Chapter 1:
It is not every day you get to experience the agonizing thrill of the war filled field. For me, the Civil War was a battle of all time. The rush of blood pumping throughout your jumpy body as you watch the dying collapse to their deathbed. I waited.
This was going to be a battle the Yanks were bound to win. Most of the rookies, as was I, stayed hidden in the darkness of the huge dense forest behind the at-the-ready troops. Both of my brothers, Jim and Tyler, were out there. One, Jim, sat upon his mare, Jen, who we had raised from a filly. Jim, or as most of the privates on base call him Rabb as was our last name, was only two years older than myself, and my eldest brother had just turned 20.
I was, and always will be, the youngest, bravest, and best solider on the Northern half of the army. I was yet to turn 16. The sights of past battles danced about my vision while I waited for another gruesome and bloodshed battle to arouse. The opposing army clambered onto the field, closing the distance between us quickly.
I could see it happening. It was all coming much too fast. Tyler dashed out first, screaming, sword raised high in the air. The army followed. As our army blended with the Southerners, total chaos took over. The last of my wondering eyes had captured what was Tyler, but he was surrounded by rebels. My heart completely stopped as one solider plunged the razor sharp, glistening steel that now dripped thick red blood through my brother's body.
"NO!" I screeched as I took hold of my rifle. Two pairs of hands grabbed me before I could be seen on the battlefield. One had covered my mouth to block off any attention towards the forest where we hid, and the other held me back as I watched my brother fall to his death there on the ground in mental chaos. They belonged to the sergeant, Sgt. Longacre, and another private. I struggled with only half the strength I normally had, but from the beginning I knew I could do nothing. My brother, Tyler Rabb, had perished before my eyes, and my heart soared with him to the heavens above. Yes, indeed we had won a victorious battle, but my heart felt the weight of the loss I had witnessed.
I ran forth to Jim. He had been writing a letter to Mama and Pop to inform them of the tragic news. He reached for me when I approached, and we embraced each other for minutes while tears of Tyler rolled downs pink riverbeds, and formed little pools at the corners of our cheeks. Once we pulled away, I glanced up at my older brother, whose eyes were pink and puffy. Next to me laid the corpse of my eldest brother. Jim took a laced handkerchief, and laid it atop of Tyler's face as I winced, tears escaping my eyelids, and looked off towards the distance. A man had sat himself down on a tree stump, and was sketching the scene that swallowed us whole.
At the campfire that night, the boys, other than Jim who had wondered off earlier, were drinking, and singing "My Michigan". I watched them make fools of themselves as I sat next to Sgt. Longacre. He had a scabbing gash on his nose from a rider with a sword.
"Did ya hear about the lieutenant down on the third? Got his mustache shot off today," asked Private Stanton, the funniest, yet serious, one at the fire.
"You can't shot off a man's mustache without taking his lip along with it," said Private Cleary, the one who always has the comebacks and wits.
"Well, Cleary, you can tell that to the lieutenant because he's still got his lip, and clean shaving besides," Stanton said as he poked the fire with his stick.
Now, Private Switters, an easy going serious man, was getting quite aggravated with the two jokesters behind him as he tried to get some much needed rest. "How about putting an end to all this noise so a man can get to sleep?"
"The minute you go to sleep the noise starts, Switters. I don't think I've ever heard a human creature snore like that in my life," Cleary stated. As I said he was the one with the comebacks. At this funny statement we all cracked a little, even Sgt. Longacre smiled, which may have been a first for me. Switters gave a glare towards Cleary, laid his hat atop his face, and went back to what he was doing before, attempting rest.
We all looked up at the same time to see my brother, face withdrawn and head hung over, pass by. I got up and interlocked my arm around his, trying to assure him. Sgt. Longacre rested a hand on his shoulder as he said, "Sorry about your brother, Boy."
Jim kept walking, dragging me along behind him. As we walked towards the horses, I noticed tear streaks from dried tears. He let go of my arm, and trudged very poignantly to Jen. As he rested his head against Jen's bay colored face, he moaned, "Oh, Jen!" Then….BOOM!
A light flashed the color of fire. Dirt and gravel flew into the air, scattering nearby soldiers. I was blown off my feet. Sgt. Longacre caught me before I had hit the ground and he was over by the fire! I could hear Jim call for Jen, and Jen's hooves pound against the ground with such force I could feel the earth shake among the blasts of bombs.
"The horses!" some private shouted as he raced about the clutter to save his own horse.
I scrambled to my feet, at the same time thanking Sgt. Longacre for the catch. Many people were stomping in the fires, attempting to hide our positions. I needed to help Jim catch our mare.
