"Most of this year," Blythe said.
"They fed you well," Starbuck said as Tumlin buttoned a shirt round his plump belly, which was distended by the money pouch.
"I was four times this size when I got took," Blythe said.
"Where were you held?" Starbuck asked.
"Union, Massachusetts."
"Union?" Starbuck asked. "Where the hell's Union?"
"Out west," Blythe said. He had met Starbuck's father and knew the family came from Boston, so placing his mythical town of Union in the west of the state seemed a safe bet.
"In the Berkshires?" Starbuck asked.
"I guess," Blythe said, sitting on the bed to tug on his boots. "What are they? Hills? Not that we saw any hills, Major. Just big walls."
"So how many men have you got for me, Billy?"
"A dozen."
"Stragglers?"
"Lost sheep, Major," Blythe said, offering Starbuck a lazy grin, "just little lost sheep looking for a shepherd. Hell, I'm looking for a comb."
"Here," Starbuck saw the comb on the washstand and tossed it across the room. "So you escaped?"
Blythe winced as the comb caught in a tangle of his long hair. "Walked south, Major."
"Then you'll have good hard feet, Billy, all ready for some marching."
"And where the hell are we marching, Major?" Blythe asked.
"My guess," Starbuck said, "is Harper's Ferry. And once we've bagged the Yankees there, over the river and keep going north till the Yankees beg us to stop."
Blythe pulled on his gray coat. "Hell, Major," he grumbled, "you have one hell of a way of making yourself known to your officers."
"Coat's too small for you, Billy," Starbuck said with a grin. "When were you made a Captain?"
Blythe paused to think as he buckled on his revolver. "Last year, Major. November, I guess, why?"
"Because that makes you senior to my other captains, which means you're my second in command. If I'm killed, Billy, my heroes are all yours. You ready?"
Blythe collected his few belongings and stuffed them in a bag. "Ready enough," he said.
Starbuck stood, walked to the door, and tipped his hat again to the girl. "Sorry to have disturbed you, ma'am. Come on, Billy. Let's go."
They caught up with the battalion three miles north of town. Starbuck marched the tired men another two miles, then swerved aside into a stretch of pastureland that edged a wood and a stream and had plainly been used many times before as a bivouac. The grass was stained where tents had stood too long, scorch marks showed where campfires had burned, while the margins of the woodland were nothing but ragged stumps where troops had cut their firewood. The railroad that led north from Winchester was a half mile away, its steel rails torn up and carried away by one side or the other while the turnpike that ran parallel to the ruined rail line had been deeply rutted by the march-ing and countermarching of the armies that had fought for possession of the Shenandoah Valley ever since the war's beginning. The pasture was a much-abused place, but it was still pleasant enough and just far enough from Winchester to deter any man who might have been tempted back to the town's taverns.
Captain Potter had no need of the taverns. He had brought the ammunition to the encampment, but after that he had somehow found himself a jug of whiskey and by late afternoon he was wildly drunk. Starbuck was drawing up lists of the new companies, which now numbered five. He had begun to choose men for Potter's skirmishing company and was writing their names when he became aware of a surge of raucous laughter. At first he thought it a good omen, maybe an upwelling of spirit among the resting men, but then Captain Dennison stooped under the crude cotton awning that served Starbuck as a tent. Dennison was picking his teeth with a wood splinter. "Nice desk, Major," he said.
"It serves," Starbuck said. He was using a tree stump as a crude writing desk.
"You might want to redo those lists," Dennison said with amusement, "'cos I reckon you just lost yourself a captain."
"Meaning what?"
"Potter boy's drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Hell, drunk as ten skunks." Dennison spat a shred of food. "Looks like he can't be trusted after all."
Starbuck swore, picked up his jacket and belt, and ducked outside.
Potter was playing the fool. A group of men who still had some energy after the day's marching had started a game of baseball and Potter had insisted on being allowed to take part. Now, swaying slightly, he faced the pitcher and kept demanding that the ball be thrown at perfect hitting height. "Groin height!" he shouted, and the fielders egged him on by pretending not to know what he meant. Potter unbuttoned his pants to expose himself. "That's the groin! There! See?"
