Chapter One

Eureka’s crew lined up by the rail, except for the ones carrying our gear. I shook their hands and thanked them, and after the other two put our bags on the dock I thanked them too. They immediately turned around and hurried back up the gangplank, almost running. When I turned around, I saw why.

A uniformed man, a sergeant judging by the stripes on his sleeve, was heading our way. Behind him came four others, armed with muskets or rifle-muskets and with the bayonets already attached. But too late; I could hear the rattle behind me as the gangplank was pulled on board. Captain Matthews grinned at the recruiting party as Eureka drifted slowly away from the dock, responding to the pressure of the long poles wielded by the sailors. “Better luck next time, Sergeant,” I said, my voice pleasant. Not his fault he’d been given this job!

“You two’ll be coming with me, boyo,” the sergeant growled. “Mister Lincoln’s army has need of two strapping lads to fill the ranks!”

“You’ll escort us to your officer, Sergeant.” I told him, the snap in my tone enough to leave no doubt in his mind that we would not help him fill his quota today. “We’ll talk to him, and when we get to where he is you’ll introduce us. My name is Edward Jennings, my companion is Peter Tegener.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. But when I swept back my coat and put my hand on my holstered revolver, he pulled up short. Half a pace behind me, Peter did the same.

“There’s no need for that, Lads,” the sergeant said, alarmed. “You’ll find out soon enough that the carrying of pistols by civilians is frowned upon in the city of New York!”

“You’re armed, Sergeant,” I pointed out. “Your men too, but I’ll not argue with you. You’ll do as you were told and escort me to your officer! Now!” At the snap of command in my voice, he straightened to the position of attention; behind him, his four privates slammed the steel-shod butts of their muskets to the dock planking and held the weapons upright and at their side, as they’d been taught to do when addressed by an officer. The sergeant had become accustomed to drafting newly-arrived immigrants into the army, but we were clearly different. And likely to cause him far more trouble than we were worth if he continued as he’d begun! The obvious solution? Since we wanted to speak to an officer, let him decide what to do with us!

Fifteen minutes later, he handed us off to a lieutenant, who brusquely dismissed him to his duties. The lieutenant then transferred us to a captain, who provided us with an escort to take us to the office of the detachment’s commander, Major Fessman.

“Raise a regiment and you’ll be an instant colonel, Mister Jennings,” Fessman said. “But as for commissions…” he stopped for a moment, thinking. “There is one possibility, but I’ll not be sending you on until you explain to me why you believe yourself qualified to lead soldiers.”

“We both have militia experience,” I said, “we speak Spanish, and Peter speaks German as well. You’ll have need of linguists, if not now then later on when you start running short of men.”

“As you say,” he acknowledged, “but that’s in the future if it happens at all. There has been talk of raising colored regiments, but nothing’s come of it and I doubt anything will. They’ll not fight, you know.”

“They will,” I said. “Not too many months ago, two colored men pulled our fat out of the fire! There was a rebel patrol heading straight for us, and if those two hadn’t warned us—they shot at least one out of the saddle before the rebels were ready to attack—I don’t like to think about what might have happened. Three of us, with women and children to watch out for, and seven of them?”

“Not good odds,” the major agreed. “What else?”

“I ran one of the biggest spreads in Texas and owned my own ship at one time,” I told him.

“Ah, Texas! You’re not the first to join up! Even so, the general will want to interview you personally. He’s looking for experienced officers who’ve smelled powder smoke and he may want proof of what you say. But that would be his decision. Orderly!”

The orderly reported and led us out. A different orderly was already waiting to speak to the major, and he carried a thick folder of papers that would have to be dealt with. Yesterday. Or possibly last week. The recruiting office was busy and the major looked, if not quite overwhelmed, barely able to keep his head above the sea of paperwork.

“One word before you go in, Sir,” the orderly said, “don’t let General Stevens’ appearance fool you. In fact, it’s best if you don’t show surprise at all.” I looked at Peter, who shrugged. The orderly turned us over to the military version of a secretary, who told us to wait and pointed to a corner that held several mismatched chairs.

