Rebel in Time

The rebel fox, General Robert E. Lee, was still alive after two years of fighting, and still attacking. And now the fox was in among the chickens. Driving north with his 80,000 men, he had taken the battle into enemy territory, past Washington and on into Pennsylvania. That is where they had stopped him today. He had not been beaten, but for the moment he was stopped, here at Gettysburg. The Union troops had fought all day under the concentrated fire of the Confederate guns, suffering the shock of attack after attack by those screaming grey files of soldiers. But they had held. Held all along the line, Troy had heard. That was the report, but it was like the report of some distant battle. His war had been here, among the wooded hills and valleys, the stone walls and winding creeks. The men of his regiment, The First Regiment of Massachusetts Coloured Volunteers, had stood and fought — and won. No, not won, no more than any of the other Union regiments had won this day. But standing and fighting and withdrawing with their lines intact, that was a victory. A continuing victory since everyone, the officers included, had been sure that the black troops would run.

They never had. Since the war had begun they had stood up to everything thrown at them. Stood up to enemy gunfire and bayonets, dysentery and disease, the contempt of their own officers, the derision of the white soldiers. They had endured.

Troy finished the beans, scraping up every last drop and morsel. Then he licked his spoon off and put it back into his pocket. Everything was in order. The wounded had been sent to the rear, what food that he could find had been distributed. All of his men had full canteens, and he would make sure that they filled them again in the morning. He had done everything that he could for them. Now he looked to his own equipment.

He opened his patch kit and Lily smiled up at him from the battered photograph. He smiled back, still possessed of the warm memory of her love. After taking out a scrap of cloth he carefully replaced the photograph and sealed the case.

He was running the cleaning rod through his rifle when the messenger found him.

'Captain wants to see you back in the shebang tent, sergeant.'

'On my way,' Troy said, turning to the corporal sitting across the fire from him. 'Finish this for me, will you, Hank?'

'That is gonna cost you five dollars.'

'Good. I'll pay you soon as the war is over.'

Hank was a good man — they were all good men. Troy had asked only because he knew that the corporal would have done the job anyway the moment his back was turned. They were a unit, a family, the best men he had ever served with. They were indeed brothers. He straightened his tunic, buttoned the top buttons, brushed some of the worst of the dust from the Sergeant-major's stripes on his sleeve, then turned and walked back towards the tent in the hollow.

He always thought of the shebangs, the tents and buildings of the US Sanitary Commission, as a combination Red Cross and PX. They helped nurse the wounded, handled pension and pay problems, even supplied some of the personal items like soap and needles that made a soldier's life in the Army bearable. If Troy thought that it was a disgrace that the government had nothing at all to do with the organization, that it was financed by contributions and fund raising benefits called Sanitary Fairs, he did not mention it. The shebangs were there; his men needed them.

The captain returned his salute when Troy entered the tent. He had been talking to two civilians, a grey-haired man and an elderly woman, and they all looked up when the sergeant came in.

'Sergeant Harmon, these are the representatives of the Sanitary Commission in Boston,' the captain said. 'They have raised a good sum of money, specifically for this regiment, and we are all greatly indebted to them. They will be leaving soon, but they would like to speak to some of the men before they go.'

'If you please, I am a little weary,' the woman said. She was white-haired, in her eighties at least, and had good reason to be tired after the day in a wagon. 'If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll remain seated right here until we have to leave. If you will permit the sergeant to remain with me, I'm sure he can answer any questions that I might have.'

'Of course, mam,' the captain said. 'Remain here, sergeant, we won't be long.' He held the tent flap aside to let the other man out ahead of him.

'Please be seated, Sergeant Harmon,' the woman said. 'We have some important things to discuss and very little time to do it in.'

'Yes, mam,' Troy said, pulling up one of the camp chairs. The shorter this conversation the better. There was much to be done by morning.

'Do you remember me, Troy?' the woman asked, her words breaking through his thoughts. He looked at her closely for the first time.

'Sorry, mam.' Yes, you do look familiar. But I'm sorry, I just don't remember where from.'