The pitcher, hardly able to throw for laughing, tossed an underhand lob that went wide. Potter swung madly, staggered, and recovered. "Try it closer, closer." He paused, stooped to pick up his stone jug, and took a swig. He saw Starbuck as he lowered the jug. "Captain Ahab, sir!"
"Are you drunk?" Starbuck said when he was close to Potter.
Potter grinned, shrugged and thought about the question, but could not come up with anything witty. "I guess," he said.
"Button yourself, Captain."
Potter shook his head, not in refusal, but in perplexity. "Just a bit of horseplay, Captain Ahab." "Button yourself," Starbuck said quietly.
"You're going all stern on me, ain't you? Just like my father—" Potter stopped abruptly as Starbuck hit him in the belly. The younger man folded over, retching just as he had when Starbuck had first found him in the Hells.
"Stand up straight," Starbuck said, kicking over the stone bottle, "and button yourself."
"Let him play!" a voice shouted sullenly. It was Sergeant Case. "Nothing wrong with a game," the Sergeant insisted. "Let him play." A few men muttered their sup-port. Starbuck, they reckoned, was spoiling their day's one small moment of enjoyment.
"Good Sergeant Case," Potter said, cuffing spittle away from his chin. "My supplier of whiskey." He stooped to the fallen bottle, but Starbuck kicked it away before crossing to face Case.
"You gave Potter the whiskey?"
Case hesitated, then nodded. "Ain't against the law, Major."
"It's against my law," Starbuck said, "and you knew it."
Case rocked back and forward on his heels. He had drunk some of the whiskey himself, and maybe that gave him the courage to convert his hostility toward Starbuck into open defiance. He spat close to Starbuck's boots. "Your law?" he jeered. "What law is that, Major?"
"The rules of this battalion, Case."
"This battalion, Major," Case exploded in fury, "is the sorriest damn collection of bloody bastards ever put under a flag. This ain't a battalion, Major, it's a rabble of skulkers who weren't wanted in any proper regiment. This ain't a battalion, Major! This ain't nothing! We ain't got nothing. No wagons, no axes, no tents, no doctor, no nothing! We weren't sent here to fight, Major, but to get ourselves killed."
There were louder murmurs of agreement. Men who had been resting had come to see the confrontation, so that nearly all of the battalion was now grouped around the makeshift playing diamond.
"A month ago," Starbuck raised his voice, "I was in a battalion that got raided by Yankees. They killed half our officers, burned our wagons, destroyed all our spare ammunition, but we still fought a week later and won. This battalion can do the same."
"The hell it can," Case said. His fellow sergeants had come to his support, a phalanx of tough, grim-faced men who stared with blank hatred at Starbuck. "The hell it can," Case said again. "It might be good for guarding prisoners, or fetching and carrying supplies, but it ain't any good for fighting."
Starbuck turned slowly, looking at the worried faces of the men. "I think they can fight, Sergeant." He turned all the way round to face Case again. "But can you?"
"I've been there," Case said curtly, "and I know what it takes for men to fight. Not this!" He waved a scornful hand at the battalion. "No proper officer would take this rabble to war."
Starbuck stepp
ed closer to Case. "Do I take that to mean that you won't lead them into battle, Sergeant?"
Case sensed he might have gone too far, but he was unwilling to back down in the face of his supporters. "Lead them into battle?" He scoffed Starbuck by crudely imitating his Boston accent. "Sounds like a fine Yankee phrase to me, Major."
"I asked you a question, Case."
"I ain't afraid to fight!" Case blustered and, by refusing to answer the question, implicitly backed away from the confrontation.
Starbuck could have let Case off the hook, but chose not to. "I asked you a question," he said again.
"Hell," Case said, cornered, "these men ain't fit to fight!"
"They're fit enough," Starbuck said, "it's you that ain't fit." He could have left it there, but sheer devilment made him rack the tension higher. "Take your stripes off," he said.
Case, faced with losing his rank, accepted the show-down. "You take 'em, Major," he said, "if you can." His fellow sergeants greeted the defiance with hand-clapping.