"Jen! Come back!" I cried over the thundering blasts and booms of the unsettling bombs. As I ran, all I could see was my brother. I couldn't let another family member, especially a brother, leave me alone on this ungrateful planet. I should have been watching where the hell I was going. Before I moved another step, gravel, dirt, and hodgepodge of earth blowout from beneath my skittering feet. I was blown once again, but this time into the arms of an unexpecting private. But not just any private, Private Hutton, the lieutenant's son. I was entranced in his spell. He looked down at me as I looked up at him.
"You okay?" he cried over the noise. His icy blue eyes were like a river on a frosty day.
"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, I can take it from here," I said, grabbing my rifle that I dropped while I went tumbling through the air like a soccer ball. I raced about, dodging all blasts that I could possibly mange. I did fine, until the woods thickened. It was dark, near eleven in the evening. My mare had galloped in there, and my brother ran after her. The Yanks were under a surprise attack, and now, I faced a certain death running in that darkened woods to save my brother and my horse. My situation: not good.
"Jen! Come here, girl. Jen!" I heard the faint cries of my brother, not too far, and yet not too close. I hesitated. Something just didn't smell right here. I thought about it again: a southerner hidden behind a tree, rifle at the ready, I walk in, and I'm dead in moments. I pushed myself forward, darting every tree that came into my path.
"Jim! Jim, wait!" I cried, but as no response arrived, I concluded that I waited too long and he was out of hearing distance. I was wrong. Two seconds after I cried, I ran head on into something, or someone.
"Ow! Nick?" the figure asked. I recognized the voice. It was Jim!
"Yeah. Where did Jen gallop to?" I asked, shaking the newly formed headache that was bound to come back later out of my head.
"I have no idea. I lost her after this far," he was scared, most likely for the same reasons I was. His head was darting back and forth, searching, observing. A horse whinny came from behind us. We raced in that direction, but no further success. We searched until daybreak.
"Dammit! Where'd you run off to?" Jim said, jogging around. The woods were now filled with light and blossoming flowers from the newly born trees. The sun was shining into the flowers, causing them to glow. The two of us were franticly searching the forest for any trace of the mare. I turned a corner behind a huge oak by mistake, and to my surprise, the trees separated a distance, allowing the sun to shine down the earth. Not only that, but Jen was there.
"Jim! Come quick! I found her!" I shouted, walking slowly over to the mare. I heard Jim's crushing feet snap twigs here and there. Once he was behind me, I could feel his breath creep down my neck.
The two of us walked slowly over and yet another surprise: Jen had foaled! A beautiful colt the same of color as his mother, bay. The colt was lying on the ground next to his grazing mother when we discovered him.
"Oh, Jen, is that why you had been acting up?" I asked the mare as I stroked her nose. A whinny back replied that, only I could guess, meant yes.
Jim went over to the colt, inspecting any birth effects, or injury in the colt. Finding nothing wrong, he helped to the colt to his wobbling legs.
"Come on. Get up, come on," Jim slid his gloved hands under the foal's left shoulder blade, supporting him as he got to his feet. The colt stood proud and defiant. He truly was his mother's foal. Something was different, though. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I was holding Jen's halter this whole time, and she didn't really care that her foal was in the hands of my brother.
"That's it. There you go. Now, what can I do with you, huh?" Jim said as the foal rose. The foal nestled beside its mother, brushing gently across the ribs of Jen. He walked along her side until he found what he was looking for. He suckled the quench out of his dry throat. Jen threw her head up and neighed a surprised whinny. She turned to look at the little creature she had given life to, and carefully pushed his rump away. The colt didn't remove his lips from the most wonderful thing he ever tasted. Actually, it was the only thing he had ever tasted.
Chapter 2:
We approached camp a few hours after discovering the colt. The bugle was playing the morning wake up, and men were bustling about their business, near half had only their thermal shirts tucked into their pants. Many of the other privates' horses were neighing and pounded the dirt, uplifting clumps which would be thrown viciously back down to the earth. Jim and I walked into the camp.
One private said, "Do ya see what Rabb's got with him?"
Stanton came over to us. Jim was leading Jen, and I was walking beside the colt. "Morning, Jim." And Jim replied back. Stanton stared at the colt for a few long minutes, and turned to Jim. "Where the hell that come from? That's a handsome colt. Got some rich to him in the leg."
Sgt. Longacre came tromping up to us, anger lingering each traumatizing step. "Why didn't you tell me your mare was in foal?"
