High Noon
Eventide

Chapter 1
February 20
1862

"Among the interesting thing in camp are the boys."
-Rutherford B. Hayes

:.

It was the coldest damned winter he'd ever had the displeasure of living through.

There was something in the air, here. He could smell it. It smelled like dirty ice and wet pine and that dead, motionless scent that hovered over the ground just before a heavy snow. Jasper wrinkled his nose at it. Every breath was like inhaling a cap full of frozen water deep into his lungs; it singed his mouth and throat and burned all the way down, made his chest ache if he held it in too long, let it pool there, and even when he didn't hold it in at all. Moving brushed the still air across his face and caught it fire; sitting still let it smolder there just as painfully. He sighed, and his breath streamed out like an angry steam engine. He wished he could whistle.

"Lieutenant, sir?"

He didn't look up. He'd heard the door to his cabin creak open, the crunch of boots on the old, packed snow outside; the voice hadn't startled him. He tucked his arms tighter against his chest and continued to watch his breath collect on the smudged windowpane, pretending instead to be staring through it.

"Yes?"

There was a soft shuffle as the private—Rogers, by the sound of his voice—stepped into the freezing cabin. He huffed. "My, sir, you could just about skate around on the air in here, it's so cold. Why don't you come join us out by the fire? Cole sent me to see what you was up to."

"Tell Cole to come himself, if he's so curious," Jasper quipped, but he was grinning, and no longer oblivious to the dark-haired man waving to him from outside. He would have built a fire of his own in the grate near the corner, but then all of his men would have tried piling inside with him, and he knew from experience that that was not a very pleasant or comfortable situation. Even now, the place still smelled strongly of feet.

"I'm afraid you'll have to order that directly, sir," Rogers snorted. "Lazy coon hasn't paced himself more'n an arm from that fire since dawn."

Chuckling now, Jasper turned away from Cole and the exaggerated fanning motions he was making as he leaned away from the fire. He could hear the handful of men seated around his friend laughing loudly, the sound reduced to a faint, brief gurgle through the walls. Rogers grinned at him; the deep dimples in his cheeks made him look five years younger. My age, Jasper thought, and his grin turned wry. Every time he thought he was finally getting over the age difference between him and his men, it returned unexpectedly to nag at him again.

"Come on." He brushed by the private, pausing to snatch his old hat off the misshapen peg by the doorframe. He expected a blast of cold air—colder air—when he stepped outside, but there was nothing. His cheek burned a little brighter as a soft breeze grazed it, but otherwise the temperature was the same and the woods were still. Still, but not dead.

All around him soldiers trudged through the mottled brown and white snow like trolls, their bowed, bulky forms lumping oddly in places they shouldn't, covered head to toe in varying shades of brown and grey. Jasper straightened and peered around at them curiously for a moment, wondering if something was up, but it was only the usual early morning rush. A platoon was running through a set of basic drills off in the distance, their orderly commands the only organized sound to pierce the otherwise garbled mess of grumbling and laughter. That, and the sudden sigh from just behind him as Rogers crunched off around the side of the small cabin serving as Jasper's quarters.

Sighing himself, Jasper turned to follow. It wasn't that he'd never seen snow before, he'd helped drive cattle up high enough ranges for that, but it was this…he didn't know the name for it. There was just something about the Virginia air that made it slide like a knife into his gut. The winter here wouldn't bother him half as much if it didn't feel like it was crippling him from the inside.

"Well look who finally decided to crawl out of his mansion," a man drawled suddenly. Jasper looked up. A few of the privates from his platoon had gathered around a makeshift fire that was quickly gobbling up the few freshly cut logs that had been haphazardly tossed onto a thickening carpet of light grey ashes. Over it hung a steaming kettle of coffee, the metal blackened and glowing bright orange where the flames licked it. Jasper caught the scent and breathed it in deeply, and suddenly the cold didn't seem quite so unbearable. He returned Cole's smirk with a grin.

