Date: Tue, 2 Jan 2001 19:28:31 -0600
From: William Webb <haztech@msn.com>
Subject: Sharpshooter Pt 1

Sharpshooter
Part 1


1 ANOTHER day of soldier life
Is numbered with the past;
It was not filled with bloody strife,
And did not prove our last.
2. Thy grace, O God, hath kept us whole;
To thee we lift our praise;
Accept the homage of each soul,
And keep us all our days.
3 Keep us in safety through the night,
And with us those we love:
Save us, we pray thee, by thy might,
In battle and above. *
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Camp of Instruction
Washington DC
March 16, 1862

Dearest Mother.
	Oh how I wish papa were here to see his sons now. I promised Michael
      that I would say he is well and truly taking to his new found love of
      the drum, and his bugle training goes well. As for me, I shall remain
      true to papa's fine fiddle, I carry it with me always. Stephen is also
      well but as he writes you more often than I, I shall not bother you
      there. I know you have heard of the fever sweeping the army, but
      please do not fear for me. I am well. Samuel and the Lane boys are ill
      with thirty of our number but our surgeon says they will be well again
      so don't let their folk worry. Robert is not well though and I fear
      for him. He has been moved to a Hospital close to Washington. I am not
      lying to you. I have not even a sniffle for all that.
	Our new rifles have finally arrived and a finer piece I have never
      shot. I am glad to be rid of the Colt revolving rifles and take up our
      truthful Sharps as California Joe and my mates have come to call our
      batteries. With a rifle such as I now have, Stephen and I would have
      given our bloody landlords no chance for a night's sleep. I read a
      sheet passed by some fine lads from a Col. Miehgr who says when the
      war comes to the quick end we shall be ready to return home and drive
      the English out. Then I may see papa's grave moved home in honor
      instead of run away with the hounds behind us.
	I do not know when we shall move and when I shall be able to write
      again but feel it will be soon. Give Father Moores and the sisters my
      best regards as without their fine school, I would never have the
      chance to write to you or hear of how you and my fine brother and
      sisters are faring. Please tell William that three sons in the army is
      our family's fare share. We would sooner see him remain up there with
      you and his wife.
	Please do not worry for me. We are treated well. The light is fading
      and the clouds are moving to cover the moon, full though it may be. I
      will wait for your next letter and trust God keep you and all well.

Your loving son.
Andrew Griffin.
2nd USSS

Ps: Could you please send me five dollars. I wish to get my portrait taken
the next time I may receive a pass into the city. I will send you twenty
dollars when paid for my last two months of service.
_____________________________________________________________________________

      "Robert!" Andrew's clear green eyes flew open to gaze at the empty
spot across the small tent from where he lay, shifting his slight, muscular
frame under the blanket in order to give his softening penis room away from
the rough wool longjohns pressed against the sensitive skin. He missed his
tent-mate. The dream and his high, heavily accented, tenor voice were ample
proof of that. He'd have to change into his other pair of undergarments
that morning and hoped the laundry woman, he and the other members of his
company used, wouldn't notice the stain. At least she hadn't said anything
beyond a few randy comments about `her' young men before, so he felt safe
from the prying questions he'd have received at home.
	Robert.... Andrew pulled himself into a fetal shape and closed his
eyes against the dim light and sound of the cold, driving rain against the
pale canvas of the tent on that cool March Sunday morning. He would get to
see his friend that day. Opening them, his eyes wandered to the pass
peeking out of a fold in the dark green coat and trousers that set his unit
apart from all the men in blue quartered around them. The uniform was one
of two he'd been given, the green pants only recently replacing the light
blue ones he'd been issued originally and in truth had outgrown.
	Lying in the quiet of the still morning, before the first bugle call
roused the rest of his camp, Andrew returned his gaze to the empty side of
the tent....
	He and his younger brother had accompanied Stephen to the shooting
match that past November, on a lark or so it had seemed at the time.
Stephen had seen and brought home a broadside announcing the formation of a
sharpshooter regiment and had made his mind up almost immediately. They
were bound by a strong sense of duty for this new country that, three years
before, had given their family sanctuary from the men who'd promised
imprisonment and whippings for their taking game the landlords reserved for
themselves. Andrew had felt the gamekeeper's lash in the woods when caught
once. This new country where his old father now rested in the sod!
	Andrew thought back silently of that day, when he'd first attracted
the attention of the blackhaired young man who'd watched him shoot his
brother's rifle. He'd been surprised when Stephen had given him the weapon
and, after placing his own shots within the required five inch circle at two
hundred yards, Robert had wasted no time introducing himself to the short
redheaded boy.
	"If you can shoot like that...." Robert had smiled approvingly as
they walked away from the bench, "...we could use you.... Are you over
sixteen?"
	"No." Andrew had felt his pride in his skill fall away just as
suddenly with the realization of his age, but Robert had merely pulled him
aside for a brief conspiratorial chat.
	"Well, our country needs every man who can shoot, now more than
ever!" Robert had then become quieter and glanced around to make sure they
were alone. "You can't lie on your enlistment but...."
	And so Andrew found himself shivering in his threadbare clothes,
three weeks before his fifteenth birthday with a paper buried within his
shoe, `sixteen' written upon it. Signing his name and swearing that he was
indeed over `sixteen' had contributed to his shaking but so had his
excitement and the approval of Robert and his brothers.
	Michael had then signed as a drummer/musician with Stephen's blessing
and pleading. The twelve year old boy would have never let his brothers
alone otherwise, and Andrew had figured their mother would object to the
judge and keep her youngest at home. Andrew had only hoped that she wouldn't
do the same to him. Their mother, however, had listened to her sons and, like
so many of their family's women in the past, had held her tears within and
quietly sent them to war.
	"Damn!" Andrew whispered, his breath visible in the cold air while he
looked again at the rain striking around him. At least it was rain. The ice
and snow of the winter was past. They wouldn't have to break the ice within
the latrine to use it any more. Thank God for small blessings!
	He shrugged to himself and rolled upright. His plans to clean himself
that morning before taking his leave were ruined. He idly toyed with the
idea of letting the rain wash his body but an uncontrolled shiver soon cast
those thoughts aside.
	"Andy!" He groaned loudly at his little brother's piercing voice
cutting through the foul weather, that and the fact his little brother
received a dollar more a month Andrew found irksome. "Andy? Oscar wants to
see you."
	"Quiet, Michael!" Andrew snarled as he reached for his one worn plaid
shirt and began to struggle into it. He came fully awake. The Assistant
Surgeon wanted to see him? A feeling of dread slowly began to seep through
him. "D'ya want to wake the camp? This is our only day of rest. ...Now, what
did he want?"
	"I'm not the one you should be snapping at!" Michael's aggrieved voice
accompanied his dripping form pushing into the tent. "Besides, I'm supposed
to wake the camp!" He smiled at his older brother and shook his blue
greatcoat, sending water droplets into Andrew's face. "...Eww! it smells
like a whore house in here!"
	"Michael! ...Damn! ...You'd better stop or I'll see you thrown into
the waste pit this morning!" Andrew couldn't help but grin evilly at his wet
brother, "...and you had better hope mother never learns of the words you're
using! ...And when have you been to a bawdy house?"
	"Well, we talk about it and your words are worse!" Michael frowned as
his feet shifted uncomfortably. This had started as a grand adventure, at
least until the first time he'd been boxed about the ears and caned for
pulling up both his brothers' tent stakes.
	"I'm older." Andrew grimaced playfully at the boundless good cheer
his youngest brother seemed to project.
	"Just cause you have hair down there!" Michael's voice broached, then
dove again. Andrew fought back his laughter at his cheeky little brother's
consternation. "Well, I do too now! Probably more than you!"
	"Never!" Andrew snarled back. In truth his lack of hair and small red
bush had been a source of embarrassment for him as he existed among all the
beards and fur of many of the other soldiers in his company. His initial
horror at the playful whistles and `comments' of the company, whenever he
found himself bathing and naked around them, had been somewhat mollified as
his bush had begun to fill in while he filled out rather nicely according
to Robert, becoming much more pronounced on his slight, tight frame. He
absently picked the crotch of his drying long woolen underwear away from
his skin, where it threatened to stick like glue, and reached for his
uniform. He'd try to change the subject. "Did ya be wanting anything else?"
	 "Can I have your old shoes? Mine are binding me." Michael smiled
hopefully and shifted from one foot to the other again to punctuate his
request.
	"Aye, I suppose." Andrew left his trousers halfway up his legs and
reached into his backpack, smirking. He figured he and his little brother
owed some peace for the their quartermaster. They'd both obviously undergone
a growth spurt over the winter that the poor man had tried to keep up with.
He'd begun at five, five but now was five, seven, and Michael had kept pace.
He pulled his old brogans out and handed them over. "Here, Mr. Calef should
be happy with us now."
	An insistent drum beat broke the still morning and quiet that had
descended in Andrew's tent. He watched the color drain from his brother's
face upon hearing the `musician's call'. "You'd best be off, Michael...
You'll have your ears boxed for sure! You're gon'a be late!"
	"Thanks for the shoes!" Mike turned quickly and scooted out into the
muddy `street' that made up part of their camp, his brother's shoes now
tucked safely under his coat alongside his bugle. At least he'd remembered
the damn bugle! Every other unit in this place used drums for the signals of
the day. This one used a damn horn!
	Andrew rose quickly and pulled his trousers up. Shrugging silently, he
finished dressing in the green uniform. He gave up on changing his
underclothes; chances are they'd be soaked through before long anyway. He
stopped to smooth out his coat after securing his dark brown leather
leggings around his calves and fastening the black rubber buttons. Compared
to the colorful uniforms worn by many of the other units around them, the
sharpshooters seemed drab with an almost complete absence of brass or lace,
but Stephen and most of the others approved. They were taught and had been
trained to seek out the enemy positions and fight from cover.
	Gathering his own blue greatcoat around his skinny frame, he set his
kepi firmly on his head and smoothed out the black ostrich feather that
they wore for parades. Andrew trudged out into the heavy mud of company `A'
street and turned toward the surgeon's quarters. He felt his stomach
tighten a little as he approached and pulled a piece of his hardtack
rations out of a pocket and stuck it in his mouth to soften before he broke
a tooth trying to chew it. Robert had fallen ill ten days prior and moved
to the hospital eight days later. The surgeons had proclaimed it Typhus
fever or the measles, they couldn't decide at the time. All Andrew did know
was his twenty-year-old tent-mate had developed pneumonia.
	Andrew stopped just outside the medical tent and let the rain beat
into his upturned face for a moment. Robert had been and was much more than
just a man who he shared a tent with, shared warmth with during the freezing
nights spooned together. Robert had taken his young charge under his
protective wing and sheltered them both as much as Andrew's own brothers
had. He'd been there through the bouts of intense homesickness, holding
Andrew to him in his warm embrace.
	That the two had been inseparable and were possibly intimate with each
other was a given within the camp but was ignored. In fact they had done
little more than stroke themselves and each other on occasion, though Andrew
had been surprised by the surgeon's warnings against such self abuse and the
mania it threatened. Robert hadn't subscribed to those teachings, rejecting
all the dire warnings of insanity out of hand once they found each other
sharing that pleasure one evening....
	"Andrew? ...Private Griffin?" Assistant Surgeon Oscar Palmer called
out from the opening of his own tent, finally getting the youth's attention.
"Get out of the rain, you fool! I have enough fever going around."
	"Yes, sir." Andrew quickly chewed and swallowed his piece of hardtack,
shook himself off at the entrance and proceeded into the dimly lit interior
of the Assistant Surgeon's tent. He looked longingly at a steaming pot,
barely visible in the sputtering light cast by an oil lamp hanging near the
rear of the canvas and wood structure. The smell of coffee hung heavy in
the cool moist air, thankfully blocking out the usual smells that came from
that place. "You wanted to see me?"
	"Yes, my boy." Oscar let a smile slip across his features and stepped
over to refill his tin mug, then turned and offered it to the grateful
youth. "Here, this should take the morning chill." Stepping away from the
boy, he quickly reviewed some papers lying in a heap on his small desk.
"Andrew, I have received word from Campbell Hospital about Private Moller.
But first I want your help with Mr. Stoner's treatment. I need someone to
hold him and that scamp you call a brother has forgotten his duty again. So
I imagine he won't be able to sit after he gets his backside tanned again."
	"Richard is ill too?" Andrew grimaced while he took a quick gulp from
the steaming cup. The news wasn't all that surprising. The young man in
question seemed healthy enough but had recently seemed to develop a case of
the slows. "You have news of Robert?"
	"Yes." Oscar answered both questions and quietly finished gathering
his instruments and the salts of mercury he would need that morning.
Actually he figured he had about fifteen men and boys suffering from the
same ailment but only Corporal Stoner was actively ill at the moment. "It
seems he charged a masked battery once too often and many of those whores
are not clean women! But this..." he held up the metal and glass syringe
and the bottle of silvery powder suspended in liquid, "...should get him
back on his feet. A doctor in New York claims excellent results."
	He quietly picked up the rest of his tools and, grabbing the
reluctant youngster by his damp sleeve, pulled him through the back of the
tent and into the dark structure behind. Striking a match, he lit two more
lamps and turned toward the nervous young bearded man lying naked on a
rough wooden table set against one wall.
	"Mornin', Richard. You ready for your treatment this fine morning?"
Oscar set his tools to one side and placed his smaller cautery into one of
the lamp's open flames. "Andrew, please lay across Richard's arms for me
when I tell you." Oscar quickly reached over and pulled the supine man's
penis upright and pulled the foreskin back. He whistled appreciatively
while grimacing. "I see another wound of love has appeared. Well, I'd best
cautery that first before I inject you this morning."
	"Give him that piece of leather to bite on, and hold him down for
me." He indicated the small piece of old strap and pulled the small tool
from the flame as Andrew did what was asked. He glanced over at Andrew's
pale face as it blanched even further. "You see, my boy... a night with
Venus can lead to a life with mercury!"
	"Uhhhg!" Richard bellowed into the strap as he bit it hard.
	Andrew felt himself being lifted off the ground as he struggled with
the young man under him. How did his twelve, no, thirteen year old brother
do this when he helped the surgeons as part of his duties? He quickly let
his guilt at forgetting his little brother's birthday fall away. The smell
of burned flesh was unmistakably wafting past his closed eyes but that was
over quickly.
	"OK, lads, only the injection is left to do."