We waited for an hour, while the general presumably dealt with more pressing issues. The secretary did send an orderly to bring us coffee, which was at least hot and black though no self-respecting chuckwagon cook would dare offer such weak stuff to men heading out to work!

We’d barely finished the coffee when the orderly came back and escorted us into the general’s office. I hid my surprise when he stood up to shake our hands, though it was an effort. Brigadier-general Stevens was a dwarf! I finally understood what the orderly had meant when he advised that we show no surprise! Stevens was not malformed, as some are, but so short he barely came up to my chin! Five feet tall, I estimated, possibly a bit more, but there was nothing short about his handshake or his manner! “Are you strong in character?” he snapped out. “Do you think yourself able to replace my brave men who were killed or wounded in battle? Have you faced enemy fire? I need experienced officers, gentlemen, and I have no time for men who might fail me! If I don’t find them soon, my 79^th infantry regiment will be broken up and the men sent to other units! I’ll not have it! I have a brigade to form and little time in which to do it, and my Highlanders of the 79^th New York Volunteer Infantry will be a part of it or I’ll know the reason why! Well?”

I explained who we were, and he nodded when I mentioned the two ranches I’d managed in Texas, starting from the time I was barely a teenager. I also mentioned that we spoke Spanish.

“I’d be the last to scoff at language skills,” he said. “I found Spanish useful during the fighting in Mexico, but I’m more interested in the militia experience you mentioned. What do you know of maneuvers? Can you drill raw recruits to the point that they’ll stand in the line without panicking? Can you stand? The men are no better than their officers! If you hang back, so will they!”

“We’ve fought,” I said. “Matter of fact, we’re here because of a fight, just not the kind of stand-up battle you mentioned. We braced six rebels in Corpus Christi, just the two of us, and Peter struck the leader with his fist! After that, we started shooting and so did they. I don’t know if Peter shot first or if I did, but we both emptied our pistols into them. By the time it was over, Peter had been shot and four rebels were dead. I heard later on that the other two survived, wounded, but whether they died later of wounds I can’t say.”

General Stevens nodded at that and held up his hand for me to stop talking. “Two against six? You’re either the kind of brave men I need or damned fools! I’m sending you to Lieutenant-colonel Morrison, the 79^th’s commanding officer, and recommending to him that he offer you a captaincy, Mister Jennings, and Mister Tegener a lieutenancy. He needs company commanders and lieutenants. I may see you again, but for now Colonel Morrison’s needs must take priority. You ride, I assume; can you afford to purchase personal mounts?” I assured him that we could, and Stevens dismissed us. We had barely stepped back from his desk before he was back working on a document, one of many on his desk.

“Is he always like that?” I asked the clerk as he led us away.

“The general has no time for pleasantries, gentlemen,” he said, “and if Colonel Morrison accepts you, you won’t either!”

“Is it as bad as I’ve heard, that the rebels are winning?” I asked.

“Bad enough,” he confessed. “They’ve won most of the fights on land, but the Navy has just about got them bottled up from what I hear. As for the fighting, our men have fought well, but in the last one we never had a chance. At Secessionville, it was, and we were ordered to charge straight into the rebel guns. The rebels held the field and we were forced to withdraw, but at least we got our colors back.”

“The rebels captured your colors?” I asked in amazement.

The clerk hesitated, realizing that he might have said too much, but then responded. “General McClellan took them from us.”

“Keep going,” I said. “Generals don’t take away a unit’s colors unless there’s a damned good reason!”

“It happened after Bull Run,” he reflected. “The men fought well; we lost about one in five of our men during that fight, even serving as the rear-guard for two units that had abandoned the field. We did that, despite our own Colonel Cameron being killed. We were one of three militia regiments that lost their commanders that day, and the only one that didn’t break.”

Peter looked at me and I looked back. I figured he was asking himself the same question I was; how had they kept on fighting after losing 20% of their men, including their commanding officer? If the other regiments had lost that many or possibly even more, it was no wonder that their men had run away from the fight! “This fight where you regained your colors; how bad was it?”

