The Crucible - Part I 
A LAST GOOD-BYE AND MUTINY
     by Nick Korolev

"War! Nothing but the final infinite good,
for men and God, can accept and justify
work like that!"
 Maj. Gen. J. L. Chamberlain

Chamberlain and Ames by Nick Korolev

The Battle at Chancellorsville was a blood stained recent memory for most of the men in the Army Of The Potomac. In the vast city of tents, the camp of the Twentieth Maine was quiet, the mood depressed despite the promise of a fine May day the balmy dawn offered. Only the low talking of men, the clatter of mess kits and an occasional cough intruded on Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain’s thoughts as he walked toward the regimental headquarters tent with a tin cup of strong coffee in his hand. Thirty-four and graying at the temples with a flowing mustache, he moved slower than his usual gait, yet there was nothing casual about his erect posture. He was just trying to enjoy the morning, thoughts of his wife, Fannie, and the children at home in Brunswick, endeavoring to keep the war at bay just a little while longer. The garden in the front of his Federal style Cape Cod on Potter Street would just be showing the first hint of green with snow bells and crocus pushing their colorful blooms to the sun. Fannie would be hard pressed to keep six year old Daisy and four year old Wylys from picking them. The college students he once taught would be preparing for final exams many eyes drifting out the window to the new greens. Spring was long in coming in Maine and meant to be enjoyed after a snow bound winter. Here it was so different with trees newly leafed out already and songs of mockingbirds drifting on the breeze.

However, more was drifting in the spring breeze than bird song. Change was in the air. The war pressed in on his thoughts once again. Promotions were coming in. Their old commander, Colonel Adelbert Ames, an irascible, tall, mustachioed, twenty-seven year old, had been promoted to brigadier general. Ames was leaving tomorrow to report to General Howard of the Eleventh Corps and take command of the Second Brigade of the First Division, the German immigrant troops that broke and ran at Chancellorsville.

The Twentieth Maine had been forced to sit out that battle in quarantine. They had been hit with smallpox from contaminated vaccines that cost the lives of four men and had infected eighty-four. It had all been a nightmare. He had been left in command of the quarantine camp while Ames got a temporary assignment on Meade’s staff since there was no need for all officers to remain in the camp. He had tried to go on another assignment himself, but there were no more openings. He did not begrudge Ames his good luck, though to be stuck in a quarantine camp had been an experience he never wanted to repeat. He had managed to get the regiment gainfully occupied guarding the telegraph lines from the front to headquarters, but it was ignominious duty. The boys wanted to fight. They had been in the army since September, taken about all they could stand from the martinet Ames and had nothing to show for it except being trapped on Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg for thirty-six hours having made their advance at dusk. They were out of quarantine now, but moral was at rock bottom.

Lawrence shook his head and gazed off at the distant Blue Ridge Mountains, thinking again of spring to push away the gloom of camp. The mountains were showing green in the blue hazed distance. A mockingbird called from the branches overhead as if announcing the rebirth of life itself. It was all putting him in a dreamy nostalgic mood.

"Colonel," Tom’s voice broke into his spring reverie. He turned to find his younger brother right behind him in his new second lieutenant’s uniform An enthusiastic twenty-one year old ex-store clerk with a wreath of whiskers that joined in a mustache, with the chin clean shaven, Tom had taken well to army life. Now he was the new regimental adjutant replacing Lieutenant Brown, who was going with Ames. Tom saluted.

"Lieutenant," Lawrence said, returning it and took a quick sip of coffee. "Colonel Ames . . . er . . . I mean General Ames wants to see you in the headquarters tent in fifteen minutes. Says it involves reorganizing the senior officers of the regiment,"  Tom said.
"Sounds serious," Lawrence returned, feeling his mood go sour.
"It does. I have to round up Ellis and Sam, too." He saluted and left.

Lawrence was almost positive he knew what was on Ames’ mind. Ames was a West Point graduate and a tough disciplinarian who demanded the best from his men and the officers who lead them. The men hated him for it, but there was a simple logic in his reasoning. You either became a good soldier or would die in the field. Officers would either lead or be replaced by those who could. There was a problem among the senior officers in the regiment – Major Charles Gilmore. Gilmore was the weakest link in the chain of command. The man embodied all Ames personally hated in politically appointed officers that were out for the glory that went with a higher rank, but not willing to lead and take the risks. Gilmore had continuously shirked his duty by being put on sick call every time combat seemed imminent. This was quickly becoming an intolerable situation, but hard to prove though he, Ames and the company commanders were all witnesses to Gilmore’s behavior.

