Free Cain at Gettysburg by Ralph Peters

its valor. I know every man among you will do his part … to bring glory to his regiment and to the good old North State.”
    Had the men not been weary, or if they could have seen the colonel’s face, his zeal might have penetrated them. But no cheers answered his speechmaking, only another round of good-natured murmurs, as if the men were sending off a child tasked, just before bedtime, to recite a poem for company.
    Accustomed to a richer response to his oratory, the colonel seemed unsure of himself. He lingered.
    At last a voice—Hugh Gordon’s—called out, “Don’t you worry none, Colonel. We’ll whip the Yankees proper for you.”
    A few more brisk assurances came out of the darkness. And that was all. Blake was baffled by the mood, the unusual lack of connection. He knew these men were spoiling for a fight.
    Perhaps, he thought, the whiskey had been just enough to dull them and not enough to quicken them again.
    Instead of moving on to the next group of soldiers, the colonel called, “Sergeant Blake? Is Sergeant Thomas Blake there among you?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Blake answered. He rose and stepped through the thickening darkness, careful of sprawled men.
    When he closed on Burgwyn, the colonel asked, “Stroll with me for a minute?”
    â€œYes, sir. Colonel Burgwyn, I can assure you that the men of this company are ready to fight. They’re as willing as any men on earth.”
    â€œI know that, Sergeant,” Burgwyn said softly. “I know that.” A half-dozen years younger than Blake, he sounded like a father. They reached the road and turned down the slope. Blake waited for the other man to speak.
    Black clouds advanced below armies of stars.
    â€œI’d like to hear your side of a matter,” the colonel said, “before I carry it any further. Before I do anything officially.”
    The incident at Culpeper Court House leapt to mind, the hot shame of it. The thought that Colonel Burgwyn knew enraged Blake.
    â€œI’m told,” Burgwyn continued, “that you have experience with accounts. That you’re quite the fastidious bookkeeper.”
    Blake felt relieved and drained. “I suspect, sir,” he said, struggling to mask the quiver in his voice, “that some of my old customers have been talking on me. A man had to keep clear ledgers back home, if he wanted certain folks to pay their debts.”
    â€œWell, we’re all paying greater debts now,” the colonel said. “I need a new man for regimental headquarters, someone who can keep up with the required reports, with muster figures, pay arrears, all of it. I hoped … that I might interest you in that.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    The bluntness startled the colonel. He stopped walking, then turned back up the slope. After giving way to a mounted provost guard, the colonel said, “I suppose you want to be with your men. In the battle ahead. That’s commendable, of course.” He sought convincing words. “But the thing is I need a man I can depend on. Families need to know what’s happened to their loved ones, if they’re dead, wounded, or missing. The army needs this figure, the government that one…” He laughed, but there was no heartiness in it. “One thing I’ve learned, Sergeant Blake, is that an army’s largely what it is on paper. Can’t I persuade you?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    Burgwyn stopped again. Blake sensed that they would part now. Some things were clearer in the dark than in the light.
    â€œI could order you to do it,” Burgwyn said. But he laughed again. The sound was as soft as rustling leaves. “Many a man would leap at the chance, you know. A regimental clerk need not go forward.”
    â€œI wouldn’t do it, sir. Even if you ordered me to.”
    â€œThat verges on the insubordinate,” the colonel noted. “But may I ask why? Why is it that a man