courtesy of Dale Gallon

Charles awoke with a start and a yelp as if stuck by a pin above his left collarbone. All he got from his quick movement was another prick in his left shoulder. He eyes hit a rusted bayonet first, and followed it up the adjoined rifle. Two filthy hands with fractured nails the color of midnight held the rifle steady. Slowly, Charles' eyes took in the heavy, tattered, gray wool uniform coat, then moved up to a face etched in lead. Sad eyes poked out of a bird's nest of a beard, red in color with errant white hairs vying of attention.

The voice coming out of the beard rumbled, like an avalanche on a distant mountain. "Speak up, now, boy! And be quick about it. What are you doing out here all alone?"
"I-I-I—" Charles stopped trying to talk and swallowed. "We was in a fight last night," he told the man, whose eyes were closed. He appeared to be sleeping. "I got separated from my regiment, the Ninth Connecticut. You happen to know where they might be?"

The Union sergeant's eyes opened slowly and he blinked half a dozen times. Quick-like. "Lost, you say. And you want me to tell you where your regiment's at? If that don't beat all. That's real uppity. Or yer just plain dumb?"  The man's eyes closed again, then quickly reopened. The pressure of the bayonet on Charles' left shoulder did not lessen.

"How old you be?" the Union man asked.
"Sixteen, I think, sir."
"You don't talk like a Yankee. You talk like an Irish coon-ass to me. Where you from?
"Nawleans."
"Nawleans? Bullshit! Ya gotta come up wid a better lie than that there. There's not a gawddamn Yankee soldier in this gawddamn army that's from the Deep South. You lie to me, boy, and I'll gut you like a carp." He pushed harder on the bayonet and Charles winced in pain.

"It's the God's truth," Charles said, trying to shift his weight to the right to lessen the bayonet's pressure. The move accomplished nothing; if anything the bayonet hurt even worse than before. "I tried to join you Rebs last December, but the major-fellow said I was too young. Too young and too little."

"How'd you get to be a Yankee, then?" the soldier said in a voice as tired as Job's. "And why?"
"You ever live in an orphanage?" Charles asked. There was no answer. "Well, I by God have, and I'd have done anything to get out of that place. And I'm never going back."

Behind closed eyes again, the man studied on that a spell and then replied, eyes still screwed shut, "So ya jined up to be a Yankee druther'an live in a orphanage?  You'd fight against yore own kind to get out of a orphanage? Hell, nuthin' could'a been that bad!"

"It was bad, badder than a shit flood in Hell at high tide, that's for sure. I wanted to do the right thing and join up with you fellows, but some uppity officer said that couldn't be. So I eyed around for an alternate plan and here I am. An' I don't fight nobody. I'm a drummer."

The weary soldier studied on that a bit. "So ya jist drum a good tune to make sure good boys march to their death. What kinda job is that?"

The question lay sour between them.

"So this here al-ter-nate plan you done come up with," the Reb said, stretching out the three-syllable word like a first-grader at a reading bee, ditit include bein' bayonet-stuck by a former sto-keeper from Tupelo, Mississip, who's out here on a purpose?"

He paused and shook his head and muttered something that to Charles sounded like: "Onlys I done forgot what the real purpose is, I reckon."
The Reb closed his eyes again. They stayed shut for an eternity. Charles didn't move an inch, his breathing shallow and fast, like that of an injured bird.

He hoped the soldier didn't go to sleep and fall forward. That would hurt - a lot - he thought.
As if he heard the thought, the Reb stood upright and said, "Got any food?"
"Naw, suh. Had my last bite yestiddy, I did. But if I did have some, I'd sure split it with you, yes."
The soldier's lips cracked open, showing splintered teeth and the tip of his pink tongue. "That's a good 'un, Boy. That's a good 'un."

He lowered the bayonet till it was pointed at Charles left foot and reached into his knapsack that was tied around his waist with a piece of rope. Charles saw one of the shoulder straps was broken, and trailed toward the ground like a tiny, thin, dirty white flag. The Reb handed Charles a piece of crinkled, red-black jerky that appeared as hard as frozen tree sap.
"Here," was all he said.

Reaching out a reluctant hand, Charles took the jerky. It felt like dried tree bark but the smell of the peppered dried beef turned his saliva glands into a mountain stream at snow-melt. He sawed off a small piece with his incisors and just let it sit at the back of his mouth, feeling it slowly soften. He sucked on it and reveled in the taste of the tart pepper and the brothy spit-juice that formed on his tongue. He started chewing slowly, savoring the texture, taste, and after-taste.
"Thankee kindly, you," was all he said.

The Reb stood upright, stretched his back, and Charles heard a faint snickey-pop. The soldier eased himself down next to Charles, sharing the same tree as a backrest. For the longest time, neither said a word, the only sounds the bite-and-snap of bits of hard jerky torn from the mother slab, chewing, swallowing, all mixed with the returning wood noises—squirrels barking over territory or a would-be mate, Good God birds hammering into a faraway pine searching for grubs or beetles, rustling leaves moved aside by an armadillo or possum. Probably an armadillo. Possums like the dark.

"I got a boy 'bout your age," the soldier said, weariness clinging to his voice like moss to the north side of a tree.
"He in the war?"
"Not hardly. I jined up so's he kin not be in this shoot-em-up. He's watchin' his mama and three sisters, learnin' to be a man." He signed. "A man that's not about to get to fightin' in no war."
He made it to "fightin'" before he started crying. Not much sound. Just uncontrollable shaking and little gasps as he hauled in stuttering breaths.

Charles turned his head and studied the fluttering of the leaves in a nearby water oak tree. Such pretty leaves, all the same, pretty near, he thought. After watching an acrobatic fight between two squirrels high atop a persimmon tree, Charles chanced a look at the soldier. He was still. Asleep. His rifle sitting unattended beside him.

Without a word, Charles quietly lay down beside him, placing his head near the tree truck and ever so gently, reached out with two fingers and touched the Reb's coat sleeve. Sleep overtook him like a dropped anvil.