	"Thank you, my boy." Oscar glanced over at Andrew as the boy stood
back up. He finished sprinkling some dust of morphine over Richard's penis
after he'd finished with the urethral injection of the salts of mercury. He
really didn't know if the treatment would work but the surgeon swore by it
as a treatment for syphalic manifestations, as he called it, and he did have
to admit that the sores seemed to disappear much quicker than normal.
	"Andrew, that is why you must stay away from most bawdy houses in
Washington." Oscar smiled as they went back out the way they'd entered.
"How much money do you have, lad?"
	"Two dollars, sir." Andrew almost laughed. He'd barely afford to find
food for that, much less the whore Oscar Palmer expected him to. He figured
he could find a convenient door stoop or some open church to lay in for the
night. He'd have to be back by the next night anyway. "Please, you said you
had news of Robert. How is he?"
	"Look, here's two more dollars." Oscar pressed the crumpled bills
into the boy's hand before he could protest. "You can pay me back. You
should be able to find a cheap rooming house for the night and a meal as
well." He sighed before proceeding. "Now go. You should know that Private
Moller is not doing very well. He will probably die by tomorrow morning."
	"But...there's nothing to be done?" Andrew felt his heart lurch
painfully within his chest. 'Damn doctors...' he thought to himself, 'they
couldn't help Robert but they could almost predict his death to the minute.'
"How do the doctors know?"
	"Andrew!" Oscar grimaced in frustration at the accusing tone to the
boy's voice. "I suppose, when you've seen as much disease as those fellows
have, you learn how much a body can take. It's not their fault. Robert
should have refrained from spilling his seed so often. It obviously sapped
his body. The note I received from the hospital mentions masturbation as a
primary cause for his sickness. Did you know about his activities, lad?"
	"No, sir." Andrew blushed as he lied, highlighting the light dusting
of freckles that covered his downy cheeks. How could something that
generated such intense feelings be bad for him? Robert certainly hadn't
believed it. And as for his seed, they'd each tasted each other's once on
a mutual dare one evening after returning from their picket duty. "We did
not...."
	"Aye, ya have done no more than the other boys." Oscar's voice
playfully mocked the youth's higher pitched voice and his strong accent.
His knowing smile took any sting from his words as he regarded smooth bright
red cheeks again. 'Late bloomer, my ass!' he thought quietly for a second.
His final test for recruitment would be taking only those who needed to
shave at least. Andrew needed a drum in his hands, not a rifle, but the boy
could shoot. He couldn't deny that. "Just don't let Surgeon Reynolds catch
you... Now run along, my boy. I'll see you back tomorrow night."
	Andrew turned away quickly to put as much space between himself and
that hellish place as possible. His groin still ached sympathetically about
what he'd just witnessed. Richard's nakedness didn't bother him, there was
scarce chance for privacy under these circumstances anyway but the healers'
art and its mysteries left him shaken. He didn't know if it was the
treatment he'd seen or the open kit with its gleaming knives and that saw
lying carefully within their wooden chest, each in its place, waiting to go
to work on some unfortunate victim.... Now, off to the latrines first, then
he'd grab his fiddle on the way out of the camp. He had to take it with him.
Robert had loved to sit and listen to him play for hours, sometimes joining
him with his own sweet voice. That his voice could be stilled forever was
unthinkable. The damn doctors had to be wrong!