Lawrence finished the coffee, taking in the last quiet moments of a pleasant morning, then walked slowly for the headquarters tent he shared with Ames. In a way he was dreading the meeting. He held no animosity towards Gilmore and to a considerable degree, felt sorry for him. He found Ames alone in the tent busy at the small field desk. Ames looked up at him with little humor in his intense hazel eyes. "You’re early, Colonel, just as I suspected you would be." He forced a smile so fleeting it was almost more of a tic.

He noticed Ames was working on a letter home and not one of the many required reports. "If my suspicions are correct, this meeting is about . . .".
"Gilmore," Ames finished his thought for him. They had been together for nine months. Finishing thoughts had become a habit. No sooner was the name out of Ames’ mouth than the other two officers came into the tent; Captain Ellis Spear, the ex- school teacher from Wiscasset, a fragile looking man with a bearded chin, and Captain Sam Keene, the young, bearded ex-lawyer from Rockland. Ellis was an old friend of his, one of his students. Keene was a close friend of Ellis’. The atmosphere was homey yet this time cold. Gilmore was conspicuously absent. The black sheep of this military family.

Ames looked from one to the other. "Gentlemen, as you know, I will be leaving tomorrow to accept command of the Second Brigade in the First Division of Howard's Eleventh Corps. I want to see to it before I leave that the 20th Maine has senior officers who can lead. We all know there is a problem with Major Gilmore. He may have been sheriff of Penobscot County and politically well-connected, but he is unfit for command. Since that close call at Lee's Mills, his confidence has been sadly lacking. That, gentlemen, is not good for the morale of the men who depend on their officers not only to lead, but to set an example of coolness under fire. My plan is this: to go on with the promotions of Chamberlain to colonel, Gilmore to lieutenant colonel and Spear to major. Then I will get Gilmore to resign or transfer, which will put Spear in as lieutenant colonel and Keene in as major since he is the next senior officer. Then this regiment will have the proper leadership. Any questions or comments?" 

"What if Gilmore does not resign, sir?" Keene asked.
"That will be a problem, but not an insurmountable one. My guess is his behavior will continue and you, Captain Keene, or you, Captain Spear, will eventually replace him. Let us hope he has the wisdom to cooperate for the good of the men."

A shadow moved on the tent wall. They all looked. Shadows of a bush branch bobbed a little too sharply to be moved by the warm spring breeze. Lawrence was quite sure someone had been listening in, that someone being Gilmore.

It was twilight. Lawrence had finished grand rounds and was on his way to the headquarters tent when he passed Thomas, the aide, leading Ames’ horse. God, how he hated goodbyes. He had gotten along well with Ames, spending countless hours studying tactics books and manuals with him, knew this day would come, yet it never really seemed to register until now. He knew Ames wanted no fuss. No assembly of the regiment or goodbye speech. He did not feel the need. They both knew it would be a sham anyway. Many of the men still hated Ames’ giblets.

Lawrence entered the tent to find Ames packing two clean shirts and a few other essentials in his saddlebags. The General paused in his packing and turned. Their eyes met. "I wish I had your language ability, Colonel. The regiments in the Second Brigade are mostly German immigrants. The ones that ran at Chancellorsville." Ames forced a smile.

"I'm sure you will break them of that habit, General," he said smiling weakly. He knew he would not see that fleeting smile or that some times mischievous twinkle again, the lighter side of Ames the men never knew. "As I am sure I am leaving the Twentieth in capable hands, Colonel."
"Thank you, General, for the vote of confidence." He broke eye contact with him and looked at the floor. This was all so awkward.

"You are far too modest, Colonel. You and I have been through hell with this regiment. You have proven you can lead men and have an excellent grasp of tactics. Trust yourself, Colonel. The men certainly trust you. You are one of the finest officers I have known and you know I do not give such praise lightly. You have also become ... a good friend."