“We lost one in four, Mister Jennings.” He was proud that the regiment had performed well, but sorrow was also reflected in his expression.

Peter and I just looked at each other in amazement. “You said the men fought well? So why did General McClellan take your colors?”

“It happened after Bull Run,” he said. “Some of the men were ready to go home because they’d only enlisted for three months. Many others had fallen, of course, but since their time was up, the ones who were still serving took their discharges and left. But the rest of us had signed up for three years, and considering the fighting we’d already done, it didn’t seem fair that they could go while we had to stay. The other thing was that as militia, we’d always elected our own officers. The regiments who ran at Bull Run quit because their colonels weren’t up to the job, so we figured to do what we’d done before, pick someone from our ranks who would see to our drill before the fight and not run away at the first smell of powder smoke! We considered ourselves a crack unit, despite the losses, with good reason to be proud!

“But when we were told we couldn’t even elect our own commander, it just felt like we were being punished for no reason. And then the Army appointed Colonel Stevens to command us and… well, you’ve seen him. That was before we knew anything about him, you see, except that he had been a politician before rejoining the Army. Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll not hold an honest opinion against you.”

“The Army had regular officers in command, but the new regiments were officered by men of wealth and influence. Governors appointed them because they were the only ones with the money to equip a new unit. And of course, if they paid they felt themselves entitled to command. To be honest, some did very well, but many did not. Anyway, we made up our minds to pick one of our own instead of General Stevens and let the governor approve the appointment like always. But the army called it mutiny, and that’s when General McClellan took our colors away. He said we no longer deserved them.

“After that, we were put to work around Washington, digging trenches and building strongpoints. I was first sergeant of B company and commander of the 2^nd platoon up to then, but I ruptured myself while we were building a redoubt. It had been raining and it was muddy, so when two of us tried to lift a half-barrel of earth, I slipped and ended up underneath when it fell. The regimental surgeon thinks he might be able to do something for me, but so far he’s not had the time. Too many seriously wounded, too few surgeons, and to be honest I ain’t sure I want him to operate on me after what he said!”

“Oh?” I asked. “What did he say that you’re so worried about?”

“He said that sometimes it’s necessary to castrate the patient! If it means I have to keep wearing that leather rig to hold my gut in, then that’s what I’ll do. But I ain’t giving up my balls! As soon as I was able to be up and around, I heard that Colonel Stevens needed someone who could read and write well. I volunteered, so he made me his clerk. It’s not much of a job after being a company first sergeant, but at least I’m still in the fight.”

***

“I really do need company officers,” Lieutenant-colonel Morrison confirmed. “What do you know of infantry drill?”

He’d asked me the question, so I responded. “I’ve drilled a militia company of dragoons in Texas as second-sergeant. We figured to ride horseback on our way to the fight, dismount after we got there, and march the rest of the way in column.”

“And then what?” he asked.

“Deploy into line, or if there were terrain features that kept us from advancing as a line, we practiced forming staggered double lines.”

“You did all this as a sergeant? Where were your officers?” Morrison asked.

“They left to join the rebel army,” I explained, “not that they’d ever conducted company drill anyway. Jeff Bell was our first sergeant, but he mostly handled administration. The rest was left up to me. Eventually I left too, but for a different reason. I joined up to fight Indians, for one thing, but there was something else that stuck in my craw. Our company was likely to be taken into the Confederate Army and I don’t hold with slavery. My pa fought in the Revolution and after Texas joined the Union, he died down in Mexico fighting for that same Union. In Mexico, not in Texas, because without Union help Santa Anna would have come back. And the next time, he’d have had more men and cannons.

“Anyway, when it looked like we were going to be sent off to the east to fight against the same men that saved Texas, I made up my mind to be done with fighting, especially not for people that had started a war so that they could own others! I figured to let them that wanted to fight for the Confederacy have at it. I had plenty to do, just working on my ranches, and if the Comanches came back, Texas would need fighters to protect the women and children. That was what I intended to do, and I would have except that there was some trouble.”

“Keep going, Captain. What kind of trouble?”