	"Damnitalltohellandback!" Andrew cursed violently as he spit out the
fresh piece of hardtack he'd just placed in his mouth to let soften. The
wiggling against his tongue had almost made him retch as he sent the cracker
and its unwelcome passenger onto the muddy street leading into the city. He
silently cursed himself again for his stupidity. He'd forgotten to rap the
piece sharply to dislodge any weevils burrowing within.
	"Are you all right, my boy?" Andrew quickly looked over at the man
who'd spoken to him, then glanced away in shame. The tall middle-aged man
was dressed sharply in black, countering his graying hair and flowing beard.
To Andrew, he looked every inch the minister finishing his shopping as he
stepped away from the small vendor with his basket of fruits.
	"Y... yes, sir." Andrew stammered quietly. Thankfully the older man
seemed to take that language, coming from one so young, with good nature.
"I'm looking for Campbell Hospital. I've a friend there to visit."
	"Very good, my fine young man." The older man looked approvingly at
the youth before him. He was struck by the shock of red hair peeking out
from under his dark green cap and the bright, piercing green eyes that
surmounted the freckled cheeks of his sweet face. The boy was obviously
trying so hard to be the image of a proud soldier through the shy
uncertainty his age projected. He idly wondered what this shy country boy
thought of the city he found himself lost in. The boy had none of the
forwardness of his companions in war. He hefted his own basket of food.
"You may walk with me. It just happens that I'm going there myself. I
often visit."
	"Thank'y, sir." Andrew allowed himself a breath in relief and
quickly reached back under his greatcoat for the comforting feel of the
fiddle secured over his shoulder, safely wrapped within its oil cloth.
"I'm sorry to be of any trouble. My name is Andrew."
	"Pleased to meet you, Andrew." The man held out his hand, which
Andrew quickly took. "And you may call me Walt. Shall we go?"
	"Please..." Andrew nervously stretched his legs to keep up with
the taller man's stride as they quickly maneuvered through the busy
streets full of soldiers and hawkers selling any number of sundry items,
"Do you have family there?"
	"Me? No." Walt slowed a little as they turned another block onto
Seventh Street. "My brother was wounded some time back and I started by
visiting him while I wrote, but I soon found where I could do the most
good. I'm too old to make a good soldier."
	"Yes, sir...I mean Walt," Andrew quickly corrected himself as he
saw the eye the older man threw his way. He doubted the man wouldn't
make a good soldier judging by his vigorous manner, but, "You're a
newspaper man then?"
	"I have written for the newspapers..." Walt continued on as they
neared the long rows of whitewashed buildings that had once been cavalry
quarters before becoming a hospital as the toll of war overwhelmed the
city's resources, "...but you could say I'm a poet at heart. So tell me,
Andrew, what is your friend's name?"
	Andrew told the man his friend's name as they entered one of the
central buildings. Once again he was struck hard by the smells that
emanated from the place. He shuddered uncontrollably at the lack of
ventilation forcing the still, damp air to hang in the dark, candle-lit
room he found himself in. He glanced at the other men and middle-aged
women circulating. "Do you know him? Where he is?"
	"Yes," Walt sighed sadly. "I know all the boys here. I'll take you to
him before I start my visits. And before you say anything, It's no problem,
my boy."
	Walt absently stroked his graying beard as he led his young charge
through the back yard into another ward. He smiled wistfully at the boy's
wide green eyes again when they passed the doors that led to the rows of
filled beds within. He didn't have the heart to tell Andrew that his friend
now resided within the 'death' ward of the hospital.
	"I'll leave you alone now." Andrew stumbled as he felt Walt's hand
gently guide him forward with firm pressure to the back of his neck. The
cold air permeated the room he found himself in. Robert filled his eyes
with his pale face and black hair matted with sweat. It seemed to be
running in rivers down Robert's face. A soft groan from a blond-headed
youth in the next bed punctuated the raspy labored breathing that
assaulted Andrew's ears. "I'll be back to check on you soon." And, with
that, Andrew found himself alone.
	"Robby?" Andrew pulled himself closer and pulled his greatcoat and
fiddle over his head, laying both across the foot of the bed. He quietly
stroked his friend's damp face while fighting back the sudden lump that
seemed to strangle his voice. "Please tell me you'll get better."
	"Please...don't...cry...Andy..." Robert managed to squeeze through
his overtaxed lungs. He seemed to gurgle with each breath. "My...sweet...
minstrel...boy. I...shall...always...love...you."
	"And I you..." Andrew forced a smile as he stroked his hand through
the mane of unruly black hair. He remained silent as he watched a matron
circulate among the other patients in the ward, gently speaking to each as
she went. He was surprised to see the woman pointedly bypass the blond
youth next to Robert's bed and his eyes locked briefly with the other boy's.
The loneliness hidden within them seemed to encompass them both for that
brief moment.
	"Alex...is...a...secesh." Robert had seemed to follow Andrew's gaze
in his fading consciousness; "Virg...inia."
	Andrew jerked his wide eyes back to his friend's. He understood at
once what the pained loneliness meant. The other boy, Alex, was from the
other side and more alone at that time than anyone deserved to be. He'd
receive no visitors, not even a letter from those he loved, and the staff
seemed content to ignore him most of the time.
	"You...will...always...be...my...love..." Robert smiled for the first
time he could remember. He'd written his farewell letters with that
volunteer's, Walt's, help and now Andrew, his Andy, was with him. Somehow
that made his passing easier, knowing he was loved in return, "...now...
play...for...me. ...For us...for...all...of...us...."
	"All right, Robby." Andrew quickly wiped his own face and unwrapped
his late father's fiddle from its waterproof cloth wrapping. He couldn't
trust his voice as he nestled the instrument comfortably in the crux of his
arm and immediately thought of the capstan tune the crew of the Yankee ship,
they had crossed the ocean on, had sung. It was the last song his papa had
begun to teach him, with the help of the crew, before he took ill and died.
"For all of us then."
	He smiled first at Robert's relaxed face, then at the blond youth's
fearful eyes as he moved between the beds. All he remembered about the song
was it was about some river in Virginia, so it seemed a good place to start.
Soon the strains of "Shenandoah" began to issue from beneath his fingers and
he smiled again as the other boy began to relax as well.
	"Andy...?" Robert whispered as the younger boy he'd helped find his
way into the green uniform they'd worn, finished the last notes of "Rosin
the Beau". "Please...find...happy..."
	"I w...will, my l...love." Andrew sniffed quietly. He'd quickly run
through his limited skill with the fiddle, still held gently in his arm. He
grasped Robert's limp arm with his free hand and drew it up to his lips. He
didn't care who saw the chaste but passionate kiss at that moment.
	"I'll...be...in the...shade of...this tree." Robert's eyes closed as
his breathing eased; "Play...."
	Andrew stifled a quick sob that threatened to emerge and quietly began
"The Cruel War", a song he'd been just learning when his newest brother had
taken ill. The sweet love song poured through him as his heart seemed to
possess his fingers in that moment. Once again Robert was embracing him but
the pain he felt was so much worse then his homesickness had been...."
	Walt silently moved to stand by the boy pouring his love out through
his fingers and bow, and waited for the last note to fade away. He glanced
from one still, peaceful face lying before him to the other. Each boy had
finally found the peace they'd lacked before. The lonely southern boy had
transformed just before he'd breathed his last, seeming now to be in a
dreamless sleep. The slight upturn to his mouth was proof of that. He
softly placed a hand on the green-clad shoulder. "Andrew, they are gone, my
boy." He whispered, "They are now brothers for eternity."
	"Y..yes. I..I know." Andrew gently set the fiddle back into its cloth
and bent to kiss both of his friend's closed eyes, just like he had his
father three years before. He straightened up and turned to face the older
man. "What will happen now?"
	"Do not worry yourself." Walt pulled the young man into his arms and
stroked his back through the heavy wool. "They will be cared for." He
quietly forgot to mention the stack of naked bodies left out back each day,
soon to be thrown like so many logs into the wagons destined for one of the
cemeteries.
	"Oh, God in heaven." Andrew quickly placed his instrument across his
back and shrugged into his blue coat, once again becoming just another boy
in blue to the rest of the city. He watched as Walt silently covered the
two young men. The finality of that simple act struck him hard. He needed
to leave. He couldn't let the world see his tears, they'd been for Robert
and his family alone. "I mu...must g...go."
	"Andrew! Wait!" Walt quickly stepped after the distraught young man,
finding himself out on the, now dark, street. The cold rain had returned
with a vengeance and the lightning streaking the sky provided the only
light. He lost the boy as the dark cloth melted into the surroundings and
felt a stab of fear course through him. Andrew was alone on the outskirts
of a city teaming with southern sympathizers and other cutthroats the
provost guard couldn't control. "Stop! Please! It's too dangerous! Where
are you going to stay?"
	"I don't kno...know." Andrew didn't bother to hide the aggravation in
his voice as he collapsed into a puddle within the nearest stoop. He wanted
to be alone with only his grief for company. Couldn't this man understand?
He shivered slightly; another long roll of thunder matched his mood. The
cold rain streaking down his face hid the hot tears. "Nowhere... here...."
	"Andrew, please.... You can't stay here." Walt reached out his hand
to grasp the boy's shoulder and attempted to pull him up. "Come back to my
rooming house with me.... Your friend wished you a happy life, not this....
When did you eat last? This morning hardly counts."
	"Last night..." Andrew whispered. His stomach rumbled at the mention
of food. "God, why? Was my love so evil? Was what we did so wrong?"
	"No, my boy." Walt finally pulled the youth up into his embrace.
"Whatever you have done, the love for Robert was pure and holy. Now let the
pain go, my son. Let me take part of your burden and lift you up the way
you lifted both boys up with your music."
	"Yes s...Walt." Andrew shivered again as the older man placed his arm
across his shoulders and they began their walk along the muddy street.
Andrew could only wonder at the sight he'd present at the rooming house
Walt had mentioned. He felt soaked through and through. The fiddle, safely
within its oil-cloth, was probably the only dry spot on his body after his
collapse into the gathering storm. "But I don't wish to be.... I'm filthy,
sir."
	"Do not worry yourself." Walt pulled Andrew closer and allowed him to
rest his head on his shoulder while they continued on. A slight sob managed
to squeak its way out of the boy, trying to keep himself hidden within the
facade the uniform projected. "Mrs. Crawford and I shall take good care of
you.... You are no trouble. Wet, yes. Filthy? No. Nothing about you is
filthy, my son."