"Heard there was half a dozen varmint stinkin' up my backyard," he returned, tipping Scott's hat over his eyes as he stepped up and sank down onto the frozen log beside him. Scott slid it back up on his forehead and peered sideways at Jasper with a crooked grin. Jasper winked at him. "One day you might actually grow into that ten-gallon," he teased, "and then I'll just be tappin' you upside your empty head."

"Not if it explodes from all the Injun junk he's been fillin' it with," Cole offered good-naturedly from the other side of the fire. He was already busy tipping the steaming kettle over a small, slightly dented tin cup. It was missing its handle. "Coffee, Lieutenant?"

Stepping up close to the fire had been like sinking down face-first into a tub full of freshly boiled water; actually reaching over it was like plunging his arm into the jaws of hell itself. Jasper was able to hold the cup only because his fingers were too numb by now for him to differentiate between the pain of the searing cold and the pain of the searing heat, but it smelled warm and inviting enough that he really didn't mind either way.

"I swear," he murmured softly, bringing it up under his chin to let the steam rise and scorch his face pleasantly. "Texas sun's gonna burn me right up if I live long enough to see it again."

There was a sharp bark of laughter, and all three of them looked up in surprise; the quiet one, Bolling, laughed like that so rarely that they could never remember it was him when they heard it. He was gangly and sharp-faced, with knees that stuck out like spider legs compared to the more fairly proportioned Cole sharing a seat beside him. But his long fingers and quick, darting eyes made for a skilled medic, and that fact hadn't been lost on the officers who'd appointed him the position down in Galveston, where his protests would have gotten him released if they hadn't needed to fill up their own numbers so badly. But Bolling had been content enough lately; hadn't had to cut anyone open in weeks, just treat the ill, whose ailments kept to the outsides of their bodies. Now he slapped his knee in amusement and pointed at Jasper with a wide grin.

"Now that's a good one. Big ole brigade of hardened Texas soldiers steppin' back out onto the plains, steppin' out into the sun soon as she crests, then whispin' away like—like the way a lady's dress does when she twirls, you see?" He made small fluttering hand-motions to emphasize what he meant. "Poof."

Rogers, who had never had much of an imagination to begin with, snorted at the mention of a lady's dress. Cole snorted as well, but for different reasons.

"Sounds more pleasant than sittin' out here waitin' for my feet to turn to stone," he drawled, pulling on a thick glove and grabbing the kettle to pour himself another cup. "Though I s'ppose that could be a might useful for kickin' Bluebellies in the behind, assumin' they ever stop runnin' long enough to catch up to."

Everyone laughed at that, Jasper included, until he caught sight of his company's former first sergeant strolling through a gap between two patchwork cabins. He stood abruptly and took a quick gulp of his coffee, then cursed to himself when it scalded his tongue and his first gulp of frigid air only encouraged the flames.

"You get bit by somethin'?" Cole snickered, watching. "Well heck, if I'd known somethin' was still alive in there I'd've bit it first. Be a nice respite from stale bread."

Shaking his head, Jasper hastily stepped around the fire and handed off his cup. Cole's amusement turned to confusion. "Hey, you just sat down—"

"And I'll be right back," Jasper promised. "I just need to confirm something first."

The men watched him step around the fire curiously—all but Cole, who shrugged and busied himself combining their coffees into a single cup. "Suit yourself, sir. Ain't rubbin' your feet for you when you catch the real bite, though."

"You can warm my dirty socks for me instead," he retorted with a grin. Cole tried to hide an amused smirk, but Jasper caught it and slapped him lightly on the back as he slipped deftly out of reach. Cole cursed as hot coffee splashed to the ground with a soft hiss, eating quickly through the snow at his feet. He swung blindly backwards, but Jasper, snickering, didn't even have to dodge. And then he was away from the cackling warmth of the fire and the comforting presence of his friends, and the cold started to hurt again. He shivered and hunched down into his thick grey overcoat, sighing heavily as the painful reminder of this winter's unending freeze stole away from the temporary good mood he'd found with his men.

