The Bloody Ground. Bernard Cornwell
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wore no badges of rank and had a rifle slung on his left shoulder, both of which suggested he was a private soldier, but he carried himself confidently and had a woman and servant, which suggested he might be an officer and the sergeant was consequently wary. “What’s he done?” Starbuck demanded.
“Being punished,” the sergeant said. He was a squat, bearded man. He was chewing tobacco and paused to spit a stream of yellowish spittle onto the grass. “Sergeant Case’s orders,” he added as though that should be sufficient explanation.
“I know he’s being punished,” Starbuck said, “but I asked what he had done.”
“Being punished,” the sergeant said obstinately.
Starbuck moved so he could see the drawn face of the prisoner. “What did you do?” he asked the man.
Before the prisoner could give any answer the drill sergeant abandoned the companies on the parade ground and marched toward the horse. “No one talks to prisoners under punishment!” he screamed in a terrifying voice. “You know that, Sergeant Webber! Punishment is punishment. Punishment is what will turn this lily-livered rabble of squirrel shit into soldiers.” He slammed to a halt two paces from Starbuck. “You have questions,” he said forcefully, “you ask them to me.”
“And who are you?” Starbuck asked.
The tall sergeant looked surprised, as though his fame must have been obvious. He gave no immediate answer, but instead inspected Starbuck for clues to his status. The presence of Sally and Lucifer must have convinced him that Starbuck was an officer, though Starbuck’s age suggested he was not an officer who needed to be placated. “Sergeant Case,” he snapped. Case’s long neck and small head would have looked risible on any other man, and his ridiculous appearance was not helped by a wispy beard and a thin broken nose, but there was a malevolence in the sergeant’s dark eyes that turned amusement into fear. The eyes were flat, hard, and merciless. Starbuck noted too that Case’s gangly body was deceptive; it was not a weak, thin frame, but lean and muscled. He was uniformed immaculately, every button polished, every crease hot-pressed, and every badge shining. Sergeant Case looked just as Starbuck had imagined soldiers ought to look like before he discovered that, at least in the Confederacy, they were generally ragged as hell. “Sergeant Case,” Case said again, leaning closer to Starbuck, “and I,” he stressed that word, “am in charge here.”
“So what did the prisoner do?” Starbuck asked.
“Do?” Case asked dramatically. “Do? What he did is of no business to you. Not one scrap.”
“What battalion is he?” Starbuck demanded, nodding toward the prisoner.
“He could belong to the Coldstream bloody Guards,” Case shouted, “and it still ain’t your business.”
Starbuck looked up at the prisoner. The man’s face was white with pain and rigid with the effort needed not to show that pain. “Battalion, soldier?” Starbuck snapped.
The man grimaced, then managed to say a single word. “Punishment.”
“Then you are my business,” Starbuck said. He took his folding knife out of a pocket, unsnapped the blade, and sawed at the rope binding the prisoner’s ankles. The motion made the prisoner whimper, but it provoked Sergeant Case to leap forward threateningly.
Starbuck paused and looked up into Case’s eyes. “I’m an officer, Sergeant,” he said, “and if you lay a damned hand on me I’ll make sure you spend the rest of today on this horse. You won’t walk for a goddamn week. Maybe not for a goddamn month.”
Sergeant Case stepped back as Starbuck cut through the last strands of hemp and put a hand under one of the prisoner’s boots. “Ready?” he called, then heaved up hard, throwing the prisoner off the beam. The man thumped onto the damp ground where he lay still as Starbuck crouched and sliced through the rope about his wrists. “So what did he do?” Starbuck asked Sergeant Case.
“Son of a bitch!” Case said, though whether of Starbuck or the prisoner it was impossible to tell, then he turned abruptly and strode away with his companion.
The prisoner groaned and tried to stand, but the pain in his crotch was too savage. He crawled to one of the horse’s supporting trestles and dragged himself to a sitting position, then just clung to the timber. His eyes watered and his breath came in small, stuttering gasps. Even Sally flinched at his evident pain. “Guns,” he finally said.
“Guns?” Starbuck asked him. “What about them?”
“Son of a bitch is stealing guns,” the freed prisoner said, then was forced to stop because of the pain. He clutched his groin, held a deep breath, than shook his head in an effort to banish the dreadful agony. “You asked why I was on the horse? Because of guns. I was on a detail to unload rifles. We got twenty boxes of them. Good ones. But Holborrow made us put them in crates marked CONDEMNED and then gave us muskets instead. Richmond muskets. Hell,” he spat, then momentarily closed his eyes as a spasm of pain made him grimace. “I don’t want to go shooting no Yankees with buck and ball, not if they’ve got minie balls. That’s why I argued with that son of a bitch Sergeant Case.”
“So where are the rifles now?” Starbuck asked.
“Hell knows. Sold, probably. Holborrow don’t care so long as we never go to war. We’re not supposed to fight, see? Just get supplies that the son of a bitch sells.” The man frowned up at Starbuck. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Potter!” A new and angry voice yelled from the headquarters building. “Potter, you son of a bitch! You bastard! You lunkheaded piece of dog shit. You black-assed fool!” The speaker was a tall, lean officer in a braided gray coat who stumped toward Starbuck with the help of a silver-tipped cane. Sergeant Case marched behind the officer, who had a neat blond goatee beard and a narrow mustache that had been carefully waxed into stiff points. He shoved the cane hard into the turf to aid each step and in between he brandished it toward the astonished Starbuck. “Where the hell have you been, Potter?” the officer demanded. “Just where the hell have you been, boy?”
“He’s talking to you?” Sally asked Starbuck in bemusement.
“Hell, boy, are you drunk?” The limping officer bellowed. “Potter, you black-ass lunkhead piece of leper shit, are you drunk?”
Starbuck was about to deny being either Potter or drunk, then a mischievous impulse welled up inside him. “Don’t say a word,” he said quietly to Sally and Lucifer, then shook his head. “I ain’t drunk,” he said as the officer came close.
“Is this how you repay a kindness?” the officer demanded fiercely. He had the stars of a colonel on his shoulders. “My apologies, ma’am,” the colonel touched his free hand to the brim of his hat, “but I can’t abide tardiness. Can’t abide it. Are you drunk, Potter?” The colonel stepped close to Starbuck and thrust his goatee up toward the younger man’s clean-shaven chin. “Let me smell your breath, Potter, let me smell your breath. Breathe, man, breathe!” He sniffed, then stepped back. “You don’t smell drunk,” the colonel said dubiously, “so why the hell, forgive me, ma’am, did you throw Private Rothwell off the horse. Answer me!”
“It was upsetting the lady,” Starbuck said.
The major looked at Sally again and this time he registered that she was a startlingly pretty young woman. “Holborrow, ma’am,” he said, snatching off his brimmed hat to reveal a head of carefully waved gold hair, “Colonel Charles Holborrow at your service.” He gaped at Sally for a second. “I should have known,” he said, his voice suddenly softening, “that you come from Georgia. Ain’t girls anywhere in the world as pretty as Georgia girls, and that’s a plain straight fact. ’Pon my precious soul, ma’am, it’s a fact. The Reverend Potter did say as how his son was married and was bringing his good lady here, but he never did say just how pretty you are.” Holborrow shamelessly leered down to judge Sally’s figure before grasping her hand and giving it a firm kiss. “Sure pleased to meet you, Mrs. Potter,” he said, still holding on to her hand.
“Pleasure’s