	"Mr. Whitman, come in quickly. You know where to hang your coat."
Andrew was struck with the warmth that emanated from the three story house
and the rotund woman who greeted them in the `mud' room. He shucked his
greatcoat in the welcome heat within.
	"And who is this stray you've brought with you?" Her eyes took in the
young man standing behind her boarder. "The boy's half drowned!"
	"Andrew Griffin, ma'am. Second United States Sharpshooters," He
replied automatically, forcing his teeth to stop chattering together.
Usually the cold hadn't bothered him but he knew he had none of the built-
in insulation required for such weather.
	"Well, Mr. Griffin, I'll have no drowned rats within my doors..." She
smiled broadly, "...so take those soaked things off this minute. I'll bring
you one of my late husband's robes to wear and set your things by the fire
to dry..." She watched the hesitation in the young soldier's actions."Come
along now.... I'll brook no arguments. I'll have stew for you both after
you've had a chance to warm yourself. Now off with those rags, you've got
nothing I haven't seen in my sixty years."
	Andrew started to object to the woman's terming his uniform as `rags',
but she'd already bustled out of the room in search of something for him to
wear. He merely sighed and blushed as he began fumbling with the buttons
and straps.
	"I'll be back down in a minute." Walt quickly shed his boots and
turned to leave the room himself. He stopped for a moment and watched as
Andrew's upper body was laid bare. The muscles under that pale, hairless,
freckled, smooth skin moved with an easy grace as the boy continued
disrobing. He thought back to the few anatomy books he'd seen during his
life. The boy would be an anatomist's dream. Reluctantly tearing his eyes
away, he turned to leave again. "I'll leave you to Mrs. Crawford."
	"Yes, sir." Andrew kept his eyes down as he pulled his green pants
down so he could step out of them and place them alongside his leggings
and the rest of the uniform. He left his woolen drawers on, fingering
them nervously. Camp life had effectively removed any sense of modesty he
may have had, but he was a guest in a strange house....
	"The drawers too, young man." Mrs. Crawford couldn't help but chuckle
at the skinny youth standing awkwardly in the bottom half of his
unmentionables. Her appraisal was approving. He was skinny, yes, but not in
a sickly way. The defined muscles he presented her with were not sickly in
any way. It was obvious he'd worked away any softness he'd once had for
lack of better food. "I've raised three sons in my time on earth, so hurry
up and let me put some meat on your bones! ...I don't think much of your
cooks by the looks of you."
	"We cook for ourselves mostly." Andrew felt his face burning in front
of this stranger as he quickly shucked his drawers and reached for the huge
robe she presented him. He breathed out in relief when he covered himself
with the thick cloth. If she thought anything about his naked form, she
kept it to herself. That was probably for the best as the cold had made him
look and feel like his thirteen year old brother. "Thank you, ma'am. What
should I do with my things?"
	"I have a rack in the kitchen for you." Mrs. Crawford smiled and
frowned, sniffing the street smell of horse manure mixed with the mud and
water. She watched as her, not entirely, unexpected guest gathered the
oversized robe about his figure and then gathered his clothing up into his
arms. "When was the last time you had a hot bath?"
	"I've been able to clean myself two or three times a week." Andrew
smiled ruefully as he followed the old woman into her well lit kitchen,
bypassing where her other guests lounged comfortably. The welcome smells
made his stomach rumble again. "I promised my ma...."
	"I asked when was the last time you had a `hot' bath." Mrs. Crawford
scowled back at the boy. "You may sit with me. Set your package against
that wall." She indicated a secure place for the oil-cloth-wrapped
instrument. "Set your clothes in the wash tin through that door while I
get you some food and draw you a tub."
	"Please, ma'am, that is too much..." Andrew pulled the wet wad of
crumpled bills out of the pocket where he'd placed them. "I only can pay
you four dol...."
	"Put that away, my boy!" The old woman stared crossly at the money in
his hand, then softened her expression. This young soldier wasn't likely to
accept charity. "If it will make you feel better, I'll accept two dollars
for tonight.... Now sit down and eat. As for the bath, I'm only protecting
my sheets!"
	"Thank you, ma'am." Andrew's mouth fairly drooled when presented with
the simple fare of bread and stew the woman set before him before taking
the same into the dining room for her regular boarders. He soon found
himself joined by Walt, freshly changed, and the woman again. They remained
content to eat in peace while their host would stop to smile at the way her
young visitor dove into her cooking. The powerful home-brew she kept in the
boy's mug helped to warm him from the inside as well.
	"I should have your bath ready in a few minutes." Mrs. Crawford was
bustling about the house again, seeing to her duties. "What brought you to
my door this evening?"
	"I came to see a friend." Andrew gulped quietly as the earlier pain
redoubled its efforts; "He di...d...died. We... it was our fault."
	"I'm so sorry for you, my boy." She stopped what she was doing and
reached for the youth, pulling him closer. She stroked her hand through his
red hair as he stifled a quiet sob and buried his face in her apron. She
remained where she was while Andrew gathered himself and stared away from
the eyes of the two people in the kitchen with him. "I understand, my boy.
You must have loved your comrade a great deal. I lost two of my sons and
the third moved to Texas to seek his fortune."
	"Texas?" Andrew blinked the water out of his eyes and looked up at
the woman. She was a kindred sprit, together in their loss. He latched onto
her words. He'd almost shown too much weakness in front of their host. She
didn't need some sniveling boy to trouble her further. He welcomed the
change of subject; "I...I have family in Texas..... My mother says we do
anyway."
	"Well, don't you worry. Texas is a long way from here. You won't meet
in battle." She ruffled Andrew's hair again and pointed to a corner of the
kitchen. "Now you two help me with the water buckets."
	"Yes, ma'am," Andrew whispered. He was surprised at how quickly his
host managed to work with their help but then the water coming from inside
the house was new to him as well. He smiled wistfully at the small metal
tub of steaming water but selfconsciously pulled the robe off to hand it
back to the woman as he settled down into the water. His eyelids suddenly
felt heavy as the heated water seemed to ease his muscles further than he'd
thought possible.
	"I'll leave you two now." Mrs. Crawford smiled at having such a sweet
seeming young man in her house again. He was a refreshing change from some
of the `city' guests Mr. Whitman spent his time with. "You have a towel and
soap in here already."
	"Here, let me." Walt quickly grabbed the rough bar from the shelf in
the small downstairs room. He smiled reassuringly as Andrew jumped at his
first touch of the boy's bare shoulders, then settled back while he began
gently scrubbing his back. "Love is love, Andrew... and the surgeons, with
all their two years of school, are not the experts on love. There was
nothing wrong with your love for Robert. Don't let anyone tell you
otherwise."
	Walt felt a twinkle come into his eyes as he finished with the boy's
upper back and moved around the small tub and reached down to grab his
ankles. He playfully pulled Andrew's legs up, dunking the surprised boy's
head under the water, to come up sputtering in outrage. He quickly broke
the bar in two and started on the boy's exposed legs. "Here's the soap.
Wash your hair."
	Andrew quickly scrubbed the soap into his head and dunked himself
this time to clear it out of his curly red locks. He started to pull his
legs back but they seemed to have a mind of their own as Walt's efforts
massaged the tension further out of him in all regions but one. He did
squirm a little as their hands met each other at mid thigh while he
quickly scrubbed the rest of his body he could reach with ease. He
quietly flushed when the head of his penis broached the surface in its
hardening state, his long foreskin retreating faster than the army had
at Bull Run. He quickly ran a soapy hand over his crotch and silently
prayed the man with him wouldn't have noticed and think bad of him.
	"There, now you are clean enough to put Mrs. Crawford at ease."
Walt chuckled at the display of shy embarrassment Andrew gave him while he
reached for the towel provided. "Now, let's see to your bed for the night
...and don't worry about that... I think I've seen men in all their
possible states. It is all right, don't be ashamed. Now hurry and get
out."
	Andrew quickly grabbed the proffered cloth and wrapped it tightly
around his body, covering his erect penis which had waved uncomfortably
around in front of him. He regretted moving so quickly as his low hanging
stones found themselves momentarily trapped between his slim legs.
	"Careful, lad." Walt reached out his hand to steady the youth. He
almost laughed out loud. The grimace that crossed Andrew's face and the
hand that went to the rescue, pulling the loose flesh out from between the
boy's almost crossed legs, told Walt what had happened. "You may need those
later!"
	He helped pull the cloth tighter about Andrew and grabbed one of the
lit candles. He quietly led the boy upstairs to his room, smiling at the
sound of the bare feet padding beside his own stocking clad ones. The
warmth and light of a fire welcomed the two as he settled the boy into a
settee by his desk and moved to turn down the feather comforter and sheets
that covered the bed. "You may sleep on the settee or share my bed." Walt
pulled his own nightgown out and shrugged out of his clothes, slipping it
on. He turned back to regard his silent young guest. 	Andrew's head was
tucked down in sleep between his arms, his bare legs tucked tightly up
into the thin cushions. Walt sighed at the sight and pulled the boy into
his strong arms, leaving the towel behind and forgotten. He grunted in the
effort. Andrew wasn't heavy but not as light as he seemed either.
	"Whaaa...?" Andrew stirred slightly as he felt the warm comforter
pulled over his naked body and Walt settle next to him, pulling him closer
within a strong embrace.
	"Shhh, my lad," Walt whispered quietly, but a question nagged his
mind. "Your fiddle is safe in the kitchen but you left it there...why?"
	"I shan't be playing it again..." Andrew replied under his breath in
a half dream state; "...I'll be sending it home...."
	"Andrew, you mustn't." Walt pulled himself up onto one elbow to look
at the boy's face in the firelight. "You brought two boys peace and joy
with your music today...it eased their pain and passing into the next life.
`Be happy', your love told you...." He gently pushed the boy onto his back
and lightly stroked the hairless chest of youth. "You still have much joy
left to experience in your life...be happy for the times you shared
together and honor Robert's wish for you... There is happiness in the
world still."
	"Not a..any m...more," Andrew whispered hoarsely. How could he find
or want such pleasure again? That way led to death....
	"Yes, there is, Andrew." Walt whispered back. He'd heard the
surgeon's diagnosis but thought it to be poppycock! The idea of such a
simple pleasure of boyhood leading to insanity and death was absurd to him
but the doctors had to blame something when they were at a loss for any
other explanation about why such fine young men became diseased and died.
"Your love for Robert did not kill him... I don't know why he died and I
doubt the doctors do either, but if anything, he stayed longer waiting for
your visit. He'd said goodbye to his family but when you came to him....
Only then was he content to leave this world for the next. You made him
very happy, Andrew. Never forget that."
	He pulled Andrew into his complete embrace again as the grief-
stricken boy overwhelmed the soldierly bearing and Andrew finally broke
down in his arms.
	"Oh, Robby...." Andrew sobbed quietly. "Pl...please, mother Mary,
watch o...over my fr...friend, m...my love."
	"She will." Walt gently stroked the boy's back, feeling the warmth
of the individual tight muscles underneath the smooth, soft skin. Deep
down he wanted to share the joy to be found in the ample cluster between
the boy's legs, but this was no man or common street whore he was with.
"And may Robert watch over you as well."
	He remained silent and let Andrew's quiet sobs fade into the still
night and breathing become slow and regular in sleep. He moved his hand
up to stroke the boy's red locks and nestled his head under his own. `Oh,
how many sweet youth he'd known and watched die?' he thought to himself.
`And how many more?'. He lightly drifted off to slumber.
	Later that night he awoke to feel a hot poker of flesh and found
himself gently holding Andrew's erect phallus in his hand. He smiled
wistfully as the still sleeping boy spilled his hot seed without any
effort on either of their parts.
	"Rrrooobbbyyy...." Walt heard the boy whisper, almost silently,
through his dreaming sleep. His own tears, held so long in check, came to
his eyes. Yes, he could be Robert just this once for the boy's dreams. He
smiled in the sputtering darkness of the room, imagining the spirit of
another closer love enter through him to travel down his arm to where he
quietly held Andrew's softening manhood. He wasn't exactly a believer in
all the spiritualists who now infected the city but who was he to deny
the feeling that detached and shared what his fingers gently felt, or the
intense wave of love for the boy. Not just the soft flesh that rolled in
his hand, but for the boy himself.
	After a time, he released Andrew from his grasp, the spirit he'd
imagined content to move on now. He wiped his hand off and cast his arm,
protectively, back across the boy's shoulders. The last verse of "The
Minstrel Boy" came to his thoughts as he willed himself to sleep, still
reveling in the warmth coming from the nude boy he held tightly.
"Then may he play on his harp in peace,
In a world such as Heaven intended,
For all the bitterness of man shall cease,
And every battle must be ended."