Former First Sergeant Smith was a big bear of a man who knew how to carry himself so that his weight looked impressive rather than dumpy. He'd been the youngest officer in the company save Jasper, but still managed to tower a full head and shoulders over him, even when Jasper donned his hat. Jasper remembered being a little intimidated by him back when they'd first trained together, but jogging after him now, his size was the only indication that there might be something to fear. He was laughing loudly as he walked, patting enlisted men on the shoulder as he passed and calling out good mornings to the ones who were too far away. Everyone in this end of the camp knew him, even if the association wasn't by any choice of theirs. One finally pointed Jasper out behind him; he kept getting caught by the throngs of other soldiers out and about on the campgrounds. When Smith turned and saw who was there the face beneath his thickening golden beard split into a big grin.

"Lieutenant Whitlock! Mornin', scout!" He saluted without breaking stride. Jasper brushed by a few more groups of chattering soldiers before managing to close the remaining distance between them, falling into step at his side. He tried not to feel short.

"Morning, Private," he said with a blossoming grin of his own. Smith was beaming at him now, and his good mood was often contagious. "Listen," he went on before Smith could, "I don't want to take up much of your time, but I've been hearing rumors…"

"Aw, Whitlock, didn't your ma ever teach you what to think of rumors?" Smith nudged him with his elbow, an impish tint to his light grey eyes. "Or was she just about to? Waitin' till you shed your first coat to get started, an' the Bluebellies beat her to the punch?"

Jasper rolled his eyes. His looks had never failed to amuse Smith, who had only stopped short of catching him up in a headlock the first time they'd met because his eyes had found the two golden bars on his collar. He still held superior rank, though, so he made fun of Jasper for it whenever he could—at least until recently. Last month he and his good friend First Lieutenant Bedell had gotten a little too raucous with the nearby townswomen, and he'd gotten his rank revoked. Not that he acted like it.

"To be honest, Private, right now I'll take all the coats I can get," Jasper replied with a small smirk and a glance overhead, where the clouds had yet to part since their last large blizzard over a week ago. He'd quickly learned that the best way to deal with Smith's teasing and wit was to simply return the fire.

Sure enough, Smith laughed loudly, a big, booming bark that rolled from his chest like a drum. He draped an arm around Jasper's shoulder companionably and tugged, sending him stumbling off in the direction of the regiment's headquarters. "Come on, Lieutenant Smart-Ass. You're shiverin' so hard you're about to shake 'em all off regardless."

Regimental HQ was a large, shabby-looking log-work cabin much like many of the other, smaller homes serving as officers' quarters all around it, but missing the cracks between resin seams and boasting windows of real, regularly cleaned glass that had never been broken, let alone glued clumsily back together. The inside of the place was always warm. Jasper wasn't overly fond of it; he was only ever in there for an hour or two, and then the freezing air outside was always made all the more unbearable by comparison. But it was homey and comfortable and smelled like men, smoke, and tack, which was a scent Jasper was familiar with. He stepped inside and sighed as the heat washed over him in a pleasant, tingly burn.

The captain was there, looking over something on a table in front of the fire with Lieutenant Colonel Rainey and Major Dale Matt. Maps and other charts lined the walls, along with hooks for their outer uniforms and side arms, and even a rack for their rifles. The floor was relatively clean, aside from the mottled mixture of mud and snow that had been tracked inside since that morning. Jasper tried his best to stomp his boots clean in the doorway before shuffling aside so that Smith could stand beside him. Together they both saluted the ranks. Captain McKeen kept his hands tucked behind his back, right in front of the fire grate so that most of his face was cast in a dark shadow. His expression was flat and his eyebrows even; he wasn't surprised to see either of them.

"At ease." His eyes fell on Jasper as he relaxed and pulled off his hat, running his fingers through his hair to get the kinks out. "Been hearing the rumors, Whitlock? I wondered what was taking you so long."

Jasper let his feet carry him closer to that tempting fire as he offered the captain a crooked smile. "Didn't know if they were true at first, sir. Didn't want to bother you if they weren't."