"We didn't know it. She's been all heavy, but she wasn't bagged up at all. There's no wonder she's been worrisome, though." At this we all halted next to the sergeant's tent. Many of the curious privates started to gather around.
"She's been tired too. He's got kinda a bay color," Stanton stated, lighting a cigarette, and pulling a blanket about his sagging shoulders.
Sgt. Longacre had no interest in the colt, however. "God, dammit. It doesn't matter. It's all the same," he hesitated, looking at me, then the colt. "You're gonna have to shoot it."
Jim looked towards the ground, avoiding my astonished exasperation. "I know."
"We've got horses going out on patrol, and the colt along," Sgt. Longacre was interrupted by my brother's pissed off look.
"I said 'I know', Sergeant," Jim said, a look of pain and seriousness mixed as one covered his face. The sergeant looked extremely, and painfully, anxious.
He managed to mumble a "God, dammit" again before trudging impatiently off. Jim looked pissed, and being as smart as I am, decided it was best for him to be left alone. I happened to be right behind Sgt. Longacre as he was approached by Lieutenant Hutton.
"What's going on down there, Sergeant?" asked the lieutenant. He was buckling up his pants, and lacing his boots.
Sgt. Longacre replied with a sigh and, "A colt, Sir."
"A colt?" the Lieutenant sounded very taken aghast. "I…I don't know how you could've allowed such a thing, Sgt. Longacre. We'll be shamed and disgraced in front of all the Potomac Army. Not just for the colt, I mean for that damn Rabb girl, too! I can't believe we allowed her here in the first place!" I slipped behind a tree to get the rest of the conversation that the subject was of my colt. And me!
"It will be taken care of, Sir." Sgt. Longacre's voice sounded ashamed and disoriented.
"Good and make sure you picket the mares away from the stallions next time," and with that the Lieutenant walked away, tying a red handkerchief about his neck.
When I peeked my head around the trunk of the massive tree, Sgt. Longacre sighed and his head was hung low, the American flag gently waving in the background from the refreshing breeze. The sergeant lifted a cigar to lips, and sucked in the intoxicating smoke.
This was not good. If Jim really shot the colt….well things would be a heck of a lot different here at camp. I needed to go tell Jim. As I turned around the opposite side of the tree to leave without being seen by the sergeant, I bumped into Private Hutton. "Humph! Ouch! Who knew that a girl could hold so much power?" Chris was amazing! His hands were on my shoulders as I began to fall.
I looked up; my shying eyes from his icy blue ones. He had that same dirty blonde hair as his father, and the same mustache. If they stood next to each other, they could have been twins. "Um, I'm sorry, Chris. Private Hutton! Damn, sorry again," I said, shying away.
"That's alright, Nicki. Besides, I like Chris a whole lot better than Private Hutton," he winked at me (he winked at me!) and walked around the tree, disappearing in the jumble of other privates. I looked at his place, and sighed in satisfaction. Sgt. Longacre must have seen me just standing there staring at the broad air with such a dorky, dreamy face because I felt a hand land on my unexpecting shoulder. I screeched, earning plenty of unwanted stares.
"You better run off to your brother, Nicki," he said, looking over my head. I turned to see where he was looking, but he pushed me towards my tent. I raced myself back to save the life of my foal. I found Jim tying up Jen, who looked just as horrified as the colt. His rifle was right next to me, when I looked down, catching my winded breathe. I risked a quick glance at Jim, who was still busy. Apparently, he had a lot on his mine; he couldn't get the knot right, which was frustrating him. He punched the tree, and yelped as a painful result.
I grabbed the gun. How could I let him kill our foal? MY foal! I dashed into my tent. I shook the gun, very gently to make sure no backfires would start. None, but I heard the familiar sound of a musket ball in the barrel. With quick hands, I discharged the gun, and left it in the exact spot Jim had put it. He was still messing with the lead.
"Here, let me help," I offered my assistance, but it was not needed. At that moment, Jim had gotten the knot perfectly. I shrugged, and sat down on the log next to the rifle. The log was bumpy, and scratchy to sit your butt upon. I sat uncomfortably there, as I watched the little colt jump around, whining his little heart out with grand pleasure. Jim took hold of the rifle. His thumb pulled down the bolt handle, and a click indicated that it was secure and ready for the trigger to be pulled. Jim aimed the gun several times at the colt's head. Each time didn't seem to satisfy him. The colt knew what was coming, and had no want in dying. He would bound away from him as soon as the rifle was at a good aim.