	`Find love and be happy....' Robert smiled in that lopsided way when
they had shared some joke. `I can't go with you but you shall always be
with me.' Robert then kissed him. The passionate kiss of farewell but the
sadness was missing. Only the joy of their love remained.
	Andrew jerked awake with a start to face the sun streaming through
the window into his face. He groaned quietly and tried to bury his head
back into the pillow. Yesterday hadn't been a dream after all. His eyes
were drawn toward a booming laugh that erupted from the desk in the
bright room where Walt stared back from his chair, grinning at him.
	"Good morning, lad." Walt continued to smile through the boy's
confusion. "Mrs. Crawford has brought your things to you this morning,
clean and dry. We also wish you to know you are welcome to stay as long
as you want."
	"Th...thank you...." Andrew answered, consciousness finally forcing
its way through his skull along with an intense morning need. He rolled
himself out of the covers to sit and scratch himself absently. He had
nothing left to hide from this man. "I must return today... Ugh... Where
do I...?"
	"Ahhh... As for that, you have a new adventure in store." Walt's
grin remained fixed, his eyes twinkled as he took another full drink of
the beautiful body displayed before him. He threw his nightshirt at the
youth. "You may retire out back or you may use the flushing toilet
downstairs. It's just been installed. I'd help you with it, but you seem a
smart boy. You can figure it out."
	When Andrew returned, he found a steaming mug of coffee waiting for
him, along with some bread that his hosts had brought up for him. His
clothing had been laid out as well. He sat back on the bed and made short
work of what was on the tray, then stretched before he pulled the
nightshirt off and reached for his underthings. He was shocked to find
that even his leather leggings had been oiled sometime during the night.
"Whaa?"
	"You've made quite a good impression, my boy," Walt whispered
quietly as he watched his guest struggle into his long underwear, forming
itself to his legs and classical rear end; "Mrs. Crawford has gone to do
her shopping for the day... She wanted me to tell you to `take care of
yourself' and `you will always have a home here.'" He left out that she'd
had tears in her eyes as she left.
	"Will you give her this for me?" Andrew fished the other two dollars
out of his pocket after he fastened his trousers. He set the wadded bills
on the desk, freshly cleaned along with his uniform, and turned back to
finish dressing in silence.
	"I will, Andrew." Walt fought back the lump in his own throat as he
watched the shy, hurt youngster of the last night transform back into the
soldier he'd first met. "Please write me, let me know how you are faring.
I will send you whatever new music I find for your bow."
	"Thank you, sir...Walt..." Andrew finished fastening the two inch
wide belt around his frock coat and smoothed the ensemble out. He carefully
slung his fiddle over one shoulder and settled his kepi onto his head. "I
will."
	Gathering the great coat into his arms, he turned back to find
himself wrapped in the older man's embrace again. "Take care, my boy."
	"I shall do my best." Andrew turned back and exited the room; "Good
bye." He proceeded quickly downstairs and out into the still cool, sunny
March morning. Turning north, he continued carefully. He didn't want to
ruin his host's hard work unnecessarily.
	He breathed in relief as he soon found himself back in familiar
surroundings. His trip back to the camp of instruction would be much faster
now. He was silently dreading the questions he would receive, asking after
Robert's health, but... The brightness of the day, following what seemed to
be week after week of cloud and rain, helped brighten his spirit as well.
He felt he could face the questioning of his comrades with ease now. "Thank
you, God... and thank you, Robby."

	It turned out he didn't have much time to answer questions, as he
found his camp in a state of organized confusion he'd grown somewhat used
to by that point. His heart beat faster as he saw that the tents were being
struck.
	"Andrew, glad to see you back!" Sergeant Asa Young stopped in
midstride and turned quickly. "Get to the Quartermaster. Draw at least
three days rations and make sure you've your eighty rounds and rifle ready.
I'll send Private Scott over to help you strike the tent and place it on
the wagon train. We'll be leaving after dark. Now go and get anything
you're missing and get packed up."
	"Sergeant Young?" Andrew moved quickly to stay up with his regimental
sergeant. It appeared he was moving toward the Quartermaster's wagons and
tents as well. "Where are we going?"
	South, my lad. Finally south." Sergeant Young barked back, the joy
self-evident in his voice. The first regiment had been in Virginia with
McCleland's campaign up the James river for almost a month, already earning
headlines in the papers. Now it would be their turn. "We've been attached
to Augur's brigade. We'll be providing flankers and skirmishers for King's
division... I don't know exactly where we're going but I guess we'll all be
the first to know when we get there.... Oh, and get rid of that damned
feather."
	"Yes, sergeant." Andrew pushed his way through his comrades to find
Mr. Calef up to his ears in papers and crates.
	"Andy..." The rotund man smiled and extended his arm. "Glad to see
you've not outgrown your uniform yet. What do you need? How many cartridges
you still have?"
	"I'll need eighty rounds, sir." Andrew quickly grabbed the four boxes
of twenty rounds each and set them aside. His cartridge box actually still
held twenty rounds which left him space for forty more in the box and the
rest in his backpack. He'd have one hundred rounds instead of the
regulation eighty but figured they wouldn't be missed and, besides, almost
all the others were doing the same.
	He then grabbed a tin of standard caps of `top-hat' design. The
Sharps rifle had an automatic capper that would feed special percussion
caps, included with the cartridges, onto the nipple but it didn't always
work properly. That was the only part of the 'truthful Sharps' that
couldn't be relied on.
	"Thank you, sir." Andrew glanced over where the men assigned to help
the quartermaster were busy with pieces of salted meats and boxes of the
hard crackers and, most welcome of all, coffee! Now if he could get some
honest-to-god real tobacco for his pipe. That had remained unused in his
pack for most of the month. He couldn't afford what the merchants and
suttlers charged for the poor excuse of tobacco available. He turned to
pick up his rations. "I'll put these to good use."
	"Private Griffin, wait!" Mr. Calef put out a restraining hand and
pushed a leather-scabbarded knife toward him. "We just received these this
morning. You may need it."
	"Yes, sir." Andrew hefted the two pound blade. Knife didn't do the
saber bayonet justice. Its blade was almost twenty inches and the hilt
extended the whole thing to two feet. He almost giggled when he added it to
his bundle. If he hadn't grown those two inches this year, it would have
been a sword for him, not something to fit onto the end of the rifle.
	He just hoped they were never ordered to use the damn thing. It was
heavy enough to ruin his aim and make the rifle weigh over eleven pounds in
his hands. He also felt his squeamishness rising up. He'd always hated
bayonet drill. It was one thing to shoot a man but quite another to feel
him wiggling on the end of your rifle. "Thank you again, sir."
	"No problem, my boy." Mr. Calef quickly turned to see to another
request. "Now run get your food. We don't have much time left."

