Death had relaxed the bodies of the Yanks; the stench was ripening over the roadbed. But he refused to leave without the ammunition for the piece. He found the dead man who had fired it. Woolner had already carried off his shoes and pocket items but left behind three odd tubular magazines. Charles plucked one from the weeds where it lay beside a stiffening hand. He opened it and discovered seven rimfire copper cartridges, one behind the next. He now understood the function of the opening in the butt.
Woolner appeared. 'That the piece that was bangin' away so fast? Never seen one like it.'
'Let's hope we don't see many more. I recovered some of the ammunition. I want to fire it.'
The sun broke through the fog in long shining shafts. They slung the wounded Yank across the back of Loomis's horse and, leaving the dead, proceeded on toward camp. Julius Wanderly had missed the brief action, so von Helm rode beside him, describing it.
The Yank's belly bled all over the horse. When they arrived in camp, Loomis reached around and touched the man — 'Hey, Yank, wake up.' — and found him dead. Loomis suddenly paled, fainted, and fell off his horse.
Exhausted and still a little shaken, Charles arranged for disposal of the Yank's body, dismissed the men, then saw to Sport: the unsaddling, rubbing down and brushing, feeding, and watering. In casual, slipshod fashion, von Helm put up his mount in a third of the time.
Finished at last, Charles patted the gray and went to the mess to fill his growling stomach. Von Helm had headed for the quarters he now shared with Charles. Their first few days as hut-mates had included little except remarks required by duty or politeness. Henceforth there would be even fewer exchanges if Charles had anything to do with it.
It was late in the day before he found Calbraith Butler and reported on the trackside fight. 'It was a totally pointless action, in my opinion. One we should have avoided.'
Butler leaned back in his camp chair, silhouetted against the sun now shining brightly outside. 'You're not telling me everything. Ab Woolner's been by. He seconded your opinion, but he also described the way the detachment got into the muss. The Dutchman dragged you.'
'First and last time, sir,' Charles promised.
'I warned you,' Butler said, not to reprimand but to sympathize. 'Maybe I can get the little rodent transferred again. I must say he made quite an impression on Wanderly. Your second lieutenant is singing hosannas and comparing the new man to Stuart. He's telling everyone von Helm exemplifies Stuart's first axiom — gallop toward your enemy, trot away — and never mind that there may not be anyone left to trot after you gallop.'
'I'll handle Lieutenant von Helm,' Charles said, though with less confidence than his tone demonstrated. 'Any further word from headquarters about Ambrose?'
'No, nothing again today. I honestly don't think we'll ever know what happened.'
Unsmiling, Charles bobbed his head to agree. He then described the shoulder weapon he had confiscated. 'I want to take it to the drill ground tomorrow and test it. It'll be no use to me later — there's no ammunition beyond those three tubes. Twenty-one rounds.'
'I should like to be there for the test.'
'I'll let you know when I go, sir.' A weary salute, and he left his commanding officer, who stared at the fallen tent flap for some moments after Charles disappeared. Then Butler shook his head in a melancholy way and went back to work.
Still reluctant to rejoin von Helm in the hut, Charles trudged back to the horse shelters, to be sure Sport was properly blanketed and standing on the planks instead of the soggy ground. He rubbed his hand slowly over the gray's warm neck. He felt terrible, sorrowful and angry at the same time.
Well, that was the soldier's portion after almost any engagement. No one could explain why the reaction was so common, but experience had taught him that it was. To see Gus Barclay might pull him out of it. Even as the wish welled up, he reminded himself that it wasn't a wise one. War was no time for liaisons, except the sort he had had with Stuart's Honorary Aide-de-Camp.
About one variety of love he had no reservations. He flung his arm around the gray head of the animal who had saved his life and pulled it close. Sport nipped his other wrist, which was rubbing the gelding's muzzle. But the nip was careful, inflicting no pain. Nothing mattered then except that affection. One thing sure: he and this incredible horse must survive the strange slippage, impossible to understand but equally impossible to miss, that seemed to be taking place in his life.
The report went roaring away through the woodlands. The paper target pinned to the tree snapped in the pale afternoon light, hit dead center.
Charles levered the trigger guard downward, springing the spent cartridge from the breech. Lever up, cock the piece manually, fire. Lever down, up, cock, fire. Half a dozen men lounged about, watching. With each round, their jaws fell a little lower. Ab Woolner pulled at his crotch to loosen his underwear, muttering, 'Sweet God.'
Thickening smoke drifted upward. Calbraith Butler had been counting by tapping his silver-mounted riding whip against his leg. As the sound of the final round faded, the bottom part of the target fell away and fluttered to earth. Butler looked at Charles.
'I make it seven rounds in approximately thirteen seconds.'
A couple of the watchers picked up the spent copper cartridges for souvenirs. Charles butted the piece on the cracked toe of his boot and nodded glumly. The heat of the blued barrel seeped through his gauntlet.
It was the scout who spoke for all of them: 'Let's hope them Yanks don't get too many rifles like that. They could load 'em on Monday and shoot at us the rest of the week.'
Charles trudged back to his hut, where he laid the repeater in the gun rack. Von Helm was absent — all to the good, given the renewed gloom that followed the test. Charles stored the two remaining tubes in his field trunk, recalling Cousin Cooper's warnings about the North's industrial superiority. Wasn't this new rifle more evidence of that superiority? Why the hell had no one listened?
Or was he the man out of step? The negative thinker? The cynic who couldn't subscribe to the belief that was widespread in the army — the absolute certainty that nerve and spirit would prevail over numbers and better weapons? That might be true occasionally. But every time?
He lit a vile cigar bought from the sutler at three times the fair price. Hanged if he knew who was right, the skeptic who haunted his head or all his braggy troopers who discovered great omens in week-old Yankee newspapers. Because McClellan had failed to move, certain Republicans were already calling for his replacement.
Encouraging rumors reached the camp from Norfolk, too. Some awesome new dreadnought was nearly
Next day's delivery of the mail brought a pleasing surprise, a package posted in Fredericksburg late in November. Inside it Charles found a small leather-bound book:
She had signed herself
Many soldiers carried small Testaments in their coats or shirt pockets. That gave Charles an idea. He scrounged a piece of soft leather and with his sewing kit fashioned a small bag with a drawstring. He added a longer thong to slip over his head and put the little volume in the bag. He carried it beneath his shirt against the flat of his chest. It felt good there.
The gift buoyed him for several days, even given the presence of von Helm. The Dutchman bustled in and out of the hut with barely a word, though he seldom lost that demented glint in his eye. One evening, when Charles had a stomach complaint and didn't feel like attending a performance of