The man tapped his pencil across the enlistment pages on the desk, waiting impatiently for an answer. Francois shifted on his feet, fighting the urge to tighten his fists and wipe the smug expression on the soldier’s face, to eliminate that accusatory look.
He’d ridden across the torn countryside, pell mell to join the illustrious Army of Northern Virginia, as a recruit for the Louisiana Tigers. To be cast as a shirker, using the slaveholding act as the excuse not to fight, rubbed him wrong and this soldier’s face, which reflected the man’s disgust, only irritated Francois further. But his gentlemen’s upbringing made him force a smile.
“As I recall, sir, the Confederacy needed soldiers. If I am indeed wrong, I’m sure I can find a way to give aid.” The smile ached, but he was determined to maintain a modicum of calm.
The sergeant’s brows furrowed as he gave him an assessing perusal, resulting in a snort of disgust before he turned back to his forms and scribbled, the lead pencil scraping across the paper. The sound grated on Francois’s nerves but he managed to refrain from shifting or registering his impatience on his face—a practice he was well accustomed to back home, when his father’s anger flared or his mother questioned him over issues he wanted to avoid.
“Slater, just finish! He’s right and a true son of the South! Lousianian born and bred!” Randolph Morris blurted.
Sergeant Slater stopped and glanced up. “Fontaine?”
“Yes, he is,” Morris continued. “His daddy runs that plantation, not far from St. Joseph’s parish. Bellefountaine.”
Slater frowned. “I’ve heard of it,” he drawled. “Heard you all be planters up there abouts.”
The tone made Francois give him a tweek of a smile. Planter, hey? “Sugar growers.”
“Uh, huh.” Slater went back to work, not before giving a snort. “Well, then, sur,” he slurred the word with a tinge of ridicule. “You’ll find yourself right at home with the others in Hays troop.” He shoved the halfway folded sheet to him and then quickly dismissed him by his demeanor, returning to other papers on his desk.
Francois held the page and frowned. He opened his mouth to say something but Morris yanked him away.
“I told you, you’d be sent with me to Hays!” Morris spring stepped as they crossed the field.
Francois noticed the men at the camps scattered about. The stench of boiled acorns and trace of coffee mixed with the scent of burned fat, a layer of horse manure and urine drifted throughout the camp.
“So this is what war does? Eliminate any and all manners?” He quickly saw the pile of horse dung before he stepped into it.
“You mean Slater? Nah, that man done have his gut all twisted over having to have his corps of Tar Heels under the command of the Tigers.” Morris spit. “Heard once we arrived that the last run in with the Feds at the Rappahannock was a hell on fire. Damn Yankees bested the Tigers in a surprise attack on a ridge. Numbers cut back from injuries and some troops captured.” He gave Francois a hard look. “Fresh troops are sorely needed. You’ll find the welcome you want soon enough.” He laughed.
Francois frowned. From the appearance around him, the war was just as ghastly as his brother had implied. He had assumed Jack’s description bordered on the insane, an attempt to keep him at Bellefountaine, so it was disheartening to realize his sibling wasn’t crazy. This mob that eyed him and Morris was the Army of Northern Virginia, led by the famous, according to the papers, General Robert E. Lee. Francois refocused, though, as they neared another set of tables and men around them that bore more stripes and feathers than sergeants.
“General Hays, sur,” Morris said, stopping their progress back. “Look who arrived, newly recruited!”
The dark haired general with a drooping mustache gave Francois a quick look and snorted. “Why, if it isn’t Francois Fontaine indeed! Glad to have you with us, son.”
Francois returned the grin. He knew of Hays from days of old. “Yes sur. Hear your Tigers are kicking up dirt out here. Figure it’s time to come see for myself…and add my efforts to the cause.”
An older officer’s eyes narrowed as he silently watched the exchange. Something about this white-haired aged man spoke volumes on how he commanded those around him but Francois wasn’t sure who he was. It was a problem coming in late to the war, he speculated.
“General Lee, let me introduce to you another fine planter from our state, coming to help us whip those Yankees.” Hays slapped Francois on the shoulder and it took a firmly planted stance to not move.
Lee’s brows rose. “Fontaine, you say? From Louisiana?”
“Yes, sir.” Francois replied.
“Once schooled a Fontaine, years back, at The Point. If memory serves well, he was from Louisiana. Any relations, Private?”
“This boy, I reckon, will serve as a corporal, general,” Hays corrected.
Francois wanted to grin and found his lips tugging upwards to do so but he figured now was not the time to gloat over his sudden promotion, one coming without a single order being given. “Yes, sir. My brother, Jack, attended West Point before the hostilities commenced.”
“Ah, yes, I do recall well. And where does he serve now, lad?”
Francois shifted. “He stayed with the Union, General.”
Lee nodded. “To be expected, as I remember. Each has had to decide their own path in this divide. Glad to have you with us. Fresh faces are what we need to continue our mission.”
Mission? He thought this was war, and as he opened his mouth to voice that, Morris butted in.
“General, we’ll be headin’ back, get him all settled.”
“Good. Drill will be soon,” Hays stated.
Francois nodded right as Morris pulled him away but he heard the General of the Army of Northern Virginia add, “Corporal Fontaine, I hope for you, that you won’t find yourself