"Horse shit," the captain snorted. Smith laughed from the chair he'd promptly draped himself across and Rainey raised a high, thin eyebrow. Matt just looked bored. Jasper didn't mind. He was only a first lieutenant, but that was enough to get his foot in the door, so to speak, at least as far as basic regimental intelligence went. He liked to know what was going on. Captain McKeen found his curiosity vaguely annoying, but only because he didn't like explaining himself when he had a perfectly knowledgeable first sergeant to do that for him. He kept Smith around after being demoted purely for that reason. Smith himself found it amusing, though, and was prone to playing ignorant when Jasper came poking around him for information, thereby forcing him to step down and shut up, or go and bug the captain. He did it because he knew Jasper always bugged the captain.

"Well," Jasper amended, his smile widening, "and I couldn't find you last night when I heard them."

"I was up in divisional HQ verifyin' 'em for myself," McKeen told him, bending over the table again. It was a map, Jasper could see now. Of the Potomac, all the way down to Yorktown. He shivered from a mixture of excitement and discomfort as the fire's curling heat began to make him sweat over his still-frigid skin.

"So they're true, then?"

"Well now, that depends which ones you heard."

Lt. Col. Rainey took a step forward suddenly, his wary eyes taking in Jasper's pink, slightly ruffled appearance with what looked like a mixture of curiosity and bored annoyance. "Wigfall did not drink himself to death," he spoke up dryly. "No coma, either. Sorry."

Jasper nodded at him. Tall and thin, Rainey looked more like an executive officer than a fighter, which was exactly what he preferred. He'd been appointed unofficial colonel of the regiment since Wigfall's promotion to brigadier general, though, and Jasper had a feeling he'd only agreed to it because he'd known this winter would be too cold to fight through. His hands were long and thin, and looked like they'd be shattered by the kickback of his Enfield. No one had ever seen him fire it. Then again, the same was true of nearly everyone. Jasper had been assigned to this brigade back in October, and they hadn't been engaged in so much as a skirmish since. This was his first time seeing Rainey in any type of personal environment; he wondered if the man even knew who he was. Or cared.

"I'm not surprised, sir," he said in reply, keeping his tone appropriately meek. The captain may have grown to tolerate his playful quips, but he'd been stuck near Jasper's side for going on seven months now; anyone higher was at liberty to find it disrespectful and insubordinate. So he gripped his hands behind his back and kept his thoughts to himself. None of the men liked Wigfall, himself included—he was a fat old man who drank away his worries every night and subsequently fired off paranoid reports of enemy activity every morning—but the man was still a commanding officer, and therefore still entitled to a certain measure of respect. Maybe. Jasper shifted his weight around on his feet and tried not to sound too hopeful: "But the other rumors…?"

To his surprise, Captain McKeen nodded. "He resigned. Taking up that civilian seat over in Richmond, sounds like."

"'Bout time," Smith grunted, never anywhere near as mindful of himself around superiors as he should have been. But he quickly dropped the smirk from his face when McKeen eyed him warningly. "Sir."

"He'll make a better politician than a soldier," Rainey agreed unexpectedly. Smith leaned back in his chair and smiled at him, ignoring the way the wooden legs creaked in protest.

"That's all I was sayin'."

"So who's taking his place?" Jasper wanted to know. Wigfall hadn't been a very good commander. He'd filed more false reports than Jasper had known anyone could and still retain their rank, and he'd found it exceedingly difficult to quiet his platoon's grumbling when he was soaked to the bone himself, marching along the bank of the Occoquan to a Federal offense he knew wouldn't be there. Marching all the way back empty-handed and doubly cold only made it worse.

"Right now, we're not sure," McKeen told him. "Looks like the brigade'll default to the senior officer for now. Richmond can sort the rest out later."

"Col. Hood's senior, isn't he?" Smith asked thoughtfully, stroking the hair beneath his lower lip. He stopped as excitement lit up his eyes. "He is, isn't he? Aw hell, I wouldn't mind followin' him into battle—a real one, for a change."

