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He was dunking a piece of hardtack in a cup of coffee to soften it when the lieutenant strode up to him.

  “Come with me.”

  Zach put aside the tin cup. “Did I do something wrong?” Was he at fault for what those men had tried to do?

  “What? No!”

  Zach breathed out a sigh of relief and once again did as he was ordered.

  Lieutenant Marriott led him to the lines where the horses were picketed. His stride was stiff, and he muttered under his breath, but every so often, Zach could distinguish a word or two, and if his Pa had ever heard Zach using those words, Pa would have whaled the tar out of him.

  “Those men are the Wilson brothers—Ezra, Ephraim, Eli, and Enoch. They’re bad news.” The lieutenant’s voice was stone cold. “Their commanding officer won’t do anything about them. He lost too many men and is willing to believe them when they say you made the whole thing up.”

  “But the bite mark—”

  “Wilson claimed a dog bit him.”

  Zach stared at him, open-mouthed. “I don’t lie.”

  “Think I don’t know that? Though if you’d been a girl, they would have swung for laying a hand on you.” He reached out and squeezed Zach’s shoulder. “They’ll be moving out in a day or so. Until them, I want you to stay in camp.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant? What they wanted to make me do…”

  “It’s been called the French way to make love, although it’s more enjoyable when both parties agree to it—even more so if they care for each other. If one is forced…” He shook his head and murmured low, “That poor little girl.” Then he spoke in a normal tone of voice. “One day, when you’re older, you’ll find someone who’ll do that to you.”

  “Men can do that to other men? I mean, those men wanted me to do it to them.”

  “How old are you, Shorty?”

  “I turned twelve in April.”

  “You’ve got the eyes of an old soul. Sometimes that makes me forget how young you are.”

  Because of Zach’s height—or rather lack of it—people tended not to look beyond it and always saw him as a kid.

  The lieutenant’s shoulders slumped, and while Zach didn’t understand why, he did feel bad for him. The lieutenant straightened. “Did your pa ever talk to you about what goes on between a man and a woman?”

  “Yeah, but he never said anything about what could happen between two men.” Although come to think of it, Zach did recall something from when he and Pa had lived with Ma’s people. He brushed it aside for the time being. “Is it wrong?”

  “Love is never wrong.” Once again he rested his palm on Zach’s shoulder, and Zach was distracted by how much he liked the sensation. “Some folks think the act—its proper name is fellatio—is too French. You just have to be careful.”

  “I will be, I promise. Er…Have you, Lieutenant?”

  “Have I what?” For a second he looked nervous, and Zach wondered why.

  “Found someone who’d do that to you?” Zach wasn’t sure why, but it felt important for him to know this.

  “Yes.”

  Zach wanted to ask if it had been with a man or a lady, but the grim line around the lieutenant’s mouth persuaded him not to.

  “Here,” the lieutenant said. He handed Zach a little pearl-handled derringer. “Keep this with you. And don’t shoot yourself in the foot. It’s loaded.”

  “I know how to shoot.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Zach scowled at him. “Pa taught me.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. But I can’t take this, Lieutenant. It’s too valuable.” Thanks to his pa, Zach knew guns, and this deadly little beauty was worth a lot of money.

  “Not as valuable as you are, Shorty.” A flush colored the lieutenant’s cheeks. “What I mean to say is, you’re an excellent drummer, and I’m sure if you hadn’t continued to beat your drum earlier today, this would have turned into a worse defeat than it was. So you keep it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The lieutenant ruffled Zach’s shaggy mop of black hair and walked him back to the safety of their camp. He left Zach there while he went to see to the men, and Zach stared after him, a strange feeling low down in his belly that he’d never felt before.

  So this is hero worship, he thought. He ran his fingertips over the fine work on the derringer’s barrel and handle, and in spite of the all-around horror of the day, he smiled.

  * * * *

  Zach was tidying the campsite after chow when Henry, who shared the tent with him, came over from another tent. “Wanna play some cards, Shorty?” he asked. “The boys thought it might help distract us.”

