by Jane Langton
Mudge looked wretched. He muttered something to the provost guard, who grunted and turned on his heel. Mudge walked away from Otis and stood in the shade of a tree.
Thoroughly frightened, Otis fumbled at the cork of his canteen. His throat was parched. Swallowing the warm water, he kept anxious eyes on Mudge’s back. Was Charley calling for a firing squad? Were they going to put an end to him here and now? They wouldn’t do it on the march, would they? Not without a court-martial?
But Otis had seen it happen in another regiment, and that boy had only skedaddled twice. He had screamed for mercy, but they had shot him anyway.
Then Otis took a shaky breath of relief. It was only Tom Robeson. And, thank God, good old Tom Fox was strolling up with his sack coat slung over his shoulder, eating cherries from his hand.
And Seth Morgan was right behind Fox. Oh, Seth, Seth, you won’t hurt me, will you, Seth? Not sweet-natured dear old Seth?
Otis watched as the four of them stood murmuring with their backs to him. Fear always made him sick to his stomach.
He couldn’t keep quiet. “Tom,” he called out to Robeson, “remember that piece I wrote for you? It was my piece, Tom, remember? Oh, those were good times, weren’t they, Seth?” Then Otis’s sentimental pathos gave way to a cry from the heart, “Oh God, Charley, oh Jesus, Seth, how did we get into this mess?”
They were deciding his fate. Otis couldn’t stand it. He hurried forward into the pool of shade and fell on his knees. He could only jabber, “A classmate, boys, you wouldn’t shoot an old classmate.”
Somehow, against all hope, it worked again. Mudge glanced at the others, then looked down at Otis and said severely, “Listen, Otis, I don’t know exactly what’s coming, but there’s going to be a fight. And every man in this regiment will be told to shoot you dead if you’re caught skulking one more time.”
Otis got up from his knees, sobbing and gushing his thanks. Mudge strode away. Fox and Robeson hurried off and didn’t look back. Seth hurried away too, but he looked back and smiled.
… a mighty work was before them. Onward they moved, night and day were blended, over many a weary mile, through dust and through mud, in the broiling sunshine, the flooding rain … weary, without sleep for days … yet these men could still be relied upon, I believed, when the day of conflict should come.
—Lt. Frank Haskell, 16 July, 1863
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Artwork by M. C. Escher reproduced by arrangement with Cordon Art B. V. © 2001 Cordon Art B. V., Baarn, Holland. All rights reserved. M. C. Escher® is a registered trademark of Cordon Art B. V.
Drawing at the end of chapter 5 by Jane Langton.
copyright © 2002 by Jane Langton
978-1-4532-4760-0
This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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