____________________________________________________________________________________________

	Andrew smirked as he quickly moved through the light underbrush, the
weight of his pack moving comfortably along with him on this fourth day
into Virginia and one day out of their advanced camp at Bristow Station.
The travel so far had been one wait after another, briefly interrupted with
periods of frantic activity. Hurry up and pack, then wait almost a full day,
finally marching to Alexandria with a wait to cross the Potomac first, of
course, then the passage to Bristow Station courtesy of the Orange and
Alexandria Railroad...a day later after the marching order was finally
straightened out.
	He silently scanned through the sparse trees of the thinning forest
near the road they were protecting from surprises. The early morning sun
filtered through the young growth foliage to dapple his surroundings. His
eyes briefly wandered to either side to keep his progress in line with his
comrades, moving the same direction about five to ten yards away.
	His older brother had always been to his left in the past but now
Stephen had been assigned to 'detached' duty with one of the company's
heavy bench rifles. Stephen was now back struggling along the muddy road,
staying close to the wagon that carried the thirty five pound scoped muzzle-
loader. Michael would be behind him as well, standing unseen, bugle in hand,
next to Captain Fessenden as they oversaw the left flank of King's line of
march.
	Andrew scanned back to his right again, where Robert had always been.
Now that position was held by Private Scott! Blond hair glowing golden in
the morning sun. Andrew's scowl deepened. Henry Scott! Twenty one year old
former divinity student was ordered to share a tent with Andrew when they
went to camp and had refused, much to the anger of their junior Lieutenant.
Call him a sodomite, did he! Their Captain had settled the issue and avoided
a court martial for all involved by rearranging the sleeping assignments,
finally placing Andrew near the officer's to act as a steward when they
settled in place for a while.
	In truth, Andrew would have preferred being alone anyway....
	He suddenly stopped along with the men around him and crouched
slightly. He felt more than saw the clearing that was developing in front
of them, but what made him stop was the slight smell of burned wood that
wafted in, carried by the almost imperceptible breeze drifting past his
face.
	"Private Griffin, Private Scott!" Second Lieutenant George Leaby
scrambled between the two and let a wolfish grin smear across his
whiskered features, the black hairs and gray eyes lending themselves to
the wolf image as well. "Come with me... I want to have a closer look.
Sergeant Myers, pass the word...everybody wait here for our return." His
grin grew broader. "Or unless you hear firing."
	Andrew watched silently as Lieutenant Leaby motioned them forward
with his rifle. This unit, he'd been pleased to note months ago, gave their
officers something sensible to fight with instead of those silly
pigstickers the rest used. He kept up a constant scan with his eyes as he
moved from one tree to the next. Something else entirely too sensible. He'd
also been drilled for the infantry before they switched to learning their
trade as scouts and skirmishers. He decided early on that civilization
wasn't all that civilized. Stand in a line and shoot at each other? Even a
pea-wit would know better.
	He watched as his lieutenant suddenly dropped to the ground and moved
behind a fallen tree on his hands and knees. He felt the hair on the nape
of his neck standing out. Surely, whoever they had been stalking would have
placed pickets of their own. Maybe the smoke had belonged to civilians
after all. But if not, these weren't rabbits he was after any more. He
gripped his smooth rifle stock tighter in both hands to stop the shaking
that threatened to emerge.
	Crouching as low as he could on his two legs, he quickly moved into
position next to the officer behind the high end of the dead-fall. His skin
was crawling between his shoulder blades, like his body expected the sudden
punch of a half-ounce lead bullet any second. He gulped in some more air to
settle his nerves. The brief flash of the impact and pain didn't happen.
There had to be enemy pickets....
	Andrew raised his head slowly to look through the tangled ball of
long dead tree roots and dirt. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the
dismounted horsemen milling about a quenched campfire. None wore any type
of uniform except for three figures in gray, one of whom, also dismounted,
was gesticulating wildly and pointing at two nude bodies hanging in a tree
by their necks. He guessed they were about three hundred yards away, too
far to hear. The other two sat their horses uncomfortably, free hands on
their holsters. A third naked figure, obviously much younger than the
others, was being held by his brown hair and neck by a man, whose broad
floppy hat hid his features except for a long dark beard. He was being
addressed by the officer in gray.
	"Henry," Lieutenant Leaby whispered quietly, "get back to Sergeant
Myers and pass the word that we've found the missing men and drummer boy
from that supply wagon that went missing last night. Tell him to bring the
men forward. Quickly!"
	"Sir!" Henry whispered curtly before sliding back on his belly behind
some bushes before turning to run back toward their lines.
	"Andy?" The lieutenant spoke again. "How many you see?"
	"Maybe thirty?" Andrew whispered back. His eyes continued scanning
the field. A slight glint of reflected light flashed and disappeared off to
the left. "Maybe more to the left."
	"I'll take your word for it." George grimaced slightly. "I can't see
over that way.... Shit!"
	Andrew caught his lieutenant ducking back out of the corner of his
eye. The officer arguing with the leader of the irregular rangers appeared
to be staring back at them. He felt his heart catch in his throat and
remained perfectly still. He didn't even want to blink. The man in gray
swept the forest with his arm and turned back toward the other commander.
"I don't think that officer likes how those other men make war."
	"Yeah." George risked another slow peek above the log. "They have to
know we're close by. I can't imagine they have no pickets or scouts....
Bastards were probably having too much fun hanging the prisoners... I hope
we take them... Oh, God!"
	"Sweet mother Mary and Joseph!" Andrew reacted at the same time,
bringing his rifle up and flipping up the rear sight and setting the ladder
to the three hundred yard marking before he realized he'd done it. The
naked boy had broken away and was streaking away through the grass as fast
as his legs would carry him. The gray officer had a restraining arm up in
the face of the rangers' guns, his revolver now out of its holster. "Run,
me boyo...."
	"...Damn you...." The Confederate officer's scream carried through
the wind to barely reach Andrew's ears. 	Andrew watched as two huge
bloodhounds suddenly separated from the packed group of horsemen, baying
after their new prey. He quickly rechecked that a cap was in place and
pulled the hammer back from half to full cock.
	"Andy!" Lieutenant Leaby hissed through his gritted teeth. "Wait!
Don't shoot! The others aren't here yet."
	"But!" Andrew kept the rifle tight to his shoulder and pulled the
front trigger. He felt the assembly set itself. and moved his finger
toward the rear trigger. It was now set to fire with the slightest pull,
what old California Joe had called a `hair trigger'. He kept his finger
off of it though. The dogs had disappeared in some taller grass, the
chance of his hitting one of them had gone from none to worse!
	"It's too late, Andy..." George closed his eyes to the high scream
from across the field. "God damn it! Where is Sergeant Myers!"
	Andrew couldn't tear his eyes off the boy as the dogs brought him
down. A horse and gray rider suddenly filled his sight. The rider's long
auburn mane flowed behind him as he flung himself out of the saddle,
suddenly hidden by the horse's body. It looked to Andrew as if the young
man or boy, it seemed like he was the only one of the enemy without visible
hair on his face, was pulling and swinging at the pile of dogs and boy!
	`Crack!' He saw the puff of smoke that hung in the still air a
second or two before the report of a pistol shot echoed through the trees.
That was soon followed by a second, then a third shot. He saw the naked
body scramble up, covered with numerous streams of blood coming from
multiple wounds all over his body. The drummer tried to make a dozen or so
steps away before the lad's bloody body fell again. The dogs were nowhere
to be seen.
	"Damnation!" George snarled in his rage, finally giving in to it.
"Andy! Can you take that sonofabitch with the floppy hat? The others should
be close by now!"
	"Yes, sir!" Andrew returned the snarl with bared teeth and shifted
his aim back to the group, picking out the man with the dark beard again.
His shaking was gone and so was his nervousness at having a man in his
sights. It had all been replaced by his hours of training and extra
practice on the regiment's range back at Washington, where they'd put on
demonstrations for visiting dignitaries, and by a cold rage of his own! He
took a deep breath and began letting it out slowly and gently squeezed the
rear trigger.
	`Boom!' The rifle barked loudly in his ears and jerked back into his
shoulder. A cloud of white smoke filled his view for half a second before
he could see through the lightening haze. `Floppy hat' was on the ground,
clawing at the clothes around his midsection!
	"Good shot!" Andrew heard just before the lieutenant's rifle barked
next to him. He quickly flipped the trigger guard down, dropping the
breechblock, and pulled the hammer back to half cock. Reaching back into
the cartridge box worn on his belt, he rapidly reached for another linen-
wrapped cartidge and fed it into the barrel. He slammed the guard back in
place, raising the breechblock and cutting the end off the linen in the
process. Then his hand quickly found his cap box and he fitted the small
copper cup over the end of the nipple set in the breechblock. He pulled the
hammer all the way back while setting the weapon back in place against his
shoulder. He once again pulled the front trigger back, then moved it to the
`set' rear and lined up on the next target he saw. He then gently squeezed
again!
	"Quick! The horses!" George yelled, now that their position was known,
and to overcome the ringing in his ears. "Shoot the damn horses before they
use 'em to get behind us!" George fired again at a horse, whose rider was
just struggling to mount. He smiled with satisfaction to see the beast
suddenly drop, kicking and taking its rider with it!
	Andrew shifted his aim again and sent his next ball into a packed
cluster of the rangers' mounts. He knew they were supposed to fire between
eight to ten rounds a minute but his rate had been slower as he'd been
aiming much too slowly. His last target spun violently, kicking and
thrashing at everything around it as the hole deep in its neck sprayed
everything around it red from a severed artery. The confusion on the other
side was complete now.
	He stole a quick glance over to where the auburn haired boy in gray
had been moments before, while he reloaded again. He saw that the young man
had remounted successfully and was galloping into the trees opposite them.
He started to swing his sights over that way but stopped. The boy in gray
was hunched over the nude bloody form of the captive youngster, draped over
the front of the saddle. Andrew couldn't figure out if the young man was
hunched over to avoid the fire or to protect his young prisoner but it
didn't matter. He couldn't and wouldn't have taken the shot anyway.
	He swung back and saw the officer who'd been arguing with `floppy
hat' kicking his own mount into motion toward where that glint of
reflection had been. He aimed and squeezed, watching the officer tumble
out of the saddle.
	Andrew didn't have time to feel regret at that point. He'd been
shooting at the officer's horse anyway. He ducked when a shattered branch
fell from over his head, striking him on his neck. He became more aware of
the smoke on the other side of the field and the slaps and buzzing around
him. His head involuntarily ducked. Where was the rest of the company?
	He glanced at ten riders circling around to the left to get behind
them. This was crazy! They were only two against thirty or more! He fired
at the galloping riders to no effect. Missed! His legs gathered under him,
heart pounding louder then the shots in his ears! Everything in him told
him to run!
	"Damn it!" Lieutenant Leaby jerked back with blood streaking his
face. His left arm hung uselessly beside him. He saw Andrew start toward
him. "I'll be all right, Andy... Keep shooting, damn you!"