I couldn’t tell whether Morrison believed me or not—there were times I had trouble believing it myself, and I’d lived through it—so I plowed on. “A rebel sergeant showed up with a detail and told me he was taking my horses for his army. If he’d offered to pay me, even in Confederate money, I probably would have sold them, but he also told me and two of my friends that we were conscripted into his army! He said that after we delivered the horses, we’d be sent off east to the war! Who would protect our families then? But he wouldn’t listen to reason and well…he just wasn’t up to it.”

“Don’t stop now, Captain,” Colonel Morrison said. “You’ve definitely got my interest!”

“They called the tune, Colonel, we just collected for the piper. Some of my employees showed up right after that and took care of the bodies, but after a while the rebels sent an officer to find out what had happened to their men. Turns out that sergeant was supposed to buy the horses, but it could be that he intended to keep the purchase money for himself. I hoped that was the end of it, but then some others showed up wanting to know what had happened to him. That was when I knew that there was no way out of it except to leave, so I did. Told my crew what I had in mind and packed up my family, Peter’s wife too, because she’d been taking care of my son since right after he was born. I arranged to sell my property and we headed west to the New Mexico Territory. I figured to look around, either claim or buy land for a ranch, and start over. We would have made it too, except that a rebel patrol caught up to us just before we got to the Rio Grande.”

“And you killed them too, I suppose?”

I could see that Morrison was ready to change his mind about us, so I finished the story. “This time we had help. A pair of colored men showed up in time to break up the attack, and a good thing that they did! Otherwise, our fat would sure-enough have been in the fire. They were shooting from a low rise, dismounted, and the rebels were shooting from horse-back with pistols. We were more than 100 yards away, so they missed. Peter stood up in the wagon bed and started shooting from there—we intended to camp where they caught up to us—and the two coloreds kept on shooting. They had already killed one or two, I fetched a few more, and the other man in our party got at least one. Peter’s wife had a shotgun loaded with buck and ball, so she might also have downed some. After the fight, while we were thanking the coloreds, one of them told Peter his father had been killed. He’d overheard two rebels talking about it in Mesilla. It is, or maybe was, the capitol of Confederate Arizona, so the papers printed reports from Texas, which is where it happened.

“Nick, the third man in our party—he might well have married my niece by now—took Peter’s wife and the children on to Socorro while Peter and I headed down to where the fight had happened, figuring to find out what had become of his father’s body. The rebels were heading back to Texas by that time, and anyway they wouldn’t have bothered two women and a couple of kids. My little boy was only a year old then. If bandits tried…well, Nick knows how to handle himself in a fight.”

“You left your son back there, and Mister Tegener left his wife? Gentlemen, I’m…”

“We couldn’t go back, Colonel,” I interrupted him. “We’d have had to fight our way through Indian country, Confederate patrols too, and by then Peter was recovering from being shot. We couldn’t stay in Texas and we wouldn’t be able to go back to New Mexico Territory until after the war was over. That was when we made up our mind that the best thing for us to do was fight for the Union. Here we are, if you still want us I mean.”

He sat there for a while, obviously thinking it over, but finally he decided to give us a chance. “See the quartermaster about uniforms, Captain. Tell him you’ll also need mounts, tack, and the prescribed weapons for officers. He’ll arrange to get what you need, but you’ll need to pay for your own mounts and tack. The Army provides them for regular officers and cavalry, but we’re volunteer infantry and officers supply their own personal mounts. It was a requirement when the regiment was created, and it hasn’t changed since. Have you ever drilled with swords?”

We both shook our heads no, so he went on. “I wouldn’t worry about infantry sword drill for now, because you won’t have the time. In fact, some of the cavalry units have stopped using theirs, preferring to arm themselves with two pistols! The only time I’ve used mine was when I was leading an attack. The men see the sword and they understand that I’m an officer, even if they don’t recognize me in all the smoke and dust. That’s what you’ll do with yours, wave the men on with it. Take the rest of the day to settle in. Tomorrow morning, I expect you both here early, in uniform and ready to work. That’s when I’ll introduce you to your company sergeants, Captain. You and Lieutenant Tegener will be C Company’s only officers. Even so, I expect your company to be ready to fight when called on. Questions?”