Starbuck turned away and walked to the vacated pitcher's spot. From the very first he had worried about imposing his authority on this despised battalion, and he had never done it. He had assumed that if he led they would follow, not because he inspired them, but because men usually do what is expected of them. In time, he had hoped, battle would wipe out the regiment's past history and unite it in purpose, but instead the crisis had come now, which meant that the solution could not wait for battle, but would have to be imposed now. He would exhaust the formal route first, but he knew it was doomed even as he turned back to the group of sergeants who slowly ended their clapping as he stared at them. "Sergeant Webber? Cowper?" he said. "Arrest Case."
The two sergeants spat, but neither made any other movement.
"Captain Dennison?" Starbuck turned.
"Ain't my business," Dennison said. "Finish what you started, Starbuck, ain't that what you once told me?"
Starbuck nodded. "When I've finished here," he raised his voice, "every company will elect new sergeants. Case!" he snapped. "Bring me your coat."
Case, driven to mutiny, brazened out the moment. "Come and get it, Major."
There was a moment's silence as the men watched Starbuck; then he took off his coat and revolver. He was apprehensive, though he took care not to show it. Case was a tall man, probably stronger than Starbuck, and probably no stranger to casual violence—any man who had survived fourteen years in a European army had to be tough—while Starbuck had been reared in the gentler world of respectable Boston, which eschewed violence as a means of resolving argument. Respectable Boston believed in reason leavened by Godliness, while Starbuck's career now depended on beating down a bullying thug who had probably not lost a fight in a dozen years, but he was also a thug who was more than slightly drunk and that, Starbuck reckoned, should help him. "The trouble with you, Case," he said as he walked slowly toward the taller man, "is that you've spent too long wearing a red coat. You ain't a fusilier now, you're a rebel, and if you don't like the way we do things then you ought to get the hell out of here and go back to Queen Victoria's petticoats. You probably ain't man enough to fight Yankees." He was hoping to provoke Case into a rushed attack, but the big man had the sense to hold his ground and let Starbuck come to him. Starbuck broke into a jog, then aimed a massive kick at Case's groin, but a heartbeat later he jarred his left foot forward to stop his forward momentum.
Case half turned away from the kick and flicked out a hard punch with his left hand, only Starbuck did not run onto the punch, but instead rammed his right boot forward into Case's knee. It was a brutally hard kick and Starbuck recoiled from it, safe out of Case's reach. Starbuck had hoped to do more damage, but the big man's quick left hand had stalled him.
Case stumbled as pain buckled his leg. The pain made him grimace, but he forced himself upright. "Yankee," he spat at Starbuck.
Starbuck knew this had to be quick. If the fight dragged on then his authority would be abraded with every blow exchanged. Victory had to be swift and total, and that meant taking some punishment. Case's tactics were obvious. He intended to stand like a rock and let Starbuck come to him, and every time Starbuck was in range he would inflict pain until Starbuck could take no more. So take the pain, Starbuck told himself, and put the son of a bitch down.
He walked forward with his eyes on Case's hard eyes. He saw the right hand coming and half raised his left hand to block the blow, but his head still rang as the fist crashed home on the side of his skull. Starbuck kept going forward, forcing himself into the stink of Case's unwashed wool uniform and the stench of tobacco and whiskey on the big man's breath, and the big man smelled victory as he reached to grab Starbuck's hair and pulled his head down onto his left fist.
Then Case gagged, choked, and his eyes widened as he tried to breathe.
Starbuck had hit the Sergeant in the Adam's apple. He had rammed his right hand up and forward, knuckles outward, and as much by luck as judgment had slammed the blow under the Sergeant's jutting beard to land dead on the inviting target of Case's unnaturally long neck. It was a wicked blow, taught him long before by Captain Truslow, who knew every nasty trick in the devil's book.
Case was staggering now, his hands at his throat where a terrible pain was threatening to cut off his airway. Starbuck, his own head ringing from the Sergeant's blow, stepped back to watch the big man totter, then stepped forward again and gave Case's left knee another hard kick. The big man buckled. Starbuck waited again. He waited until Case was half down, then he brought his knee up into the man's face. Blood splashed out of the broken nose as Starbuck grabbed Case's hair and rammed his head back onto the knee. He let go of the greasy hair and this time Case dropped to all fours and Starbuck kicked him in the belly, then put his foot on Case's back and pushed him down into the grass. The breath rasped and rattled in Case's throat. He twitched as he tried to subdue the gagging pain, but nothing could stop the pitiful whimpering that sounded between each desperate attempt to breathe. Starbuck spat on him, then looked up at the other sergeants. "All of you," he said, "take your stripes off. Now!"