"Private," McKeen said slowly, warningly. Smith shut up, but shared a glance with Jasper, his eyes still crinkled, smile hidden behind his hand. Jasper struggled not to smile back. He shared that excitement. Col. Hood was currently in charge of the Fourth Texas Infantry, and the men there praised him for his enthusiasm. He'd even abandoned Kentucky and joined the Texas infantry because he'd grown exasperated with his home state's neutrality. Here, finally, was a man who might let them do something productive, and have half the mind required to keep them from wasting energy and resources in the meantime.

"Col. Archer of the Fourth Texas is senior," Rainey pointed out with a sideways look at Smith. "He'll be in command. For now." He glanced at McKeen. "I'm sure Richmond will take a month or two to elect anyone else, if they decide to."

Jasper's excitement didn't waver, and neither, apparently, did Smith's. Col. Archer had a notoriously cool head, and an eye for the well-being of his men—when Wigfall's demands for troops had grown outrageous as the winter snows set in, Archer had been the first of the colonels to begin standing up to him and, when necessary, ignoring his calls to arms completely so that his men could instead be properly fed, sheltered, and rested. Jasper and his men had envied them, but since the First was under Wigfall himself, they'd always been forced to respond no matter the conditions. And there'd been some pretty bad conditions.

"Well that's fine," Smith spoke up with a fresh grin, lifting his chin and running his fingers through his beard again. "'Cept, you know, it leaves the First without a commanding officer."

"I'll remain in command," Rainey told him coolly. Smith gave him a long look, which for Smith meant that he had something to say, but knew better than to try. Rainey returned it evenly.

"And why is the major here?" Jasper interrupted, shooting a glance at Smith that told him not to test this man. He'd already gotten his rank revoked; the next step was a transfer into some undesirable administrative position like mess hall janitor. He quickly returned his gaze to Matt, though, and kept his expression very carefully void of anything but curiosity. Matt was a small man with a little paunch, but his eyes were quick, and Jasper'd heard that he had a good head for numbers and odds, especially when it came to warfare. He looked at Jasper now, still bored, before glancing at McKeen, who looked annoyed.

"That's none of your concern, Lieutenant. Now go gather your men and tell them about the change in command. I don't want any more of these damn rumors starting up when winter's so near to breaking."

Jasper saluted and was dismissed. He sighed and settled his hat on his head again, trying to brace himself for the crippling cold that trickled over him as he opened the door. Smith winked at him as he stepped away and headed out, which made him smile. He hid it beneath the brim until he was safely outside again. Smith would tell him later whatever he was missing now, he was sure, and that made the first shock of ice in his lungs a little more bearable. He tucked his hands into his pockets and burrowed down into his coat until the collar came up around his ears, then set off back toward his men.

The major was there for a reason, and so was that map. Jasper burned with curiosity, but he knew better than to go poking around when the captain really didn't want him to. If he had to guess, though, he would say that they were either planning to move out soon or actually being given orders to. The thought was both a relief and an excitement. They'd been stuck around this damned river for what felt like forever, and it stank and it was dirty and the men were getting restless with no one but one another for company. Hell, half of his own were still out sick.

Typhoid fever and pneumonia had all but decimated the Fourth and Fifth Regiments. Jasper and the rest of the First were lucky; they'd been touched by a few severe cases of rheumatism and some typhoid-pneumonia mixes, but nothing significantly worse. Still, they were eager to leave. They and everyone else had ransacked the homes of nearby civilians back in early December—a necessity to survive out here, but a nuisance nonetheless, and they hadn't been welcome since. Most men didn't even bother going into town anymore, which left them with a few packs of cards, a guitar or two, and each other. They were more than ready for a change of scenery.