  “Not tonight.” They could all use something to take the bitter taste of defeat from their mouths, but Zach had some things he needed to mull over.

  “Probably just as well.” Henry gave him a lopsided grin. “You’re getting too damned good. Maybe someone else’ll be able to win a pot.”

  “Gotta give you all that chance.” Zach smiled in spite of the fact he wanted Henry gone.

  “And maybe it’ll be me.” Henry waggled his eyebrows.

  “Maybe it will.”

  “‘Night, Shorty.” Henry finally left.

  Zach called quietly after him, “‘Night.”

  Zach finished his tasks. He supposed he should try to get some sleep, but he had too much on his mind. He took out his harmonica, sank down cross-legged before his campfire, and began to play softly. He started with “Beautiful Dreamer,” and while the sweet notes filled the night, he recalled an incident that had occurred when Pa had sent him to a school.

  “You need to make friends your own age, son. And you need to learn more things than I can teach you. You want to be more than a gunsmith, don’t you?”

  Zach didn’t responded to that. He wouldn’t have minded being a gunsmith like Pa, but he knew he didn’t have the skill. To tell the truth, he wasn’t certain what he wanted to do when he grew up.

  But he went to school to please Pa. He did well enough with the various subjects because he wanted to make Pa proud, but he didn’t care too much for the boys Pa wanted to be his friends. For some reason, they seemed to enjoy picking on him for the copper tone of his skin, which he’d gotten from his ma, but since they let him alone most of the time, he ignored their hateful words. Maybe that was what drove them to escalate the situation into a fistfight. The comments went from the color of his skin to the fact he was too little, too much like a little girl, and because of that, they threatened to yank off his trousers and put him in a dress.

  He never would have let that happen, and in this instance, he fought back.

  Pa wasn’t happy when Zach got sent home from school for blacking their eyes and bloodying their noses. When he explained to Pa why he’d done what he had, Pa was even unhappier.

  “I don’t understand why they wanted to beat me up, though. And why call me Nellie? They knew my name.”

  “Nellie isn’t a girl’s name, not when boys like that use it.”

  “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  Pa had sighed. “It’s a not nice name for men who…who like men.”

  “And who wear a dress?”

  “What?”

  “They said they wanted to put me in a dress.”

  “I never thought I’d have to have this conversation with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Pa.”

  “Don’t be. This isn’t your fault. Do you remember Galegenoh and Waya?”

  Zach thought for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “We knew them from when we lived with Ma’s people.”

  “That’s right. Do you also remember they shared a blanket, that they lived together as if they were man and wife?”

  “Yes.” Although all he knew was they had been kind to him after his ma died.

  “They were very well thought of.” Pa sighed again. “The thing is, what was all right with your ma’s people isn’t all right here in the States. Men who live like that here aren’t look
ed on with kindness.”

  “That doesn’t make those people calling them names very Christian.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Then why would they do it? And why would anyone care who I share a blanket with?”

  Pa’s face turned red. “Have you…uh…given any thought about that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t you be in any hurry to do that, you hear me?”

  He could see Pa was getting upset about the matter, so he nodded.

  “The important thing is you don’t let anyone bully you. Understand?”

  Zach might not have understood anyone objecting to who a person loved, but he understood that. “Yes, Pa.”

  The last notes of “Beautiful Dreamer” drifted into the night air. He smiled wistfully, tapped the moisture out of his harmonica, and began “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.”

  Lieutenant Marriott strolled up to Zach’s campfire, holding his banjo. “Hey there, Shorty. Mind if I join you?”

  Zach took the harmonica from his lips and grinned up at him. “Not at all.”

  * * * *

  After that, when the company set up camp at the end of each day, Zach tagged along with Lieutenant Marriott as he checked picket lines and made sure men and animals were comfortable and fed. And all the men grinned at the sight of Zach trying to match his stride to that of the tall lieutenant’s, and they teased him, but the grins and the teasing were good-natured. And if anyone suspected Zach’s devotion to the tall man was growing into something more than hero worship, well…they never said anything about it.