None dared oppose him, not with Case retching into the grass. His face had gone red, the breath was hoarse in his constricted throat, and his eyes were wide with terror. Starbuck turned away. "Captain Dennison!"
"Sir?" Dennison was white-faced, appalled.
"Get a knife, Captain," Starbuck said calmly, "and cut Case's stripes off."
Dennison obeyed while Starbuck retrieved his coat and revolver. "Anyone else here think they know better than me how to run this battalion?" he shouted at the men.
Someone began clapping. It was Caton Rothwell, and his applause spread among the many men who had hated their sergeants. Starbuck waved the clapping to silence, then looked at Captain Potter. "You come to me when you're sober, Potter," he said, then walked away. He felt that he must be shaking, but when he looked at his bruised right hand it seemed quite still. He ducked into his makeshift tent, then suddenly the tension flowed out of him and he shuddered like a man with fever.
Lucifer, without being asked, brought him a mug of coffee. "There's some of Captain Potter's whiskey in it," he told Starbuck. "I rescued it from the bottle." He stared at Starbuck's left ear that was throbbing painfully. "He hit you hard."
"I hit him harder."
"Man won't like you for it."
"He didn't like me anyway."
Lucifer watched Starbuck warily. "He'll be wanting you." "Meaning?"
Lucifer shrugged and touched his Colt revolver that Starbuck had restored. "Meaning," the boy said, "you should take care of him properly."
"Let the Yankees do it," Starbuck said dismissively.
"Hell, they can't do nothing proper! You want me to do it?"
"I want you to get me supper," Starbuck said. His ear was hurting and he had work to do, even more work now that his new company lists had to be rewritten to accommodate the names of the newly chosen sergeants. Some of the old sergeants were re-elected
, and Starbuck suspected threats might have been used to ensure those choices, but Case's name was not on the list. The last company to report was E, the half-formed company of skirmishers, and Caton Rothwell brought that list written in clumsy letters on the back of a tobacco wrapper. Rothwell’s own name was at the top of the page. Starbuck was seated outside his tent, close enough to a fire for the flames to illuminate the page that he first read and then handed to Billy Tumlin, who had come to share a late-night mug of coffee. "Good," Starbuck said to Rothwell when he saw Rothwell’s name on the list. "Don't make the mistake I did."
"Which was what?" Rothwell asked.
"Being too easy on the men."
Rothwell looked surprised. "Hell, I don't reckon you're easy," he said. "Case don't, either." "How is he?" Starbuck asked. "He can walk in the morning." "Make sure the son of a bitch does."
"Where are we going tomorrow?" Rothwell asked.
"North past Charlestown," Starbuck said.
"Past Charlestown?" Billy Blythe asked, accenting past. "I kind of hoped we'd find billets there."
"We're joining Old Jack's men to attack Harper's Ferry," Starbuck said, "and they won't be lollygagging in Charlestown, so nor will we. You want some coffee?" he asked Rothwell.
Rothwell hesitated, then nodded. "Kind of you, Major."
Starbuck shouted for Lucifer, then gestured Rothwell to sit. "When I first met you, Sergeant," he said, using Rothwell’s new rank for the first time, "you told me that your wife was in trouble, which was why you walked away from your old regiment. What was the trouble?"
It was a blunt question and Rothwell met it with a hostile stare. "Ain't none of your business, Major," he finally said.
"It is my business if it happens again," Starbuck answered just as curtly. His curiosity was not prompted by prurience, but rather because he suspected that Rothwell could be a leader in the battalion and he needed reassurance about the man's dependability. "And it is if I need new officers, and Yankee bullets have a way of creating vacancies."
Rothwell considered Starbuck's words, then shrugged. "Won't happen again," he said grimly, and seemed content to leave it at that, but a moment later he spat into the fire. "Not unless the Yankees rape her again," he added bitterly.
The Bloody Ground Page 15