courtesy of Dale Gallon

Daylight was breaking over the Mississippi River as Charles and Ian trudged along the path at the top of the levee. Their destination was the east end of the French Quarter, an old boarding house that had been converted into a Confederate Army recruitment center. The irony that the recruiting center was within a long rifle shot of the Union encampment located just up the river at Carrollton, was lost on the two boys.

They had walked by the Confederate camp the previous day to check it out and were amazed that the soldiers went nonchalantly about their business as though Yankee troops were not encamped less than five miles to the north. Tents sprouted in a vacant lot next to the old boarding house like dandelions after a spring shower. Uniformed soldiers stood about, rifles close by, but few at the ready. Two soldiers sat over a small fire, cooking something on a spit. Ian pointed to the pair: "Dah-don't that look lah-like a cat carcass to you," he said. Charles willed the image to retreat and noticed a smattering of civilians going in and out of the boarding house.

"Wah-well, ol' sah-sot," Ian said, "Here wah-we are. Let's go gah-get our sah-soldiering gear and go kah-kill us some Yah-yanks."
Charles wanted to wait a bit and observe the surroundings, but found himself trudging along in Ian's footsteps. Confidence was one attribute Ian had an abundance of, Charles thought as they entered the building. Be nice if he had some common sense to go along with it.
Inside they were directed to the courtyard to the rear of the house and there they got in line behind a tall, lanky man, who looked to be in his early 20s.

"How old do you have to be to get into the army?" Charles whispered to Ian.

"I'm tellin' 'im I-I-I'm sah-sixteen," Ian said. Charles looked up at Ian and encountered his goofy grin. "What does make me look like, nine?" Charles said.

"Tha-they only want mah-men, ya dog-dah-dick! Nah-not Frenchie runts!" he finished with a chuckle.

The man in front of Ian made his mark on a long sheet of paper, said, "Thankee Sergeant," and moved aside. Charles watched as he was directed to a solder who also had an upside down V's on his sleeves.
Ian stepped up and said in a loud voice: "Eh-Ian O'Roarke rah-reporting for duty, Sah-Sir!" He finished by standing at what he thought was attention and popping a salute, which ended up looking like he was trying to shield the sun from his eyes.

The sergeant looked at Ian like he wanted to spit in his eye. "So, ya wanna be a soldier in the best army in the world, do you, Laddie?"
Ian relaxed and nodded his head up and down like a dog with an earful of ticks. "Yah-you betcha. Indeedydo I do."

"So you say you're at least 16. That be right?"

"Sah-sixteen, it is. How'd you know?"

"Sign right cheer," the burly sergeant said, pointing to a long line at the bottom of the page. "Ya git $18 a month and found. You get to do a lot of walking and take in the beautiful countryside and you kin pitch yore half-sheet anywheres ya a mind to. How's that for a deal?"

Without reading the document, Ian signed his name in a perfect cursive script.

"Why, that's a fine hand, indeed," the sergeant said, showing it to a younger, less-secure soldier standing to his right. "I don't think I've ever seen such a pretty handwriting. You'll do fine, Son. Get on with yourself with the sergeant there," he said as he pointed to a solidly fat soldier leaning against the fence, "and he'll get your gear. Welcome to the By God Johnny Reb Army."

Ian jumped out of line and the sergeant leveled his eyes at Charles.
"What ya want, Boy?" the sergeant growled as Charles took a step up to the table.

"My name is Charles Andres and I want to jine up, me," Charles said, his voice cracking.

"We don't take niggers nor runts, in that order. We ain't in that bad a shape yit. Next!" the corporal bawled.

Charles didn't budge. "I ain't no nigger an' I ain't no runt."

"I said 'Next,' now git!" the corporal said, loudly and with meaning.
Charles remained still, his groin pressed firmly against the table.

"I want to jine up and fight Yankees, me," he said, staring straight at the soldier.

Charles felt footsteps behind him and instinctively tucked his neck into his collarless shirt as a protective reflex.

"What's the problem here, Corporal?" a rich baritone voice asked.

Charles glanced over his right shoulder and saw a tall man in a tailored, clean uniform with gold braid, epaulets, and a shiny sword in an ornate scabbard looking down at him. His hair was long, to his shoulders; a mustache perfectly framed his mouth on three sides.

The sergeant snapped to attention.

"No problem, Major. This here quadroon or octoroon tis tryin' to jine up is all. I was just sendin' him on his way."

The major's kind eyes stayed on Charles.

"So, Boy, are you a nigger like the corporal says?"

"No, suh, Major-suh. I's French, me."

"How old er ya be, Boy?"

"Fourteen, suh," Charles said, stretching his age by about 18 months.

"So, you small for yore age, er ya?" the major said, looking sternly.

"All us Andres are small, then we shoot up quick-like. My spurt is about due."

"Sergeant," the major said, "what makes ya'll think this young'un's a nigger?"

"Wah-wah-well, just look at him. He's a half-breed if I ever saw one. Part Messkin and Chinneyman, I suspect, and got some black blood, too. It's obvious, ain't it?"

The major turned back to Charles as he spoke to the corporal. "Did you happen to notice his eyes? Did you ever see blue eyes in a nigger's head? I did once, but it was only one eye and it was just part of that one eye. No, Sergeant, this lad is no nigger. But he's too young to offer up as cannon fodder to the gawddamn Yankees."

He put his hand on Charles' shoulder and gently pushed him out of line.

"Go home, Boy. Go home and thank God that you was not taken in this army this day. Come back when you are much oldah and much biggah."
The major turned to leave, but Charles' voice stopped him: "I'm an orphan. I got no place to go."

Without turning around, the major, his chin seemingly resting on his chest, said, "Then go back to the orphanage. Now. Git away from this camp and when you git where you are going, git down on your knees and pray that you never have to fight in a war such as this. This is a bad-feelin' war, Boy. Go away from this camp. En don't come back."

Charles watched him march off, back straight, left hand on his sword to minimize the swing.

When he disappeared in the shadows of the house's entryway, Charles set his shoulders square and marched after him. He dodged a hand thrown at him by a sentry stuck like a pike to the front door and skidded into the house. The major was halfway up to the stairway to the right, just passing a large portrait of a bloated man with billowy white hair. The man in the portrait looked kindly and evil at the same time.

"Whatcha doin' back, heah, Boy?" the sergeant from the courtyard said from a part of the room that direct sunlight could not reach.

Charles stepped two steps forward and snapped to attention: "Charles Adrien Jean Andres, sir, at your service, I am."

The sergeant walked out of the darkness and spat, the glob of dark brown tobacco juice speckling the cypress plank floor just to the right of Charles' foot. "Go home, boy, go home now. And don't come back around here no more."

Charles felt his arm gripped in a death-claw as he was hustled out the front door and shoved toward the street.

He looked around the camp and thought he saw Ian in a long line of disheveled and uncoordinated recruits, marching down the wagon road toward a tent village barely visible in the distance.

Ce qui maintenat?? Charles thought. What now?