  * * * *

  A little less than three weeks later, the early hours of September 17, 1862, saw the start of the bloodiest day in the country’s history as the Army of the Potomac met Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia in the Battle of Antietam, near Sharpsburg, Maryland.

  And Zach earned a new nickname.

  Chapter 2

  When the Rebs gave that yell of theirs and charged, it wasn’t surprising some of the men broke and ran. Bull Run was only a few weeks behind them, and no one could forget that disaster. However, the 14th, which had joined with the 6th Wisconsin, held firm.

  Zach might be only a drummer boy, but he’d show those Rebs what a Brooklyn boy was made of. He stood his ground and beat out the rat-a-tat-tat that signaled the men to attack, while Lieutenant Marriott rode up and down the line, rallying them.

  A Rebel colonel dressed in a fancy gray uniform and mounted on a beautiful bay stallion pulled up not ten yards from where Lieutenant Marriott was. The colonel aimed his Colt at the lieutenant but Zach wasn’t having any of that—the lieutenant was his friend.

  Zach tossed aside his drum and sticks and grabbed up Jamie Clancy’s rifle. He’d known Jamie back in Brooklyn, and now the eighteen-year-old lay sprawled in the dirt, his blue eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

  Zach fired the rifle, shooting off the curled plume on the colonel’s hat and distracting him. The colonel glared until he saw who had shot at him, and then he laughed at the sight of Zach standing there, busy reloading Jamie’s rifle.

  “You missed me, boy. Don’t know how you thought a bit of nothing like you could hit the broad side of a barn. That rifle is bigger than you. Now be a good boy and give it here before I take it away from you, down your britches, and paddle your behind.”

  Zach ignored him. He’d finished reloading, and this time when he fired, it wasn’t a warning shot—he put the bullet smack dab between the colonel’s eyes. “Did I miss you that time, you son of a bitch?” he snarled.

  The colonel had a look of faint surprise on his face. He toppled off his horse, and the stallion shied away, narrowly missing stepping on him. White-eyed, the bay bolted back toward the Rebel lines, dragging the colonel, whose boot was caught in the stirrup, behind him.

  Lieutenant Marriott wheeled his horse around in time to see what happened, and he called out, “Good work, Shorty. Thank you kindly.”

  “Any time, Lieutenant.” Now that the heat of the moment was over, Zach felt a little sick—not only had he never killed a man before, but he’d promised Pa he wouldn’t pick up a gun. He hid it as best he could and tossed the lieutenant a jaunty salute.

  The lieutenant rode up to Zach, leaned down and squeezed his shoulder, then turned and shouted to his men, “All right, you Red Legged Devils! If Sharps here can mow down a Rebel colonel, so can we! Now let’s go show these Johnny Rebs a thing or two!” He raised his rifle, drove his heels into his horse’s sides, and raced into the fray.

  The men gave a cheer and charged after him.

  Zach slung the rifle over his shoulder, retrieved his drum and sticks, and got back to drumming the men into battle.

  * * * *

  Later that night, while the men were celebrating the victory with whores and whiskey, Zach sat alone in his tent, trying to erase the memory of the Rebel colonel’s expression as the rifle ball made a neat hole between his eyes before it blew out the back of his head. Zach had never intended…

  Well, as it turned out, firm intentions didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. Pa wouldn’t be happy Zach had fired a gun, but he’d be even unhappier with what he’d decided to do now. One of the men he shared the tent with carried a flask of whiskey, and Zach slipped it from his haversack. He was about to take a sip when someone pulled aside the tent flap. Zach wheeled around to find himself facing Lieutenant Marriott.

  Hastily, he hid the flask behind his back. “Evening, Lieutenant.”

  “Sharps, General Doubleday would like to see you.”

  “Who, me?” It was a good thing the lieutenant hadn’t stepped into the tent. “I’ll just fetch my kepi.”

