t shoot us, we don’t shoot you.” Woodard assured him with a dignified frown. His spine was as straight as General McClellan’s.
“Hands up,” said Spider, jabbing Laurence with his boot. Laurence lifted his elbows to his ears and started walking ahead of them toward the entrance. “Tell him to hold his fire.”
“Hold your fire, Private.” Laurence tried not to let the desperation ring in his voice. Why had he tried to change their minds? The hard tip of his own rifle pushed into the back of his head. Emerging into the moonlight, he saw the Canadian stranded in the middle of the clearing, his gun still aimed at them. The ground reeked of the slow rot that spread across fields in early spring.
“You don’t fire at us, we don’t fire at him,” Woodard proclaimed. Furlough strode with magnificent ease into the dead grass, as if he were bearing a king. The tutor did not shoot or lower his gun. His expression was that of a man facing his own death.
“Take care of her—” Laurence began, but his captor jabbed him in the head with the rifle. Pacquette nodded as if he understood.
“West,” Woodard commanded. Laurence started walking toward the shadowed woods just beyond the old farmhouse. The trees were stiff as statues, their shapes tortuous and gnarled beneath a thin skein of snow. Laurence felt their shade pass over him like a sheet. He turned and saw Pacquette still keeping them within his sights, and he took a breath, conscious of the capacity of his lungs to empty and fill, of his whispering footfall and the slow, flooded thump of his heart. He faced the trees again.
The next moment passed with the blur of a century, as if a whole continent were settled, rivers breached by ships, and forests cut for pasture. Stars shattered and the earth rose up. The oaks ignited and went out with the sudden blaze of rifles, and Laurence recognized the roar of gunfire before he understood its consequence: a bullet flying through the air from the other side of the horse, Furlough staggering forward with a scream, the two deserters falling in a jumble to the ground.
When it was over, Pacquette was still standing in the same place, his rifle unfired, but Addison had burst into the clearing on a gray mare. Pulling his revolver from his belt, he dismounted near the roiling mass of horse and men. The mare bolted sideways, her mane flapping against a sweaty neck. Furlough lifted like a shipwreck before it sinks into the sea. Grass tore beneath him. Addison kicked the fallen musket in Laurence’s direction and then, unflinching, aimed a single bullet into the temple of the dying stallion. The moon blazed.
“I arrest you in the name of the United States government for the crime of desertion,” he said when he turned to Woodard and Spider, who were squirming to unearth themselves from beneath Furlough’s spine. The back leg of the horse had been broken by the fall and Laurence could see the cracked line of bone beneath the reddish hair. The stallion’s face had frozen in a loose, toothy snarl.
“Now, Johnny Addison, we were just going out for some good times,” said Spider, slipping free of the horse. “You know the kind, and you know we can’t find it in camp.”
“What’s in the knapsack?” said Addison. He wrenched Woodard out from beneath Furlough and tore the bag from the soldier’s back, tossing it aside. It landed with a thump by Laurence’s feet.
“Open it, Lindsey,” Addison commanded, and Laurence found loose heaps of bills inside, their green gone gray in the half-light.
“Enough good times to last fifty years,” he commented, inhaling the dense papery scent. He no longer cared to save them. Addison told the still-stunned Pacquette to guard the guns. Taking a rope from the gray mare’s saddle, he began to tie the two deserters.
“Shame to waste the best damn horse in the Army of the Potomac on yellow cowards like you,” Addison growled as he strung them together. His cap slipped on his head, and he righted it carefully before he yanked on the knots of the two prisoners, testing their hold. Spider fell forward with a jerk, but Woodard remained upright. With a sudden grunt, Addison wha
cked the deserter across the back of his head, making him slump forward into the stallion’s red mane.
“And what was your plan, Lindsey?” Addison turned on his friend an instant later. His eyes were lightless.
“I was trying to persuade them not to run,” Laurence said thoughtfully, as if the idea were no longer reasonable. He stepped back from the open knapsack, his snowy trousers clinging to his shins.
Addison snorted. “I ought to arrest you, too,” he said in the direction of the barn. A bullet had shattered the wasp nest, making a ragged crepe flower.
“You ought to,” Laurence agreed.
“He was brave, Sergeant.” Pacquette’s expression was sorrowful, and Laurence felt a strange triumph, for he realized that the Canadian truly admired what he had done. “He wasn’t afraid of them at all.”
“Brave or stupid.” Addison’s lip curled. “‘It is just as lucky to die and I know it,’” he quoted. “Ain’t that right, Lindsey?”
“That’s right.”
Having Laurence agree with him twice disarmed the sergeant. Addison shifted his weight back and forth. There was a dark ring around the horse where the snow had been kicked off. Furlough’s fawn-colored eyes were filming over. At the far edge of the clearing, a tree filled with the shrill commotion of birds, but Laurence couldn’t make out a single one.
“If you want to let them go, then let them go,” Addison roared finally, stepping out of the ring. “If you think you know what’s right, then do it, Lindsey.”
“Let us go,” said Spider, but at the same time, Lyman Woodard began to sing softly into the mane of the horse, drowning out his companion. He sang the last words of the last verse of “Lorena,” the melody Addison had played on the train as they left Allenton on their way to war. The mournful strain rose above the ribs of the dead stallion and into the clearing. “I’ll say to those lost years ‘sleep on.’ Sleep on, nor heed life’s pelting storms.”
