Picket duty

The sky was a light gray as the dawn haze flooded over the grassy field. Scars of white lightning danced and darted along the horizon. The flickers lightning of exposed four figures gazing down a black dirt road with a longing for sleep in their young eyes.

One of the men was sprawled out on the grass hardly giving the path a glance. He was a short man with gleaming blue eyes and stubble of blond covering his double chin. Pulling his oversized butternut jacket over his slim, frame he sighed deeply. He knew nothing would happen this morning, just like the other days of the week.

“Where are ya, Yankees?” muttered Jack Cross toward the other side of field. He wanted a fight now more then anything. Since he and the army limped away from Gettysburg, the army had changed. New bright faced men who had been conscripted, replaced old dependable volunteers, and he hated them for it. But most of all, he hated the Yankees. They were the devils! They had forced him to steal from his own people, to carry on without any food for days on end. The last thing he had eaten was barely in his memory. It had been a raw ear of corn he had picked from a planters field. It was hardly the feast of coffee and the dried biscuit called Hardtack and coffee he had enjoyed in days gone by.

“Anything, Corporal?” asked Sergeant Walsh calmly, his big eyes staring into the fog.

“Not a lick, Sergeant,” said Cross wondering who would be foolish enough to mount an attack in the dense mist.

“Good,” said thirty-year old in his fatherly tone. “Get some rest if ya can.”

“I will, Sergeant,” said Cross as he walked toward what once was the proud Army of Northern Virginia.

He slung his Enfield over his shoulder and wandered toward the flicking fires of the Twentieth Virginia. His brogans crunched in the grass as he slipped past the slumbering men of company B. Cross laid down next one of the fires, and then fumbled with his wool blanket until it cover his legs. Rolling over he saw Jim Bridger sleeping with his gray kepi tucked over his eyes. When he heard Cross’ blankets rustle, he swore.

“I’m not dead yet,” he mumbled. “I ken still hear ya.”

“You don’t shut up, some bluebelly’ll shoot you in the mouth,” retorted Cross throwing his jacket over the fire. “Hell I’ll do it fer ‘em!” Cross listened to the faint pop pop as lice exploded off his jacket.

“You couldn’t even hit a cow two paces away,” said Bridger laughing, but then stopped because his remark made him think of food. “Think they’ll attack tomorrow?”

“Got to,” said Cross flatly.

“Whatta you mean ‘got to’” asked Bridger his eyes flooding with concern.

“Wouldn’t you?” asked Cross annoyed. “I mean, they know we’re starvin’ and under-strength. And Grant and Sherman aren’t idiots, look what they done to Georgia!”

“Guess we’ll find out in the morin’” said Bridger his voice quaking.