Free Soldier of the Queen by Max Hennessy

didn’t slap against the leathers.
    Cluseret’s headquarters had a Gallic air about them. A glee club was singing somewhere in the darkness and they could hear a violin going. Cluseret himself was tall with a pale skin, black hair and beard, and he possessed the sort of coarsely-handsome face that must have made him a favourite with women.
    He spoke English with a racy style, chewing all the time at a cheroot held in the corner of his mouth, and willingly discussed his plans for the coming action. Two of his aides, both Frenchmen with moustaches, imperials, wide-skirted coats and the pegtop trousers the French favoured, brought out a map and spread it on a table made of planks and barrels. ‘We are ’ere,’ Cluseret said, pointing. ‘Tomorrow we will move west. Their left, which outflanks our right, will then be ’anging in the air, while we get round their rear.’
    There was a chilly lack of appeal about him that repelled Colby, and his plans were lazy and indifferent, while there was a clear carelessness in the way he was moving his troops, because by this time his cavalry must have been ten miles away, and his brigade was strung out with great gaps in it that could be hit anywhere by the enemy.
    ‘Suppose they move first?’ Colby suggested. ‘Wouldn’t that enable them to leave your left hanging in the air?’
    ‘Pooh!’ Cluseret snapped his fingers. ‘These Americans know nothing of war! They know nothing of anything, in fact. Their wine is tart. Their food consists only of fried meat. Their bread is dreadful. And their music is the sort a peasant from the Ardennes makes on a Saturday night at the café. They are totally devoid of taste.’
    He gestured contemptuously. ‘They will never move to my right. The ’ills are in the way and they ’ave been too-tooing on their bugles for two days over on the left. In any case, it is a matter of indifference to me ’oo wins this ridiculous war. All I want from it are my naturalisation papers.’
    It was a cynical attitude, and with the Southern army diminishing, it seemed to Colby that Cluseret was over-looking the fact that the Southerners had nothing to lose by taking risks.
    As evening approached, the crows disappeared and a curious lull seemed to fall across the land. In the distance, they could hear the high-pitched wail of an engine as a train brought up more men. There had been a little skirmishing during the day among the outposts and the ambulances were taking away the few wounded, while the surgeons commandeered the sutlers’ canteens, laying out their instruments and cleaning the counters, so that when the battle started they could do their operations and amputations there.
    The camp settled for the evening, and tents began to glow from the lanterns inside. The glee club was singing again in the darkness – ‘Was My Brother In The Battle?’ and ‘When This Cruel War is Over’ – then suddenly the song changed for ‘Rock of Ages’ and, looking at his watch, Colby saw that midnight had arrived. It was now Sunday and the Americans were strict with their religion.
    He could hear a constant chorus of nightbirds. Near his feet Ackroyd dozed in his blanket, his back against a log. The singing started again, softly, coming through the trees which stood out starkly black against the distant firelight, and he was just about to light a cigar when somewhere among the trees higher up the slopes he heard a faint shout and a clatter. No one seemed to notice and the hymn-singing went on near the fires. He nudged the dozing Ackroyd with his foot.
    ‘Tyas! Get up!’
    Ackroyd had just pushed aside the blanket and was climbing to his feet when the woods came alive with the crash of firing.
    ‘Great Christ in the Mountains!’ The voice came from near the officers’ tent. ‘It’s the Rebs!’
    Dragging Ackroyd with him, Colby plunged into the undergrowth just as horsemen came roaring down the slope from the trees. Lights were knocked over hurriedly and