	"Y...Yes, sir!" Andrew raised the rifle back into his shoulder after
reloading and fired across the field through the smoke. Suddenly more fire
erupted to either side of their position and six of the ten riders he'd
seen came reeling back across the field and he heard a bugle signaling
`advance!'
	Well, it was a close rendition. He breathed out in relief.... The
only person who could be so off-key and still somehow get it right was
Michael! He heard some rustling behind their cover...
	"The Captain sends his regards!" Sergeant Myers crawled forward and
grasped his lieutenant's leg. He kept his voice lighter than he felt as he
saw the wounds, "...and for me to tell you both that before you try to win
the war single-handedly, you might wait for the rest of us!"
	Sergeant Myers quickly helped George fashion a simple tourniquet over
the wound and peeked above the old log. The enemy's returned fire had
slackened considerably in the face of the company's arrival. They were now
facing eighty men instead of two. He turned to look at the gunpowder-
stained face of the boy. "What say you, Andrew? Shall we go finish those
bastards before King's boys get up?"
	"Yes, Sergeant." Andrew replied quietly just before he sent another
ball across the field into the remaining riders who were now scattering
toward the left and the safety of what had to be more Confederate troops.
He finally slipped his pack off and laid it next to the wounded man. "But
there may be more to our left!"
	"All right." Sergeant Myers turned and beckoned another figure in
green forward. "I'll send word back to the Captain! Now let's go see for
ourselves. It's what we're here for, after all!" He turned back to relay
the information to the other soldier.
	"You both go! Ahhhh!" George hissed loudly. He needed to get his coat
off but really didn't want to see the damage. He looked up to see his young
private stand shakily and start to crawl over the log. "You've been blooded
now, lad...well done. ...Now, take care and send 'em to hell! I'll be along
in a minute."
	Andrew turned away from the officer and slowly jogged out into the
field to form up with the others who'd continued their advance. He grimaced
with the effort to keep his legs under him as he continued to scan the
opposite treeline for any signs of activity that would spell his bloody end.
He managed to keep up as they made their way quickly across the open space
in front of them. His eyes seemed to be working overtime out here in the
open like he was. God had gifted him exceptional eyesight.... There!
	He saw the motion and dropped to one knee when the puff of smoke
erupted from the trees in front. The man directly to his right crumpled
silently. Andrew thought he must be shot, but didn't have time to think
much further as he aimed for the center of the cloud and pulled his own
trigger... He flushed in embarrassment as he saw a branch immediately fall.
Too High! The rest of the line also fired right after he did. He flipped
the rear sight back down and broke into a run, reloading as he went, to
make up the space quickly before the other man opposite him could reload
as well.
	Andrew skidded to a halt and dropped behind a body for protection. He
mentally kicked himself for stupidity! The trees were just too far away and
he was too far in front of the others. He jerked back from resting his
rifle across the body when it groaned at him. He silently regarded the dark
beard, floppy hat, and the hole in the shirt of the man he hid next to.
	"Damn you to hell," the man hissed through his teeth. "You and all
like you, boy." He spit up some red froth, further staining his beard. "I...
want to know...who killed me...."
	"I...I did." Andrew gulped down some more air as the others began to
catch up to his position. The trees were silent now, the enemy shooter
either dead or gone. He cautiously sat up to stare back for a moment, icy
green eyes to dark brown ones. He'd gut-shot the bastard lying below him.
	"Damn.... You say." The man coughed again and winced in pain. "If...
I could I'd...see all...you dance...from my...rope...like your...friends..
Now...why don't...you finish me...?"
	"You'll die in your own time," Andrew hissed back as he rose back to
his feet and stepped away, headed toward the trees again. He glanced from
the two naked bodies hanging near by to the prone man's face again, "...but
I'll not murder the helpless."
	"Fuck you, boy!" The man tried groping for his holstered pistol
aimlessly. His gaze was one of pure hatred. "I'll...see you in...hell!"
	Andrew raised his rifle and took aim at the man's head.
	"Andy!" Sergeant Myers barked suddenly to get the boy's attention.
"Move on and check those woods with the others! You were right! We've got
infantry forming to our left.... Move!"
	"Sir!" Andrew relaxed his arms, letting the rifle slump down. He
moved out into the woods along with his platoon, once again guarding a
flank. He stopped and rested against a tree trunk for a moment and took a
long swallow from his canteen. God, he was dry! The warm water seemed to
settle his heaving stomach. `Lord in heaven!' he thought; `So close! He'd
come so close!'
	He tiredly pushed off and continued advancing with the others until
they all crouched down behind trunks and settled in to wait. Distant drums
echoed through the leaves along with the occasional round of shooting that
seemed to grow in intensity. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes
repeatedly, then removed his kepi and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Everything in front of them seemed still and quiet, nothing was moving.
Another bugle call suddenly pierced the air and renewed firing he heard to
their left, sounding recall. He shook his head to clear it. Was that
movement in front of him?
	"Andrew! Com'on!" He glanced quickly at the voice on his right and
waved his acknowledgment. Slowly rising, he walked backward the way he'd
come. His ears heard nothing but the rustling of the underbrush as the
others receded behind him; "Andy! Hurry up!"
	"All right!" Andrew snarled back over his shoulder. He turned to
begin his lope back with his comrades.
	"Don't move, Yank." Andrew barely heard the whisper from a patch of
heavy undergrowth. He froze in his tracks. He was a dead man! His short
life was over! Why didn't he check that area when they advanced? He turned
his head slowly and found himself staring at the blue eyes and auburn hair
behind the blue steel of a revolver pointed at his chest.
	"Go ahead and shoot me." Andrew finally found his voice after what
seemed like hours, trying to keep the shaking out of it. He kept his rifle
pointed down but wasn't about to let go of it while he lived. He closed
his eyes, waiting; "I'll not be hanged like the others...." He somehow
found the courage to ask the question that came to his mind; "Where's the
boy you had?"
	"He's here with me." The other whispered back before he glanced
around and stepped out of his concealment; "We had nothing to do with those
men. We didn't hang anybody." He grimaced at the memory, then proceeded
with his business. "You have a surgeon close by?"
	"Yes," Andrew answered quietly through the gunfire which had begun
to quiet again.
	"Good," the auburn haired boy spoke. He lowered the pistol slightly.
"Sling your rifle. I give you my word, I won't hurt you or hold you...
just take the boy to your surgeon."
	"Why?" Andrew continued to stare, eyes wide now. He felt his
breathing and the tightness in his chest beginning to ease. He cautiously
slung his rifle, muzzle down, as instructed and moved slowly into the
brush.
	"Don't ask questions..." The boy in gray snarled before moving away
from the boy in green. God! Andrew - that was the name the others used -
didn't look much older than the unfortunate drummer boy he'd tried to save.
"We don't have a surgeon close by. Now take him and go! Next time I'll kill
you, Andrew!"
	"Hey!" Andrew picked up the unconscious boy by his arm and heaved him
over his shoulder like he had whenever Michael and he had wrestled behind
the house back home. He turned back to regard the other youth. "What's your
name? You know mine."
	"Never you mind." The auburn haired boy screwed up his face suddenly.
"How did you know about the boy already? Did you start all the shootin'?"
	"Aye, I did." Andrew could only shrug one shoulder.
	"That was good shootin'." The boy in gray ran his fingers through his
long locks, then stuck his hand out toward Andrew; "But I will kill you
next time I see ya."
	"Not if I see you first." Andrew returned the handshake. "And I
shan't be fooled by such again."
	"I guess we'll have to see then." Andrew heard the other say. He
quickly turned away and quickly made off back the way he'd come, carrying
his precious load. The boy groaned once as he picked his way forward, then
was still, but Andrew could feel the boy breathing through his heavy wool.
He silently prayed that the surgeon wouldn't need to use those knives or
that saw on one so young as he carried.
	The boy in gray watched Andrew's retreating back with a sharpening
scowl. He began to feel that maybe he should have shot that young boy in
that strange green uniform. He and his troops had been told to watch for
those green uniforms by some spy reports he'd heard of. It was said that
they wouldn't fight fair and in the open like real men. The attack had been
proof of that! Still, he found it unbelievable that one so boyishly cute
like Andy could be that dangerous. He silently kicked himself again as he
turned to jog back behind his camp to rejoin the men on their rearguard
action. Dangerous enough to drop a man at three hundred yards or more with
a single shot! He should have killed that boy in green! But there was
something about those matching green eyes as well....
	"Andy?" Sergeant Myers just shook his head, watching his young
soldier struggle out of the woods with his burden. He was relieved. He
thought he'd lost the lad when he didn't emerge with the others. "Where did
that come from?"
	Andrew quietly explained as they both retraced their steps back
across the field toward the more secure side. He left out the part played by
the boy in gray. It was too embarrassing to reveal how he'd been caught out
the way he was....
	"Well done, son." The sergeant smiled as he heard the tale. Andy
wasn't revealing everything, but that wasn't important right then; "Why
don't you lay the boy down with the others next to your log. The surgeon
should be here shortly. Then come see me... The Captain wanted me to give
you something."
	"Yes, sergeant." Andrew quietly stepped over to the shaded area
indicated and laid his passenger onto the grass between his Lieutenant and
the other ten wounded men, three in green. They lay, quietly awaiting their
fate. What else could they do? Andrew finally straightened up. "Lieutenant?
Sir? What happened?"
	"I think I'm the wrong person to ask, my boy." George stared up with
his pained eyes; "I think we hit a rearguard but they left after exchanging
some shots. Now go, Andrew. Pester someone else."
	"Yes, sir." Andrew quietly retrieved his pack, settling it in place
on his back and trotted back to where his sergeant stood.
	"Andy?" Sergeant Myers wasn't smiling this time as he pulled the boy
aside from the groups performing various policing duties. There were bodies
and weapons to be disposed of, among other things. He reached into a pocket
and pulled a small revolver out, along with its case. "Here, lad. You
killed the man. The Captain wants you to have it... I hope it does you more
good than it did its previous owner!"
	"Yes, sergeant." Andrew stared at the small Colt pocket pistol held
out to him like his sergeant was handing him a poisonous snake. He finally
took it in his hand gingerly and slipped it into his coat pocket. He could
feel the weight of it there, seeming to pull him down. A shiver trailed
down his spine. What could he say? "Thank you, sir."
	"Don't thank me, son!" Sergeant Myers fairly snarled at the boy; "I
catch you acting stupid again and finding yourself alone.... I'll have your
balls for my breakfast!"
	"Sorry." Andrew stared down at his feet and shuffled uncomfortably.
Everything the man said was true. By all rights he should be bleeding his
life away in the woods. "I shan't..."
	"Damn right you won't!" The sergeant's face seemed to grow redder by
the minute, a father no longer amused with his boy's dangerous behavior.
"Tell you what! To help this lesson sink into that thick skull of yours....
Drop your things right here.... The rebs are miles away by now, and go find
a log. You can carry it around the camp on your back for a while!"
	"Yes, Sergeant." Andrew felt himself deflate in front of the man as
he began shedding his gear and coat. He hoped his first choice met the
man's requirements. Otherwise he'd probably end up dragging an entire tree
around all day! He knew he deserved it but he'd never seen the man this
angered at him before!