But both of his sergeants were currently in the infirmary, Robinson with a raging typhoid fever and Armstrong coughing up a lung. Normally he would have gone to them with orders to gather up the rest of his platoon; instead he made his way back to the fire they'd been huddled around when he'd left. Only Bolling had disappeared. The coffee was still steaming, and the smell once again welcomed him back like the crisp, freshly brewed warmth of coffee in the morning back home, after spending the night tending to a sick horse or nurturing a premature calf. He sucked it down into his lungs greedily and smiled. This was how he'd rather spend his first few hours out of bed, not standing at attention and watching his mouth around men with the power to strip him of rank and the indifference that kept them from thinking twice about it.

"Welcome back, sir," Scott greeted, scooting over so that Jasper could settle beside him again. Jasper grunted, his bones creaking as he bent his knees and curled in on himself again, the wood hard, cold, and rough against his backside. Then he nudged his neighbor in lieu of a more formal greeting. Scott was probably the most naïve man in his platoon, but also one of the most pleasant—he'd never had to fire a gun before Galveston, but he was as enthusiastic as the rest of them about hunting down the Yankees, though innocent enough not to think anything of the aftermath. A lot of the other men were worried how he'd react to a real battle, Jasper included. Of course, not that many of the other men had been engaged in one themselves.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, I drank all your coffee," Cole joked as he held a steaming cup out for Jasper to take. "Try not to let this one cool, you hear?"

"So anyway," Rogers continued while Jasper settled in, "you ask me, this up here is more Injun territory than anything out west. You go out there, you got nice, friendly names; you got Texas and you got Nevada—"

"From Navajo," Scott interrupted. Rogers stared at him blankly and he continued: "Nevada comes from the word Navajo. You didn't know that?"

Rogers scowled. "Well at least it ain't some unpronounceable thing like Occoquan or Quantico or—or what's that other one, it don't even stick in my head anymore."

"Arkansas?" Cole offered, struggling to hide a grin behind his cup. His eyes darted briefly to Jasper. "Tennessee?"

"Nevada is Spanish," Jasper chuckled, mostly to keep the mood light before Rogers could get angry. "Not Navajo."

Scott gave him a confused frown as Rogers erupted in laughter. "But wait," the boy reasoned slowly, "then why—?"

"Trust the lieutenant, Scott," Cole smirked, shooting Jasper an amused look. "He's an Injun vet. Ain't that right, sir?" He kicked Jasper's boot and grinned. Jasper kicked it back.

"Ain't at war with the Indians right now, haven't you heard?"

"Depends where you live." Another kick.

"Spill my coffee and the Comanche will be the least of your worries." Jasper kicked back.

"But that doesn't mean he knows everything about them," Scott insisted, lifting his chin and glaring pointedly at Cole, who was too busy snickering to himself to notice. He rolled his eyes and looked to Jasper instead. "What's Nevada Spanish for, then? It sounds like Navajo to me."

Jasper nursed his coffee and made a face at the irony of the conversation. "Covered in snow."

Cole lost it and cracked up, his coffee tipping dangerously over his boots. Rogers took another moment to catch on, and Scott sat there blinking doubtfully. Jasper hid his amusement behind the rim of his cup. He figured Cole was being more than obnoxious enough for both of them at the moment.

"Well," Rogers finally spoke up, "I tell you, I've been in the damned Nevada deserts and I sure as hell wouldn't name it that. Ain't no snow anywhere I could see."

Cole went off again, and even Jasper snorted loudly as he struggled not to laugh at Rogers's misinterpretation. Rogers, assuming Cole was laughing with him instead of at him, quickly joined in. "Heh. Don't make a lick of sense, does it?"

Cole just shook his head, still chuckling, and sipped from his coffee as he shared a glance with Jasper from over the fire. Jasper shook his head and dropped his gaze with a heavy, content sigh. The flames were dying a little, so he curled his frozen fingers around a half-charred stick on the ground and poked at it, stirring up a flurry of hot, pulsing orange embers. He poked it again and watched a few rogue sparks dance out of the fire pit onto his boots, where they fizzled out harmlessly before they could eat their way inside.