We had none and were ready to leave when he added one final bit of instruction. “You can keep your personal pistols, gentlemen, but pack your Texas belts and holsters away until after the war. Starting tomorrow, you’ll wear a regulation belt with a flap holster, cap box, and ammunition box. Dismissed.”

 

Chapter Two

The quartermaster swore no new uniforms were available, but he had several that had once been spare uniforms of men now dead. The colonel had given us no leeway, so we accepted the uniforms. The quartermaster, a private soldier designated like the Adjutant as a Warrant-Over-Grade, almost smirked at our hesitation and I decided right then that he would bear watching.

Company C, our new assignment, had no other officers at present, but did have several capable sergeants. One directed me to the company tailor to have the uniform trousers taken in at the waist and hinted that the man would expect to be paid, since we were officers. I did, and a short time later the uniforms were done.

The company First Sergeant was wrinkled, gray, and elderly, in no shape to keep up with marching troops. He was, however, extremely knowledgeable of Army reports, which explained why he hadn’t been dismissed. He also kept an up-to-date file of routine orders and regulations, including a listing of supplies that soldiers were supposed to be issued ‘when available’. Even better, after a brief talk, he handed me a wooden box. It had formerly held hardtack, but now it contained several tactical manuals. When I asked, he explained that they’d formerly been the property of regular officers. “I collected them from their baggage, Captain. They didn’t need ‘em and I figured that sooner or later, we would get someone like you. No offense, Sir, but you never went to West Point, and I doubt we’ll see very many of them that did from now on, leastwise not commanding companies. Men that were captains and company commanders last month are colonels today, and some are generals.”

I thanked him and caught up with Peter, now assigned as my company First Lieutenant. He was my only lieutenant, which might be a good thing in the long run. I wouldn’t have to retrain an officer who might resent not getting the command. “The first week is critical,” I told Peter. “We can always ease up later, but during the first week the men are going to be watching us closely.”

“Ed—Captain, I mean—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

“I’m not sure myself,” I admitted. “I’ve got the books, but I won’t have time to study what’s in them before tomorrow. Soon as I figure out what I need to do, I’ll loan the books to you. What I do know how to do is what we did when I was the militia company’s second sergeant! Drill the men until they can advance in column, deploy into line, and fix bayonets. You should also remember that much, so tell your platoon sergeant to give the commands while you watch. If the men get confused, yell halt as loud as you can, sort them out, and try again. Speak slowly, so that they understand what’s wanted. Practice forming column of twos, forming column of fours, and deploying into line will get you through the first day. If your sergeant seems competent, then ask him for help. Better to ask than show your ignorance! If he’s not willing to help you while you’re getting started, then pick another one to replace him. Line the men up and walk down the line, asking questions. If you find one that seems to know his business, make him a corporal. If he does a better job than the sergeant, bust the sergeant to corporal and make the corporal your sergeant. I’ll back your decisions.

“I’ll have the bugler blow reveille early, and after that I’ll dismiss the men to their breakfasts. Expect an hour for that…the First Sergeant tells me that should be enough time for them to cook their rations, eat, and clean up…and as soon as they’re done, we will muster them for drill. I figure two hours for squad drill, with your sergeants and corporals in charge of their squads. Short break, no more than half an hour, then two hours for platoon drill. By then, I’ll know what’s needed. If they seem to know what they’re doing, I’ll try maneuvering the company. Form-column on command, advance to the front, right-turn and left-turn commands, flank marches, and counter-march. If there’s a problem, that’s when it will show up.”

Peter just nodded. He’d done the exercises back in Texas, but he’d never been in charge. The first question that had to be settled was, could he maintain order in his new position? Would the sergeants and corporals obey his orders, or would they slack off?

I figured we would find out tomorrow.