	"Is that the one?" The group of riders sat easily on the slight rise
overlooking the swath of green grass in the fading light of the afternoon.
The one who spoke raised his field glasses back to his eyes, looking at the
Union riflemen setting up to stay for the night. "That boy murdered my
brother?"
	"He didn't hang any prisoners!" The boy in gray snarled back, sun
shining through his auburn mane. "Jesus! He wasn't gon'a kill a naked boy!"
	"You listen, boy!" The new leader of the partisan riders turned back
viciously with arm raised as if to strike out with the crop in his hand. He
thought better of the idea though, looking at the hard eyes of the boy's
father. "You haven't been driven out of your home yet! Seen it burned...
seen your own boy die at the hand of those loyalist bastards out west!
Don't you tell me what's right, boy!"
	"Scott!" The older man dressed in his Colonel's uniform spoke quietly
to his youngest son. "Tell him."
	"But, father...." Scott looked back through the glasses his father
had given him so he wouldn't have to see the disapproval in the man's eyes.
He saw again the shock of red hair and pale skin shining with sweat in the
late sun as the boy was approached by a sergeant and allowed to drop the
log off his bare shoulder. If the circumstance had been different, he'd
have found himself laughing at the boy's punishment for whatever minor
transgression he'd committed. He watched the shadows cast by the boy's
muscles in silence, imagining he could see those green eyes and freckles
from so far away....
	"Private!" Scott's father barked again. All traces of softness were
gone from that voice now. "Tell him!"
	"Yes, sir!" Scott couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene below as
he handed the field glasses back to his Colonel. "That's him."
	"The bared one with the red hair?" the partisan leader asked again.
	"Yes!" Scott snarled back. He somehow knew that this is what Judas
must have felt like.
	"Good!" The rough man continued to stare through his own glasses,
burning the image into his mind before handing them off to his comrades to
look through; "When we're through with him, he'll be missing more than his
shirt! A gold piece to anyone who brings me his scalp and balls! Two gold
pieces if I get him alive!"

End of Part 1

	First: An apology! For those readers who enjoyed Flak Bait, I owe
everyone of you my sincere apology for my harsh words at the end of that
story. None of them were justified and I wish I could take them all back.
If anything, I should have directed them where they belonged! Right back
at me for being so unprepared to do the story the justice it deserved! I
have learned my lesson! Please forgive this storyteller for his lapse into
stupidity.

	Second: This is a work of fiction and I mean no disrespect to any
historical figures I've portrayed. I have tried to remain faithful to their
personalities as researched and imagined by me. Campbell Hospital did exist
on Seventh Street near the northern outskirts of Washington DC and was one
of the wards frequented by Walt Whitman in 1862. The rest is my imagination,
based on Mr. Whitman's wartime poetry and the input of other biographers.

	Third: Though I have taken some license with historical fact (The
2nd USSS didn't receive their Sharps rifles until late April 1862), much of
the circumstances surrounding the story are based in fact. The 2nd United
States Sharpshooters did exist. The two USSS regiments formed by Hiram
Berdan did wear green colored uniforms and had special equipment and
tactics considered years ahead of its time. (Such as the first `frame'
backpacks.) The area of operations is also accurate, though the small
skirmish portrayed is my imagination.

	Last: It should be noted that the regular armies of both sides
generally applied the rules of war that existed at that time and did not
mistreat or execute prisoners. Those same rules, however, were not always
followed by the partisan and irregular forces of either side. Although the
actions of Confederate forces under Mosby and Quantrel are more famous, or
infamous depending on your point of view, Pro-Union irregular forces were
often guilty of the same actions.

I would like to thank Ed for his assistance with this story, making my
spelling and grammar go away! (Grin)
I would also like to thank Steve for his support and encouragement with
this story as well. (If you haven't read 'No Greater Love' or 'High Iron'
yet? Shame on you! They are two great stories!)

I would love to hear from you about this latest effort of mine as well as
my other two `active' stories. ('Mile High' and 'Flip"') I do try to answer
all the mail I get. Thanks for your patience.

      			Willy B. (haztech@msn.com) or (willyb184@aol.com)