Lawrence felt uncomfortable, a twinge in his gut, a small icy hole that came with a growing sense of loss. Loss was a fact of military life and he knew he should never allow himself to get close to anyone. But, sometimes it just happened especially with roles being reversed as they had been these last months with teacher suddenly becoming student. The army was such a far cry from his academic life and Ames had been his mentor, his island in a sea of confusion.

There was an uneasy silence, a stillness in which neither of them spoke or moved. It was as if time had frozen and no words could convey what each wanted to say, yet there was a timeless understanding, the passing of a torch. Lawrence suddenly came to attention and saluted, "General."
Ames came to attention and returned it. "Colonel." Then, they shook hands heartily and it quickly became an equally hearty short brotherly hug. They broke apart as Thomas and the horse's twilight shadows appeared on the tent wall.
"You take care of yourself and these boys," Ames said, picking up the saddlebags.
"I will, General. You take care of yourself."

Ames left the tent, strapped the saddlebags behind the saddle, took the reins from the silent Thomas and mounted the bay. Lawrence was at the open flap, the dull candlelight glowing behind him. It was too dark to see Ames expression, but he knew the General well enough to know there would be a certain sadness in those eyes. He felt an icy emptiness creep in. They had become as close as brothers, a closeness born of the blood and fire of combat.

Ames kicked the horse lightly and the animal moved off at a brisk walk. He kicked again and it broke into a trot. Lawrence watched him ride past the rows of tents and the scattered groups of men settling down for the night, this regiment of farmers, lumbermen and fishermen that called itself the 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry. He knew they had been a bother to Ames, tried his patience beyond the breaking point, but knew Ames was proud of the fact that he had turned the survivors into soldiers. He knew Ames would never forget them, no matter what the unsure future held.

Lawrence sat at his camp desk with the tent flap open to the balmy May twilight. He was finally finished with his daily paperwork and began to wonder anew how the army ever moved under the glut of paperwork expected daily from the officers. He had to deal with more now than his days as a professor at Bowdoin, it seemed. The official paperwork for his, Gilmore's and Spear's promotions had been delayed, but among the first of his new orders was a transfer notice. He would be getting a hundred and twenty men from the 2^nd Maine. According to the orders, there was a recruiting error and these men had signed three-year papers. Those of the 2nd Maine who signed two year papers had been sent home. He knew the army was presently going through a serious drain in manpower as enlistment times were up with the regiments formed early in the war – a war everyone had thought would only last a few months. The Third Brigade was losing their two New York regiments, which left only four - The 16^th Michigan, 44^th New York, 83^rd Pennsylvania and his regiment. With the Twentieth at just less than half strength, the addition of the remnant of the 2^nd Maine would be welcomed indeed. Beyond that, he did not give the transfer order much thought.

The quiet, evening turned his thoughts toward home. In the candlelight he began writing his younger brother, John, as a twilight breeze through the open tent flap teased the candle flame to flickering. With Tom, the youngest of his brothers with him as regimental adjutant, John was their mother’s last hope for a minister in the family, and attending Bangor Theological Seminary just across the Penobscot river from the family home in Brewer.

When he finished, he folded the letter and slid it in an envelope, thinking fondly of John as he addressed it. If John could make the trip, it would be an education in the real world for him. Lawrence put the envelope in the out going mail bag. The bugler blew Taps and the camp began settling for the night. He sat back in the canvas chair looking out the open tent flap at the night, when he saw a shadowy figure heading his way. The figure became Captain Joe Land, the twenty-four year old commander of Company H. As Land reached the tent entrance, he could see several envelopes in his hand.

"Sir, permission to enter," his voice boomed. Land's good friend, Captain Ellis Spear, had described his voice as "like the bulls of Bashan" and was right. "I have mail to go out. Some of the boys were a bit late getting their letters to me and I know it goes out first thing tomorrow."
"Come on in, Land," he said. Land had a smile on his strong-jawed face. His dark eyes sparkled with humor. He saluted. "I am truly sorry to bother you after Taps. Just couldn't beat the bugler."