***

The first platoon’s senior sergeant, a man named Bennett, was young, but there was no question that he knew what he was doing. During the break between squad and platoon drill, I complimented him on having done a good job. On one occasion, he’d turned his first squad over to the corporal and walked over to the second squad to talk to the sergeant. After that, second squad repeated first squad’s evolution by sending out skirmishers to the flank to guard the imaginary platoon or company behind them. After three exercises, the sweating men doubled to where they were supposed to be and returned to their squad with no delay when ordered. “Permission to speak, Captain?” Sergeant Bennett asked.

I nodded, so he went on. “Sir, you and the lieutenant just need to tell us sergeants what you want the men to do. We’ll see that they follow orders, and if they shirk their duties we know how to deal with them. That’s how our last captain conducted drill. Going into battle is different, Sir. Some captains wave their hand, some wave their swords, but the one thing you can’t do is try to command the company by voice. Too much noise to hear commands, too much dust and smoke to see clearly; but if you’re holding your sword up in the air there’s a good chance we’ll see it.”

I made up my mind to follow his advice. After dismissing the company, I walked through the company area to get an idea of what my company was like when no one was giving orders. When men started to stand up, I simply waved them back to what they’d been doing.

I listened as they prepared their suppers, and wondered. Griping was to be expected, but the bitter tone of so much of it bothered me. What I saw was also troubling, and not at all what I would have expected; tents with holes, worn-out shoes, and two men who appeared to have no shoes at all! I concluded that this would never do. I had money on deposit with the regimental paymaster and if necessary, I would spend some of it buying shoes for my men. Not through some misguided sense that I could supply the Union Army, but because a man with no shoes might stumble going into a fight. Thorns, grass burrs…Even a small thing like that could cause the company to lose cohesion. But first, I needed more information.

When I asked First-sergeant Ferguson about what I’d found, he confirmed that the company hadn’t been getting the prescribed equipment and for that matter, adequate rations. He kept his expression stiff and wouldn’t meet my eyes, which made me realize that he’d already noticed the same things I had. “Let’s find the quartermaster,” I said, while barely keeping my anger in check. “Maybe he knows what’s going on.”

Ferguson nodded and led the way to the quartermaster’s tent. Right away, I noticed that it appeared almost new, the canvas barely faded, and with no holes. I looked at Ferguson and he just shrugged. “Every quartermaster in the army does that, Captain. When new supplies come up, he takes his pick and issues what he had before to the men. Some men always seem to have better equipment, some always seem to have worn-out gear.”

I filed that away in my mind, because if Ferguson was right, the men who weren’t getting a fair shake would always be that little bit resentful. They might not shirk, but they wouldn’t be up front either. I decided to talk to Lieutenant-colonel Morrison before I did anything. For all I knew, this might be army custom and stirring things around would do more harm than good.

“Let’s take a walk,” Morrison said. “General Stevens mentioned this at one time, back when he was the colonel and I was a major. But then he got pushed up to brigade, so nothing came of it. I hear he’s soon going to be in command of a division. That might happen, it might not…armies can make up more rumors than two dozen ladies’ sewing circles! But there’s no question he did a good job in a bad situation at Secessionville, so maybe this rumor is right.”

The sentry challenged us and called his sergeant. In true army style, the sergeant notified a lieutenant that a battalion commander wanted to speak to him, and soon we were allowed into General Stevens’ tent.

He listened to Colonel Morrison, then looked at me. “You’re the one noticed this?”

“Yes, Sir. But I didn’t intend to bother you with it,” I said nervously.

“Nor should you, Stevens agreed. “But as it happens, morale is, or at least should be, of concern to every officer. Colonel, can we agree that officers are supposed to solve problems rather than bother their commanders with them?”

Morrison might have been smiling—the tent was poorly lighted by a single candle—but he nodded. That I could see.

“Captain, in addition to your other duties, I’m appointing you as assistant brigade quartermaster. Spend most of your time with your company, but in the afternoon I desire that you do what’s needed to improve morale. I’ll back any reasonable decisions you make. Colonel, I’d like you to stay for a minute longer. Captain Jennings, you are dismissed.”

***

I wanted to complain, but I didn’t get the chance, not even to Peter because he’d also been given an additional assignment. “You’re a part-time general’s aide-de-camp? I thought colonels were supposed to talk to captains before they did things like this!”