  The lieutenant stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll wait for you out here.” The flap dropped down to cover the opening.

  Zach blew out a breath. Talk about a close call. He recapped the flask and tucked it away, then caught up his hat and slapped it on his head. He stepped out of the tent, hoping the light had been dim enough that the lieutenant hadn’t seen the flask. “Why does the general want to see me, sir?”

  “I wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for you. And you just may have turned the tide for our regiment.”

  “I just—” Zach stumbled to a halt, staring open-mouthed at the man in front of him. Zach had thought the lieutenant would take him to the general, not that the general would be standing right outside Zach’s tent.

  “So you’re the boy they’re calling Sharps.” The general stood there, his uniform somewhat dusty and his saber at his side.

  Zach snapped to attention and saluted. “Uh…I don’t know why anyone would call me that, sir.”

  “You’re the drummer boy who kept his lieutenant alive at Sharpsburg.”

  “I had to, sir.” Zach kept staring. He’d never been this close to such a high-ranking officer before.

  “Other men might not have.”

  “Not in the 14th, General.” He shrugged, knowing it was true some men in other companies might have run—in fact had run—but also knowing he was part of a band of men who were fearless, and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even their commander, say otherwise.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “That’s so, General, but sooner or later we’re all gonna die.”

  “That’s a mature philosophy for a lad your age.”

  He shrugged again. He’d learned that thanks to his pa, but mostly to Ma’s people. “I couldn’t let that Reb shoot Lieutenant Marriott.”

  “Congratulations, Captain. You’ve got a staunch supporter.”

  Captain? Zach looked around but only the three of them stood there.

  “Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said, and Zach realized the general had been talking to him. “I was given a field promotion to captain, Sharps, and I’m proud to announce that you now hold the rank of corporal.”

  “I…I do?”

  “You’re a good man, Corporal Sharps,�
� the general said. “I’m proud to have fought with you this day.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “I’ll remember you.” He gave Zach—Sharps—a brisk salute, which Sharps hurried to return, shook hands with Captain Marriott, then turned and strode away.

  “How are you doing, Sharps?” the captain asked. He raised his hand as if to rest it on Sharps’s shoulder, but then let it drop.

  “I was feeling sick earlier.”

  “I don’t blame you. The first time I shot a man, I puked all over my boots. And I was a good deal older than you. But let me tell you something, my young friend. Drinking yourself stupid won’t help. It will just give you a bad headache and a sour stomach the next day, and you won’t be fit to go into battle.”

  “You saw? You didn’t say anything.”

  “I didn’t want to when the general was nearby. But please, for me, don’t start drinking.”

  “All right, Captain.” He liked the way the captain’s rank sounded on his tongue.

  “Thank you, Sharps. You saved my life, and I owe you. I’d like to think this is a small way of paying you back.” This time he did pat Sharps’s shoulder. Then he snapped to attention and gave him a salute fit for a general. “Try to get some rest, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sharps never cried, and he didn’t now, but he felt his eyes begin to burn. “Thank you, sir.” He blinked furiously as he returned the salute once again, then watched the captain turn away to pace the perimeter of the camp. Sharps’s insides felt funny, but he realized it was probably because he’d gotten to meet a general and be promoted to corporal all in the space of a quarter hour.

  He went into the tent, where his tentmate had retired for the night and was snoring fit to saw logs. Sharps stripped off his uniform and crawled into his bedroll, and when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see that Rebel colonel’s surprised look.

  He saw Captain Marriott’s proud expression.

  * * * *

  The new nickname went through the camp like wildfire, and by the next day, “Shorty” was a thing of the past, and everyone called him Sharps—this time, even Sharps himself.

  Chapter 3

  Sharps curled a knee around the saddle horn; he trusted his mare to not bolt with him or toss him on his ass. He leaned an elbow on his knee and took a long drag of his cigarette. He didn’t drink much beyond the occasional beer, but he had picked up on the habit of smoking. It had helped calm his nerves at times when things had gotten dicey.