Free The Proud and the Free by Howard Fast

could bluff through that with a tale of guard duty – but the very sight of officers threw me off balance. They were the first I had seen since the day before; then they were my officers, the men who led me; now they were something else. Now they were ranged against me and I was ranged against them, and I carried a warrant in my pocket which would give any one of them justification to shoot me down like a dog.
    I forced myself to walk along without changing my pace, yet I couldn’t help glancing at them, and I noticed they slowed from a canter to a walk and that they were engaged in conversation – in the course of which one of them pointed to me. They must have come over from Kemble; for Wayne, the brigadier general, was among them, and it was he who nodded the agreement that detached one of them to my direction. The rest picked up their canter and went down the Hill Road toward Mendham, and in a few minutes they were hidden by the huts and the rise of ground toward the parade. The one who rode toward me, I recognized as Lieutenant Calvin Chester of the Artillery, the arrogant, pimply-faced son of a Philadelphia merchant.
    He drew his horse up within arm’s length of me, prancing it as was a habit with them, so close that I could smell the toilet water from his lace and see the brown drip of snuff from his nose. He wore a splendid greatcoat of brown, with yellow facings; his riding boots had yellow cuffs and he wore gauntlets of yellow pigskin.
    Stand to attention! he shouted at me. What’s your name and rank?
    I presented arms, clicked my heels where there would have been heels had my torn boots owned any, and staring straight ahead of me, answered, Jamie Stuart, sergeant in the 11th.
    From the corner of my eye, I watched the bobbing heads of Wayne and the others disappear beyond the hutments.
    Sir.
    Sir, I said.
    And what are you doing on the parade with a musket?
    Relieving guard, sir.
    Now that’s a damned lie, said the lieutenant, for I never knew a sergeant to stand guard where there was a private to do his work for him, and much less one of you damned, dirty scuts from the 11th. Let me see your pan.
    I leveled the musket.
    Primed, he nodded, and – with his affected, imitation-English lisp – ’Od’s blood, but we’d be better off if every one of the damned 11th was hanged from the hill. You’re under arrest, Mister. Make an about-face, and we’ll stroll over to the provost.
    Oh, no, I smiled – hitching the musket around and dropping it on the middle button of his fine greatcoat – You are under arrest, and don’t reach for a pistol, or I’ll blow your fat ass out from under you. Just climb down from your horse and hook an arm through the reins, and lead it like you and me was out for strolling, and never a thought of who is gentry and who is dirt.
    You’ll hang for this, he began wildly, but I cut him short, telling him, I have no desire to converse with you or any of yer damned brethren. Just walk ahead until we come to the last of the 1st’s hutments, and then knock at the door.
    There was something in my voice that told him I meant what I said, and he did as I ordered him to. He led me and his horse to the hut and knocked at the door, which Sammy Gruen opened, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and staring in wonder.
    We have a breakfast guest, I smiled, so make him welcome.
    That was all Sammy needed, and the lieutenant entered the hut quicker than he warranted, and dropping the reins of the horse, I followed. There was an oil-paper window in the hut, and by the light I saw the dull, hopeless expression on the lieutenant’s face as he watched the men tumble from their straw and gather round him. Dennis Sullivan, a good lad, but wild and marked for some sort of foolish fate, fingered the greatcoat, stroked the lace, and then pinched the pimply cheeks.
    Do you plan to kill me? asked Chester hoarsely. For if you do, you will swing for it as