“The general needed a messenger, the colonel decided I should be the one,” Peter shrugged. “It kind of makes sense, because I’ve got a horse and I know how to ride. Some of the other lieutenants…well, they’re a lot of things, but riders they’re not, and that’s the other part of my detail. I have to start a riding school for lieutenants who’ve never ridden a horse, but whose families got them commissioned and assigned as aides!”

We commiserated over half a flask of whiskey that Peter had acquired in some mysterious fashion, then went our separate ways. I saw little of Peter during the remainder of our time in camp. Either I was off conferring with other captains, or Peter was away teaching equitation to lieutenants or carrying messages for General Stevens. We’d sometimes have a few moments when our orderlies brought us breakfast, but no more than that.

I got little enough sleep, and Peter likely got less. But I did have several orderlies, selected with the help of Sergeants Bennett and Ferguson. Reliable men, not likely to gossip, which was important because it soon became obvious that the brigade had a problem. Simply put, our men were not getting their fair share of rations and equipment. And not just the quartermasters were involved, but also the brigade quartermaster-officer, who at the very least should have been supervising more closely.

Two weeks later, I decided I had enough information. But I was still a very new captain, unsure of the limits of my authority, so I asked Colonel Morrison if he had a few minutes. He did, so I laid out my findings and asked him, “Colonel, are you acquainted with Lieutenant Schmidt?”

He looked at me for a moment and I wondered if I’d stepped into something I should have avoided, but then he nodded. “Nephew of Judge Elliott, I believe. Political connections, which is how he became a lieutenant. The appointment was made by General McClellan, or at least it came from his office. Why?”

“He’s been selling army equipment and rations and pocketing the money, most of it anyway. I’m guessing that most, perhaps all, of the other company quartermasters are getting a share of what’s left after Sanderson takes his off the top. Otherwise, one of them might have turned him in by now.”

“It’s a common problem, Ed,” Morrison said, “almost impossible to stamp out. What do you propose to do about it?”

“How much authority do I have, Colonel?” I asked.

“Official authority? Not much,” he confessed, his expression wintry. “Unofficially, as much as you’re willing to take. Keep in mind that you’re going to ruffle some important feathers and later on, what you do may cause you problems. But…” he stopped, thinking of what he wanted to say. “How much do you know about General Stevens?”

“He’s a brigadier general,” I shrugged. “Very positive man, very decisive.”

“He’s all those things, and more,” Colonel Morrison said. “Very intelligent, graduated first in his West Point class, and he’s also a highly-regarded mathematician. He was badly wounded outside Mexico City and after the war, he was appointed first Governor of Washington Territory. You never heard any of this?”

“Hearing it now for the first time,” I confessed, “but maybe that explains a few things.”

“You’re thinking about his size,” Morrison demurred. “Don’t let that fool you. He’s an excellent rider and in action, he’s brave as a dozen lions. If the war lasts long enough and if he doesn’t get himself killed first, he’ll wind up commanding general of the army. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get elected president after that.”

“That’s—interesting,” I agreed. “But what does it have to do with my authority?”

“The general, back when he was governor, had questions too,” Colonel Morrison said. “About the limits of his authority to deal with the Indian question in Washington Territory, and later on some other issues. He tried making peace with the tribes at first, and when that didn’t work he raised his own army and not only whipped the Indians in several fights, he hanged at least one of their chiefs. Later on, when the Territorial Judge and another man tried to bring charges of exceeding his authority and contempt of court against him, he pardoned himself. Does that answer your question, Captain?”

It did. The only question now was, did I have the guts to do what Governor Stevens had done?

I didn’t get much sleep that night, still thinking about what I intended to do, but by morning my mind was made up. The general had told me to improve morale and I resolved to try. As for whether it might cause me trouble later on, I put that out of my mind. The way the war was going right now, there might not be much of a later-on for any of us. I told Peter that he was in charge of the company until I got back, and that I was leaving Sergeant Bennett to help him. Ferguson I would take with me.

“How long will you be away, Ed?” Peter asked.