He returned the salute. "No bother. Everything all right in Company H?"
"Could be better. We're all tired of sitting around while the idiots running this event try to figure things out now that our yearly migration to Richmond seems to have hit a snag at Chancellorsville." He could not help smiling. Captain Land was known for wisecracks. It went with the voice.
"Well, I suspect you'll be hitting the hay early, sir, with our permanent visitors due in tomorrow. Tom says we're getting reinforcements. Second Maine mutineers." He grinned.
"Mutineers?" It was a navy term that took him off guard, but held ominous implications.
"I take it, sir, you haven't heard," Land's expression turned serious. He wasn't joking this time.
"I've heard nothing except we are expecting a transfer of three-year men from the 2nd Maine." A resentment over not being told the full story began to burn deep within him.
"Well, from what I hear, sir, we may be in for a load of hurt. Some of them took the news of their staying on real hard and refused to do their duty. Mutinied, sir. Sat down and refused to obey orders. Could be real trouble. They might try to bust a few skulls around here. The army's got them under guard -- considers them dangerous after that brigade-wide fight last winter during Burnside’s Mud March where they about cleared the field. Must have been something to see. Anyway ... Then, sir, the rumors might be wrong. You know how the army is. You can't believe all you hear. Some of these men gossip more than my old Aunt Agnes. Well, good night, sir." Land saluted. Lawrence returned it. "Good night, Captain." Land left whistling Rally 'Round The Flag.

Immediately he began wondering if it was true. The 2nd Maine men were a contentious lot. The brigade wide brawl during the January Mud March was proof of that. If the rumors were true, he could be in for the first serious challenge to his ability to command.

He had not slept well. He awoke a little before Reveille more tired than he had been when he went to bed. He had a few moments to himself after breakfast and walked back to his tent with a cup of bitter black coffee in hand, enjoying the fresh coolness of early morning. He let his gaze drift across the long shadows of the tents to the green canopies of trees, then, on up to the distant misty blue mountains, wondering when they would be moving out. He also found himself pondering how long Hooker would remain in command now that he, too, had failed the Union war effort with the defeat at Chancellorsville. God only knew who the next commander would be or when the string of defeats would end. The mood in camp was sour at this point over the inactivity, the Chancellorsville fiasco and the never ending incompetence of those in high command.

He went into his tent. "Colonel." Tom's yell broke into his thoughts. He looked out the tent flap and saw Tom running toward him across camp, a paper in hand, looking grim.
"Colonel, sir, we have big trouble," Tom said, coming in and holding out the paper.

"The Corn Exchange boys have brought over the 2nd Maine at bayonet point. They're prisoners, sir. About a hundred and twenty of 'em. Waiting over yonder for you on the road at the edge of camp. These here orders ... oh ... Lawrence ... ah ... Colonel, sir. They say you're to shoot them if they don't obey. But, at this point, I don't think they'd obey Lincoln himself by the looks of 'em."
"What?" He took the paper, read quickly, and saw that Tom was right. It had been signed by General Meade, the 5th Corps commander, a career army man not known for patience.
"Sir, you shoot those boys and you won't be able to go back to Maine when the war is over."
"I know that. I wonder if they have thought of it." He looked at his brother.

"Well, sir, you've got to sign for them. That's why I came to get you. Captain Brewer is in charge of the guard and was real adamant about that." He put the paper on the desk and walked across the camp toward the road with Tom falling in beside him. He had no intention of following the orders to the letter. There had to be a more humane way of handling this situation. He was tired of seeing common civility shredded by this war. These men had been given a raw deal.
"Sir, what are you going to do about them?"
"I don't know, Tom, I don't know. But, I do know I am not going to shoot them. We need them."

They started to pass the picket line where the officers' horses were tied. He paused, picking out his stallion's pale rump among the others. A thought, a plan was forming. Maybe, just maybe, he should ride over to Corps headquarters and talk to Meade, try to convince the general to let him handle the situation his own way, though he did not have a clue, yet, what that would be. He did know Ames would never approve such an action.

It wasn't regular army thinking. But, then, Ames was not around any more. He was now responsible for the regiment. As much as he had learned from Ames, he regarded himself as not wholly regular army in thought and deed. He was a volunteer officer trying to do the best he could and frankly feeling a little insecure at this point. And for the love of God, don't let it show, he told himself.

"Colonel?" Tom's voice brought him back. Tom had gotten ahead of him and turned to face him.
"As soon as I sign for the prisoners, I am going to ride over to Corps headquarters and see if General Meade will let me handle this in my own way instead of arbitrarily solving the problem by shooting first and asking questions later." Lawrence started walking again.