The morning was always the hardest time of day, he mused, when he was still stiff with cold from the night and the sun hadn't had a chance to warm the air any. Now, though, he was beginning to settle back into it again. The fire was only pleasantly warm and the cold at his back was mostly ignorable. In an hour or two the sun would be overhead and the ground would glisten with churned, half-melted snow. And then it would freeze over again and become a hazard to anyone trying to find their way around at night, but not for too many weeks longer. The men would be glad to hear that real change was just around the corner.

He let Rogers make a fool of himself for a few minutes more before turning over one of the larger logs and stirring his stick around in the exposed underbelly of mixed ash and lingering heat. The flames quickly dwindled down to a fierce, defiant glow before sputtering feebly.

"Hey," Rogers complained, distracted. Scott reached for the stick to poke it back to life again, and Cole looked up at him questioningly. Jasper sighed and handed it over, but pushed himself up to his feet before Scott had a chance to revive it.

"Sorry. Let it die, Scott, and go gather up the rest of the men. I need to talk to everyone."

:.

All in all, only eleven of the eighteen men in his platoon were able to make it. Second Lieutenant Thompson showed up as well, curious. He was in command of Bedell's platoon while he and Smith awaited their probation orders for January's escapade into town, and he always seemed one step behind whatever was going on in the camp. Not that this was one of those times. Jasper was simply good at gleaning new information earlier than most.

He wanted to frown at the scraggly bunch as he watched them assemble against one of the side walls of the company's headquarters, but he kept his face impassive, not wanting to hint that anything was wrong. And nothing was, really. He was just tired of watching his platoon disappear from disease rather than warfare, before they could even fire a shot. He was one of the lucky lieutenants—none of his men had died yet—but he knew it was only a matter of time. The worst of the fevers had broken, but the winter was still cruel and the soldiers had been cramped together for way too long. Some of them were beginning to go stir-crazy; he recognized the signs. They needed to move.

"We're not drilling, are we, sir?" an older man, Gillis, wanted to know. He had an old pain in his knee left over from the Mexican War that the bitter cold had been provoking. Normally he was a strong, experienced soldier, but right now he looked and acted like nothing more than a man quickly passing the prime in his life.

Jacoblef, a much younger, much more vocal private, laughed loudly in reply. "They can try!" he told Gillis, though he glanced up at Jasper for confirmation. Jasper smiled.

"No, we're not drilling," he said honestly. Everyone was tired of tramping across the slippery ground, the officers included. "Now hush. I have some announcements for ya'll."

"Are they about Wigfall?" a gruff, bearded man named Lazarus grunted from the back of the group. "Heard he finally found the bottom of a bottle the other night."

"He's not dead," Jasper told him, speaking up to be heard over the murmuring Lazarus's words stirred up. Lazarus just grunted again, and glanced dryly at his friend Carter. They were old, older than anyone else in either platoon, and Jasper suspected Carter, at least, was older than his own father. They had trouble taking orders from someone as young as Jasper looked, and Jasper in turn found it difficult to command someone who'd already fought through the Mexican War. Gillis was more good-natured, but Carter and Lazarus considered him nothing more than a bumbling greenhorn, and Jasper couldn't help but agree with them, albeit silently. He'd driven cattle across over two thousand miles of terrain and fought the Comanche all the way to California and back, but he'd never been in anything more than a skirmish, and never actually in charge. His rank over them was just a meaningless title when it came to actual battle experience.

The men were excited, though, and it took a moment to bring them back to order again. "Don't make me call attention," he finally warned. They grumbled, but calmed down, far too comfortable in their bulky, mismatched stances to have to line up and stand stiff for him. He didn't usually bother forcing them to anymore, but once or twice a week to keep them primed for it, and just often enough to make sure it never became an obsolete threat. But he'd been with these men since before the company had officially formed back in August—some even before that—and he'd come to consider them friends before subordinates. Most of them, anyway.

"Well then?" Cole wanted to know. He was hunched down beneath what looked like three separate overcoats, shaking like Old Man Winter himself was blowing down on him. And he didn't look very happy about it. "Tell me you got us all coffee-less and freezin' out here for somethin'."