“That’s a good question, Peter. Depending on how things go, I might not be coming back!” He nodded, so I found Sergeant Ferguson and told him to bring his platoon; we were going visiting. “I’ll want half a squad with me. You’ll take half a squad, your corporals will each take half-squads, and after you execute your orders we’ll meet back here at Company C headquarters.”

He just nodded at that, so I told him what he and the other NCOs would be doing. “One hour from now, I want each detachment to be waiting outside the tent of one of the regiment’s quartermasters. You’ll decide which NCO should go where. Acting under my orders, he will place the company quartermaster under close arrest and not allow him to speak to anyone. The quartermasters will be brought to me, and tell him to leave a reliable man to make sure that if there are records they don’t mysteriously take wings. The quartermasters have clerks, so have the man you detail to the task tell the clerks that they’re to do nothing without my orders. They’ll sign for no rations or equipment, they’ll issue none, and if the records aren’t available they’ll regret the day they were born before I finish with them. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir. Sir, what will you be doing?”

“I intend to arrest the brigade quartermaster myself—he might be the commissary officer, not that it makes a difference—and try him for dereliction of duty. I’ll prosecute and the other company commanders will judge. I’m pretty sure I don’t have the authority to execute him, but I intend to reduce him to the ranks. As for the company quartermasters who should have been issuing those rations and equipment to the men, I’ve been reading up on punishments. Ever been bucked and gagged, Sergeant? Ever been on bread and water for a week?”

“No, Sir. Sir, which sentence are you going to impose?”

“Both, but I’ll release them, mine at least, from being bucked and gagged after he’s had time to think about his misdeeds. The other company commanders will decide for themselves. They’ve been stealing from the general’s men, they all have, and worse, one of them has been stealing from my men! If he squawks, tell him I’m considering whether to just hang him outright and be done with it! And even after a week on piss and punk, I intend that he be assigned to the worst duties I can think up. But don’t tell him that; just tell him that I’m favoring a hanging, with the men he’s cheated hauling on the rope!”

“Yes, Sir!”

 

Chapter Three

I had heard of bucking and gagging, in which the offender was tied so that he couldn’t move and gagged to keep him from even crying out from the pain, but I’d never seen it done. The only redeeming feature was that unlike branding on the forehead or being lashed, the results did not leave visible scars. Mental scars were another matter, but no one who experienced the ordeal wanted to incur it again. And unlike worse punishments, he would be able to resume work after a brief period of working out the kinks in cramped muscles. It was a clear lesson for others, too. I marched my company past, single file, and stood by the quartermaster as they looked at him, and at me. I kept my face rigid, no anger, nothing. Just the face of Army discipline, cold, harsh, and unforgiving. They might not have heard his whimpers, but I did.

Four hours later, I ordered him untied. The men that did so pulled on his ankles and shoulders until he could stand. I watched impassively as he saluted, turned, and hobbled away. That night, he got a loaf of bread and a mug of water for supper, signaling to him and the rest of the company that his punishment was not yet over. The men who’d felt pity before now understood that their issues of new equipment and better rations had been sold by this man and his accomplices. This punishment, what the men called piss and punk, clearly fit the crime.

Routine continued the following morning with reveille, after which the men were released to breakfast. The former quartermaster got a loaf of bread and a mug of water. By the end of the week, some had started saving a slice of bacon or mug of coffee which they slipped him when the sergeants and corporals weren’t looking. This, too, was part of the punishment, where anger was changed to forgiveness. He had not been reassigned to a squad during the time of his punishment; instead, he marched alone behind the first squad, which as company commander I led directly. He repeated the movements of the squad, took part in other exercises, but was excluded from the comradeship which made the men into a unit that would fight for their fellow soldiers.

I’d learned that from Colonel Morrison. “Edward, patriotism causes a man to volunteer,” Morrison said. “Training, backed up by discipline, keeps him in line between fights. But when the bullets begin to fly, a man fights for the man who’s there by his side. They must all feel that way, because as soon as the first man runs away others will follow. That must be your goal as commander, Edward. Make them into a brotherhood, such that each will face his own death without retreating but will not abandon his brother!”