"Do you think that's a good idea? I heard General Meade has got a short fuse. According to General Ames, his staff calls him 'Old Snapping Turtle' behind his back. He might think you're disobeying his orders or challenging his authority and ..."
"Tom, I have no intention of disobeying his orders or getting him mad at me."

"Well, I remember just a couple of weeks ago when you went to General Butterfield to get us out of quarantine and ... well, the soldier's grapevine says you're getting a reputation as an officer who will butt heads with the top brass and ..."
He gave Tom a sharp look. "That was different."

Ahead he saw the guards surrounding unarmed soldiers sitting on the road. The mutineers were mostly big men from around Bangor where the regiment had been recruited. They were dusty and haggard looking in worn uniforms. A captain stood near them in the shade of a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, a sheaf of papers in one hand.

As he approached, the captain looked up. All the guards suddenly came to attention, bayonets glistening in the sun. The captain saluted.
"Captain Brewer, the One Eighteenth, sir." Lawrence returned it. Their eyes met.
"Sir, you have to sign for these here prisoners by General Meade's orders," Brewer said, loudly enough for the mutineers to hear as he passed over the sheaf of papers and a pencil. "He also said you can shoot 'em if they don't obey your orders and refuse to do their duty. They are nothing but trouble, sir. I'm glad you're tak'in 'em."

Lawrence took the papers and the pencil, signed and handed them back. He glanced at the mutineers. He could see all eyes were on him, hard eyes, angry eyes. A voice rose among them, he did not see from where. 
"They are trying to break us, Colonel. But we ain't broke yet, and we won't no matter what you do."
Then another. "They ain't fed us in three days, Colonel."
"You men be quiet, or we'll feed you the bayonet," Brewer yelled and shoved the sheaf of papers and pencil in his half-open coat.
"You're dismissed, Captain," Lawrence said in a low voice.
"Sir?" Brewer blinked, confused.
"We won't be needing guards. You are dismissed," he said with an added edge to his voice.
"Yes, sir." Brewer saluted.

He returned it and watched Brewer and his guard detail start marching away. The mutineers sitting in the road watched, too. Now, they were his responsibility and he felt quite alone in this situation. Almost found himself missing Ames.

"Colonel, do you think sending Brewer away was wise? Remember what they did at the Mud March? Beat the shit out of ..." Tom started in a low voice.
"Tom, you will get them fed while I go talk to General Meade."
"Huh?" Tom's eyes went wide with shock.
"You heard me. It's easier to deal with men whose stomachs are full and it will keep them occupied for the short time I'm gone."  He turned to the men and in a loud clear voice said, "I am Colonel Chamberlain, commander of the 20th Maine. I know you have had a hard time of it. For now, if you will follow the adjutant here, he'll take you over to the cook tent and get you fed. I will be back to talk with you shortly."  He turned to his younger brother who was looking at him as if he had handed him a sack of rattlesnakes. "They're all yours, Lieutenant."

Lawrence headed for the horses without looking back. He heard Tom say, "You fellows follow me if you want to get fed."
When he looked over his shoulder, he saw them getting up and following Tom through camp, all in a strung out line. The men of the Twentieth he passed on his way to the horses had paused in their work to stare at the new arrivals. No one dared say a word of derision to the 2nd Maine men. No one dared make a wisecrack. They knew they were looking upon veterans, many of who had been the first Maine men in the field in 1861, survivors who did not need to prove themselves. The men of the Twentieth had yet to be in their first real stand up fight. The closest they had come so far was being pinned down at Fredericksburg on that terrible hill. As to the remnants of the 2nd Maine, they deserved better than they had been getting from the army. If it was at all possible, he would see that they got it.

He found Prince easily on the line. Like all the officers' horses, the dappled gray stallion was kept ready saddled and bridled, though the girth was loose and the bridle was hung around the stallion's neck so he could easily nibble his hay when hungry. He put the stirrup over the saddle out of the way and tightened the girth, noticing Prince's ears flicked back, curious.
"We are taking a little ride," he said to the horse as he put the stirrup back down. Then he slipped the bit in place and buckled the throat latch of the bridle, untied the lead and mounted. Corps headquarters was only about a mile away, but he was pressed for time. He turned Prince away from the other horses and found acting Lieutenant Colonel Gilmore heading his way. Gilmore, had refused to follow Ames' demand he resign or transfer and was staying on, much to everyone's chagrin. It was all very awkward, but Gilmore did not hold anything against Lawrence; he only complained about Ames being a young upstart pushing his weight around in his quest to be promoted.

