suspicion that the first sergeant and Captain Melcher had made damn sure his was one of the names pulled. He appreciated that.
Another one of the six, Joe Gruber, a corporal from Pittsburgh, had been one of Grimes's cronies. Billy looked at him angrily just before they marched out to shoot Grimes. “Hey, Billy, don't look at me. I had nothin' to do with this. Grimes thought it up all by himself.”
“Gruber, you're as big a prick as Grimes was.”
Gruber was older and much larger, but he respected Billy's skill with a gun too much to take offense. “Not so. Yeah, I liked getting out of duty with Grimes, and maybe I did borrow a couple of things that didn't belong to me, but, look, I never deserted and I never killed a comrade. Tell me, did you see me flinch at Culpeper?”
Gruber was right on all counts, especially regarding the battle. Gruber had been beside Billy for much of the chaotic time, and had stood up to everything the rebs had thrown at him. “Okay, so you're not such a big prick after all,” he admitted grudgingly.
“That's right,” Gruber said. “All I ever wanted to do was make myself a little more comfortable in this shithole of an army, and there ain't nothin' wrong with that. And if that meant you got stuck with some shit details while I didn't, well, that was too bad. But I never deserted and I never killed no one.”
Before they could continue, Captain Melcher called them all to attention. He then had them draw lots to see who would draw which already-loaded rifle. Tradition said that one of the weapons was unloaded so that no one could ever be sure that he had killed a man who had once been a companion.
Billy was second to draw and he didn't give a damn about such niceties. He wanted to kill Grimes. He couldn't tell whether the gun he held was unloaded or not, but he sure as hell knew he could find out if it had been loaded after it'd been fired.
The firing squad was called to attention and, with weapons at port arms, was marched out to where the regiment was assembled in an open triangle. A wooden stake had been driven into the ground in the middle of the open end and, after the squad was drawn up before it, Grimes was brought out in front of them.
Grimes's hands and feet were shackled, and his uniform was in rags. He blinked at the sunlight and the assembly in disbelief. Was the man drugged, Billy wondered, or had he been kept in darkness? Maybe he really didn't understand what was happening to him? He behaved more like an animal than a man as he shuffled along under the firm guidance of his guards. Billy felt a twinge of pity for the man. It passed. If all he'd wanted to do was desert, that was one thing. People did that all the time, and damned few got shot for it even if they did get caught. But Grimes had sliced Otto's throat and that made it different by a ton.
Grimes's chains were removed and he was tied to the stake with his hands behind his back. He tried to say something but his voice was an incoherent gurgle that made a few men in the regiment laugh nervously until they were glared down by their officers.
A chaplain went to Grimes and whispered some words. Again, Grimes appeared to not comprehend and the chaplain walked off shaking his head. “Fuck it,” someone said loud enough to be heard. “Finish him; it's hot out here.”
A blindfold was offered Grimes, but he shook it off. Comprehension appeared to be returning and he smiled. Maybe he thought that none of his company would actually aim at him and that they'd all miss. Then he saw Billy in the firing squad and his mouth dropped. His body shook and he began to jabber in terror. Billy would not miss. If there was a ball in the rifle, it would go right through Grimes.
Captain Melcher raised his sword and gave the orders quickly. “Ready. Aim. Fire.”
The volley was a solid clap of thunder. Grimes's body convulsed and then slumped forward. There was blood on his chest that ran in rivulets down his legs. Captain Melcher strode over to see if Grimes was dead. If he still breathed, the captain would draw his pistol and shoot Grimes in the ear.
It wasn't needed. Melcher raised Grimes's head. There was a bullet hole right between the eyes, and the back of his skull had been blown out. Scores of soldiers looked toward Billy, who merely looked skyward, unsmiling. While others had aimed for the easier chest shot, he had aimed for the skull, right between the eyes.
The firing squad marched off and turned in their rifles. A couple of the men walked off and vomited. What they had done was terrible, horrible, and, however justified, had nothing to do with war. Captain Melcher caught up with Billy. “Feel any satisfaction?”
Billy shook his head. “I ought to, but I don't. He wasn't worth the price of the lead to kill him, but Otto was worth lots.” He felt tears well up in his eyes. “Damn it, sir, this ain't no life for men to live. When this is over, I ain't killin' a thing again.”
Melcher nodded sympathetically. He was an older man, maybe twenty-five.
“Sir, on the other hand, I sure am glad I didn't get the unloaded gun.”
Melcher smiled and walked away. Comprehension dawned on Billy. All of the rifles had been loaded. “Thank you, Captain,” Billy whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
Lord Cardigan was livid with anger. “Brigadier General Wolsey, I still don't understand just what on earth behooved you to disband ten thousand Canadian militia and send them home. Don't you realize, sir that they could have inflicted tremendous harm on the Union forces?”
“My lord, the Canadians were but a mob. No, they weren't even a mob,” Wolsey replied. He was not overly concerned by the tirade. Cardigan was noted for them and they seemed to be coming with greater and greater frequency of late. It was also a subject that had been discussed several times.
“So what if the Canadians were a mob,” Cardigan continued. The bit was firmly in his mouth. “So are the Americans. Two mobs hacking at each other is to our advantage. Not only would a number of Americans be killed, but so would some of the more outspoken Canadians. Perhaps even this fool McGee. By the way, where is he?”
“In Toronto, and making plans to go to Ottawa,” Wolsey said. “And I differ in your analysis of the Americans. What I saw was a well-equipped and well-trained army that moved with dispatch and authority. The only loss to the Americans would have been in ammunition, which would have been easily replaced.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Cardigan. “This is the same farcical group that failed so miserably at Bull Run and at Culpeper.”
“With respects, General,” said Wolsey, “this is the army that succeeded at Shiloh and elsewhere, not the Union army you equate with those two Union defeats. This, Lord Cardigan, is a most dangerous enemy.”
“Dangerous my arse,” muttered Cardigan, then, in a louder voice, “and what are they doing now? Nothing. They moved a few dozen miles closer to us and now they have stopped. Why? What has our intelligence had to offer?”
Wolsey had been briefed on that as well. Grant's army had indeed pulled up about halfway between London and Hamilton and appeared to be entrenching. The British had limited scouting, but what little they'd managed indicated that the Union host was much smaller than they'd first thought. It occurred to Wolsey that Grant had possibly bluffed him at London, and that his army was well less than half the impossible “sixty thousand” that Colonel Hunter had so blithely mentioned.
It also galled the British generals that Canada was the only theater in which Union cavalry were operating effectively. Under men like Grierson, they acquitted themselves quite well. Elsewhere, they had difficulty staying on their horses.
Cardigan took a deep breath and calmed himself. “How many in a Union division?”
Wolsey blinked back his surprise. Didn't the man even know that? “At full strength, twelve thousand men. However, a Union division is rarely at full strength and is frequently at far less than half that. Mr. Lincoln's army has the curious habit of forming new divisions rather than sending replacements to old ones, while the Confederates do exactly the opposite. The result is that older, worn-down Union divisions are often quite small while Confederate divisions are quite large.”
“And how many Union divisions have we identified as being with Mr. Grant?”
“Six, sir.”
