Two for Home

Chapter 2-2

Later that night, while the men were celebrating the victory with whores and whiskey, Zach sat alone in his tent, trying to erase the memory of the Rebel colonel’s expression as the rifle ball made a neat hole between his eyes before it blew out the back of his head. Zach had never intended…

Well, as it turned out, firm intentions didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Pa wouldn’t be happy Zach had fired a gun, but he’d be even unhappier with what he’d decided to do now. One of the men he shared the tent with carried a flask of whiskey, and Zach slipped it from his haversack. He was about to take a sip when someone pulled aside the tent flap. Zach wheeled around to find himself facing Lieutenant Marriott.

Hastily, he hid the flask behind his back. “Evening, Lieutenant.”

“Sharps, General Doubleday would like to see you.”

“Who, me?” It was a good thing the lieutenant hadn’t stepped into the tent. “I’ll just fetch my kepi.”

The lieutenant stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll wait for you out here.” The flap dropped down to cover the opening.

Zach blew out a breath. Talk about a close call. He recapped the flask and tucked it away, then caught up his hat and slapped it on his head. He stepped out of the tent, hoping the light had been dim enough that the lieutenant hadn’t seen the flask. “Why does the general want to see me, sir?”

“I wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for you. And you just may have turned the tide for our regiment.”

“I just—” Zach stumbled to a halt, staring open-mouthed at the man in front of him. Zach had thought the lieutenant would take him to the general, not that the general would be standing right outside Zach’s tent.

“So you’re the boy they’re calling Sharps.” The general stood there, his uniform somewhat dusty and his saber at his side.

Zach snapped to attention and saluted. “Uh…I don’t know why anyone would call me that, sir.”

“You’re the drummer boy who kept his lieutenant alive at Sharpsburg.”

“I had to, sir.” Zach kept staring. He’d never been this close to such a high-ranking officer before.

“Other men might not have.”

“Not in the 14th, General.” He shrugged, knowing it was true some men in other companies might have run—in fact had run—but also knowing he was part of a band of men who were fearless, and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even their commander, say otherwise.

“You could have been killed.”

“That’s so, General, but sooner or later we’re all gonna die.”

“That’s a mature philosophy for a lad your age.”

He shrugged again. He’d learned that thanks to his pa, but mostly to Ma’s people. “I couldn’t let that Reb shoot Lieutenant Marriott.”

“Congratulations, Captain. You’ve got a staunch supporter.”

Captain? Zach looked around but only the three of them stood there.

“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said, and Zach realized the general had been talking to him. “I was given a field promotion to captain, Sharps, and I’m proud to announce that you now hold the rank of corporal.”

“I…I do?”

“You’re a good man, Corporal Sharps,” the general said. “I’m proud to have fought with you this day.”

“Thank you, General.”

“I’ll remember you.” He gave Zach—Sharps—a brisk salute, which Sharps hurried to return, shook hands with Captain Marriott, then turned and strode away.

“How are you doing, Sharps?” the captain asked. He raised his hand as if to rest it on Sharps’s shoulder, but then let it drop.

“I was feeling sick earlier.”

“I don’t blame you. The first time I shot a man, I puked all over my boots. And I was a good deal older than you. But let me tell you something, my young friend. Drinking yourself stupid won’t help. It will just give you a bad headache and a sour stomach the next day, and you won’t be fit to go into battle.”

“You saw? You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t want to when the general was nearby. But please, for me, don’t start drinking.”

“All right, Captain.” He liked the way the captain’s rank sounded on his tongue.

“Thank you, Sharps. You saved my life, and I owe you. I’d like to think this is a small way of paying you back.” This time he did pat Sharps’s shoulder. Then he snapped to attention and gave him a salute fit for a general. “Try to get some rest, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir.” Sharps never cried, and he didn’t now, but he felt his eyes begin to burn. “Thank you, sir.” He blinked furiously as he returned the salute once again, then watched the captain turn away to pace the perimeter of the camp. Sharps’s insides felt funny, but he realized it was probably because he’d gotten to meet a general and be promoted to corporal all in the space of a quarter hour.

He went into the tent, where his tentmate had retired for the night and was snoring fit to saw logs. Sharps stripped off his uniform and crawled into his bedroll, and when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see that Rebel colonel’s surprised look.

He saw Captain Marriott’s proud expression.

* * * *

The new nickname went through the camp like wildfire, and by the next day, “Shorty” was a thing of the past, and everyone called him Sharps—this time, even Sharps himself.