Gilmore waved and came over. "Sir, where are you headed?"
"Corps headquarters to see about the 2nd Maine. Keep an eye on them for me. I don't expect to be long. Tom is seeing they get fed."
Gilmore looked toward them, blanched. "My God, where are the guards?"
"Don't need them."
"Sir, I don't think that is advisable. You can't trust ..."
"Colonel, they are not going anywhere. It's time to hold out a carrot instead of applying the stick. But, if they get troublesome, put a guard on them."
"I don't know, sir ..."
"Just keep an eye on them."  He turned Prince away and cantered toward the road.

The Fifth Corps Headquarters tent was easy to spot from the new corps flag flying near it, a blue flag with a white Maltese cross with a red five in its center. A few staff officers were gathered around the front of it. He slowed Prince to an easy trot, then a walk. As soon as he stopped, an orderly came and took the bridle. He dismounted and saw a young captain approaching.

"I am Captain Meade, Adjutant of the Fifth Corps. How can I help you, Colonel," the young officer saluted. He figured he was talking to the general's son. 
"Colonel Chamberlain of the 20th Maine. If General Meade is not too busy, I wish to see him about the 2nd Maine men who were just transferred to my regiment."
"Yes, sir. One moment." Captain Meade disappeared into the tent.

Lawrence stood waiting, looking out on the rows of tents, watching the men go about their daily duties. A voice startled him.
"You're lucky to catch him in one of his better moods today." The voice belonged to a tall, mustachioed colonel with dark eyes, one of the staff officers. Captain Meade came out of the tent. "Colonel Chamberlain, General Meade will see you now, sir."
The colonel smiled as he passed and in a low voice said, "Good luck."
Feeling somewhat apprehensive, Lawrence walked into the tent, and snapped to attention with a salute.

Meade stood at a field desk full of papers and put down his glasses. He was tall but stood slightly bowed with a graying full beard and a receding hairline. His sharp eyes, set in a deeply-lined face with a large Roman nose, gave him the appearance of a tired eagle. "Well, Colonel Chamberlain, I thought I was quite clear with the orders on handling the mutineers of the 2nd Maine." The tone bordered on condescending and the general fixed him with a cold stare, looking him up and down in an appraising manner.

"General, sir, with all due respect, I understand the orders. I have just come to ask your permission to handle this incident in my own way."
The general began to walk slowly around him his eagle glare boring into him. "You are not a graduate of West Point, are you?"
"No, sir."
"Ah, then you must be that college professor General Ames told me about." A faint smile crossed his lips.
"Yes, sir. I taught at Bowdoin for seven years. That seems like a lifetime ago, now."
"What courses did you teach?" The glare was back, but softer.
"Logic, rhetoric, natural and revealed religion, French and German, sir."
"Then I'd say you have quite a lot of experience training young men."
"Yes, General."
"General Ames was quite impressed with you. He told me so while he served on my staff during Chancellorsville. He seems to believe you missed your calling. Why didn't you go to West Point?"
"Sir, I did not feel the peace time army was the place for me and I went to Bangor Theological Seminary instead. Had thoughts of becoming a missionary and going to California at that time in my life. But, I did not hear the call and became a college professor instead."

The general stared at him in silence a moment, then shook his head. "Well, you have my permission to handle this mutiny as you see fit. But, you will make them do duty or shoot them down the moment they refuse. I know Ames must have gone over military law with you. To refuse duty in the face of the enemy is the same as desertion and by army law is punishable by death. Do you understand, Colonel?"
"Yes, General, I understand. Thank you, sir."
"You are dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Lawrence saluted. It was returned and he left. The moment he was outside the tent he sighed deeply, looked skyward and breathed, "Thank you, God."

He rode at an easy canter back to camp. He found the mutineers lounging, eating and talking among themselves under a couple of trees. He walked Prince toward them. He decided to stay on the horse. It was a psychological advantage. Standing off to one side he was glad to see Tom was still keeping an eye on them and that Gilmore had joined him. He went over to the two officers.