"Wigfall's resigned," he announced with a glance at his friend. Cole's irritable expression loosened into a wide grin, as did most of the other men's. Jasper smiled. He'd stood behind their commander up until now, but that was back when Wigfall was still their commander. Now he had no more reason to hide his distaste for the man. "Headin' off to Richmond as we speak, I'm sure. Col. Archer'll be takin' over in his place."

"Why not Hood?" Bolling wanted to know, his eyes hopeful, but cautious. "I heard he wanted it. Been askin' for it since he adopted Texas."

"It's defaulted to Col. Archer," Jasper explained. "Seniority. But Captain McKeen thinks that may change."

He grinned as the men broke out into an excited babble. It was about time they'd gotten some good news around here, he liked seeing them worked up over something besides poker and ballad lyrics for a change. And if they were lucky—really lucky—they'd be moving out of this damned camp before long, and busying themselves fighting the Yankees rather than frostbite.

"And," he added loudly, suddenly remembering his orders from a few days ago, "and, Second Platoon, listen up: now remember, we're on scoutin' duty for a week startin' tomorrow. So start breaking yourselves up, cover for the men who're still out sick; I know we're short, which'll mean everyone goes out more than once, but I figured we could all use the extra exercise."

They erupted into cheers and hollers. Jasper let them. This news had been a long time in coming, and he didn't mind if they used it as an excuse to celebrate something for a change. When whatever order they'd actually mustered together for the meeting finally disintegrated, he let it, and dismissed them. It was still early, and everyone was sure to have other duties to attend to, himself included. He turned in the direction of the stables, slowing a little when he noticed Second Lieutenant Thompson fall into step beside him.

"Should I tell First Platoon?" he wanted to know. "I wasn't given any orders to, but you always know everything before anyone else. And it doesn't look like it's a secret or anything."

"Well the captain gave me orders to, so I guess they go for both of us," Jasper told him. "And tell Bedell too, if Smith hasn't already. I never know what he's up to anymore."

"Okay," Thompson agreed, but didn't leave. Jasper glanced over at him curiously. He might be on his way to the stables as well, but Jasper doubted it. Bedell's platoon liked him, and he knew the Thompson felt awkward taking it over in his absence, especially while Bedell retained his rank and kept nearby. A bad move on the regiment's part, but there was nothing either of them could do to change it. Orders were orders, and both Smith and Bedell were stuck here uselessly until they were told to go somewhere else.

"Did you need something?" he prodded gently. Why a man nearly four years his senior felt so comfortable coming to him for advice he'd never understand, but they'd grown to be friends because of it. Thompson was nervous, but not a bad officer. And he was getting better.

Thompson shook his head, his breath fanning his face in the still air. "Naw, not really. But the stables are warm, and I haven't seen to ole BlackJack yet. Say, you been exercisin' yours, out in the snow and everything?"

"Everyday," Jasper nodded patiently. Thompson knew that already, he was obviously just fishing around for conversation.

"I sure hope we don't have to fight in the snow," he commented, glancing upward at the continuous veil of puffy grey overhead. "We'll make a damn fine shootin' target for the Yanks, a big towerin' bunch of black on white, don't you think?"

"You're assuming the Yanks can shoot straight," Jasper teased, grinning. Thompson grinned back, his expression finally relaxing.

"I guess I am. Suppose I should see to the men before I spend the rest of the mornin' groomin', huh?"

"Suppose so," Jasper agreed. Usually all Thompson needed was a little encouragement that he was on the right page, something Jasper didn't mind helping him out with. He grinned and saluted dismissively before heading off in another direction, snow crunching loudly beneath his boots. Jasper tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and kept an eye out for any horsey surprises as he drew nearer to the stables.

It was still February, but more men were recovering from the fever than falling ill to it, and March was on its way. They'd very nearly survived the winter; he couldn't imagine them falling prey to anything else.

:.

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