"Well, sir, what did General Meade say?" Tom asked.
"I have been given permission to handle this as I see fit. Still, there is the option of the firing squad. An option I intend to avoid at all costs."
"I'd keep them under guard and be prepared to use that option," Gilmore warned.
"Major, these are good men, Maine men from a veteran regiment. They like to brawl, but we need that kind of fighting spirit turned to good use. I think things are going to heat up soon in this war. I want you, Gilmore, to see they are assigned the proper clothing, then assign them in groups to fill out the companies in our regiment. That will break up the esprit de corps they have for further rebellion. Tom, go get the roster and assist him."
"Yes, sir," Tom said and ran for the headquarters tent.

Lawrence turned Prince away and rode to the center of the line of mutineers, gathering his thoughts. As soon as he stopped the horse, the men stopped eating and talking and all eyes were on him. Their stirred up emotions were almost a palpable force, the hate and outrage were that strong. Keep steady, he told himself. For God's sake don't let them even think you are nervous. He tightened his hands on the reins, noticed that his knuckles were white.

"Colonel, we was cheated by a no account recruiting officer," a thin man said. "He tricked us into signing three year papers."
"We didn't sign up to serve with any other regiment but the 2nd Maine and they've gone home," another man called out, his tone venomous.
"Colonel, what you going to do about this?" a powerfully built six-foot private demanded.
"I understand your feelings. This whole affair has been handled badly by the army," Lawrence started.
"You got that damn straight, sir," the big private said.
"I know the fine reputation of the 2nd Maine. But, I have no choice in what I have to do. I can not very well treat you as civilian guests of the regiment. I will put you on duty as I am under orders to do. You will be treated as soldiers should be treated. You will not lose any rights by obeying orders."  He shot a quick glance to the side, saw Tom with the roster and a pencil in hand next to Gilmore. "You have my promise that I will personally see what can be done about your claim. I will write Governor Coburn on your behalf and the War Department. For now, you will be entered on the rolls of the 20th Maine. I'll be honest with you. We need you. We are down to less than half strength. We need experienced soldiers who can fight. We lose another battle like we did at Chancellorsville and we may lose this war. Any day I expect we will break camp to hit Lee. Those of you who want to join us in what may be the last fight go give your names to Major Gilmore. He'll assign you to your companies and see you get your rifles back. Those who continue to refuse their duty will be put under guard and face court-martial and if General Meade has his way that could mean the firing squad."  He paused. "And, gentlemen, I'll certainly appreciate it if you join us in ending this rebellion. Then we can all go home."
He turned Prince away from them and headed back to Gilmore and Tom. "Gilmore, any man who refuses duty, I want him put under guard."
"Yes, sir." Gilmore said, seeming more relaxed.
Lawrence turned in the saddle and looked back at the mutineers. Many were putting their plates down, getting up and heading toward them.
"I don't believe it," Gilmore said.
"The carrot does work, Major. We will apply the stick only if needed." He turned Prince back to the other horses on the picket line.
"Sure wish Ames thought that way," Tom cracked behind him. He found himself smiling at his younger brother's words, and felt relief wash over him. He hoped it was not premature.

Nick Korolev has been a serious student of the Civil War since age 12.  He is  a professional published writer and artist and his interest in the Civil War has provided many subjects for both.  He is author of a Civil War novel entitled Silver Eagles,  about Cols. Ames, Chamberlain and the 20th Maine from the formation of the regiment to Gettysburg.  Silver Eagles was nominated for the 2003 Michael Shaara Award for Civil War Fiction.  He is currently working on a novel about McClellan and Stanton titled The Sword and the Lightning  and a screen play about Brig. Gen William Averell's Salem Raid in December of 1863 currently titled  Averell and the Raiders of the North Wind (winner of the 2004 Screenplay Award at the Appalachian Film Festival).  He is a member of the Civil War Heritage Foundation for whom he portrays Gen. George McClellan and the First  Regiment of West Virginia Cavalry, for whom he portrays Gen. William Averell.  Nick is Secretary for the local Sons Of Union Veterans of the Civil War and recently joined the Falling Waters Battlefield Association.

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