The newspaper illustrator was watching us this whole time. I noticed him when I sat down on the log. I assumed that he had come when I was discharging the gun. He looked depressed as he watched the foal leap and dash away from the rifle. The colt nestled against his mother, waiting. I inched myself forward on the log, excitement flowing through my veins to see Jim's reaction. The illustrator's eyes glossed over from tears, willing to race across a bearded field.
The colt walked over near me, and rested his head near the ground, and began to sniff the grass. Jim's aim was perfectly aligned at the colt's head. The trigger was snapped. Nothing. The colt spooked and ran off to his mother. I giggled to myself, allowing a tiniest of a smirk cross my lips. The illustrator snapped his head the colt's way, mystified and shocked. Jim was even more pissed now. He checked the barrel to find nothing. His glare at me made my blood turn to ice. I immediately stopped my giggling and froze.
"Quite a commotion we had last night," the man's voice was a bit raspy, but not one a person could forget. Jim continued to search for more musket balls. "I…I'm Tom Covington, Frank Leslie Illustrated Weekly." He held his hand out for a polite greeting. Jim was too busy for handshakes.
"Jim Rabb," Jim nodded his head over to me. "Nikita Rabb." I shook my hand a quick wave to be polite, unlike my brother.
"I saw your brother charge into the enemy yesterday. He was a courageous man. And… a fine solider I'm told." There was a long pause for a moment. "I've never been through such a bombardment before. By the end of it my voice was so hoarse, I couldn't even speak. I had been screaming at the top of my lungs, and never even heard my own voice." He looked at the colt. "And all that time, this colt was being born." The colt was suckling again. "The first feeling he knew on this earth was terror." Jim had set the gun down at this point.
I got up, and made my way over to the colt. I gently stroked his neck, going with the grains of his hairline. "He probably will know the feeling 'til the day he dies," I commented. I glanced up at Jim, who was standing over me now. He shook his head, and grabbed a lead. This took me by surprise. I stood up.
"What's his name?" Mr. Covington asked. Jim looked up at me.
"I didn't name him yet. Have you, Nicki?" Jim's heart wasn't in this conversation at all.
"Not yet," I turned to Tom. "But I will let you know when I do."
The poor colt was struggling, never being attached and led by a lead before. I was behind him, pushing his rear to cause him to jolt forward. Nothing worked. Jim and I had dragged him to an open field from camp, far from camp.
After we had gotten the colt to the middle of the field, I stopped. "Jim, can we stop? I mean, look at him. He's gonna get lost on the way back anyway." I sighed and stroked the colt's forelock. He leaned into my hand, eyes closing in dear pleasure.
"Fine," the colt jolted forward, dragging my brother down a tiny hill. "You know you would have been better off if I just shot you! You're probably dead before night's end. The wolves are gonna eat you alive. But at least Nicki won't have to watch it happen, or me." I was running down the hill as Jim lifted the makeshift lead off the foal's head. "Go on. Go on get! Go on!" Jim reached for his pistol that was secured into his belt holder. I was almost there now.
"Get up!" I yelled throwing my hands in the air. This worked. The colt flew across the field and out of sight.
Jim, who had his hand still on the pistol, stared in disbelief. "Well, I'll be…"
"Come on let's go back to camp, now," I said, grabbing his hand, and dragging him to the other side of the meadow. Jim turned then, and the two of us walked back to camp, without the colt.
Chapter 3:
The soldiers were weary and tired from the retreat that almost wasn't. The sergeant's son laid in a makeshift gurney. The young lad who laid in it was in terrible condition, burnt legs to the crisp. At night you could hear him moaning nonstop. The pain was accelerating through every single soldier's body now, and no one could ignore the cries of pain that shrilled from the innocent man's throat.
"Let's stop here," the captain shouted to his low populated army. The sergeant and the other private carefully set the injured soldier down. The other private saluted and joined the rest of the thinning soldiers.
The sergeant walked over the injured man, rubbing his shoulder at the same time. "We're gonna give you a bit of a rest, now. Alright?" The sergeant shifted towards the boy's legs.
The young lad moaned in piercing agony. The sergeant flipped back the thin sheet of clothed wool to reveal the red, swollen, burnt legs of the young soldier. A hole at the knee of the soldier's pants told that it was also burnt. The sergeant winced at the burns. He wondered how his son could have even survived such a blow.
The sergeant replaced the sheet back over his son's legs to protect them from the filthy, war polluted air. As he got up, a sharp shooting pain raced about his shoulder. He grabbed it, and attempted to hide the wince that had showed itself anyway.
"Bass, take Sgt. Woodruff's place for awhile," the captain commanded.
"No, I'm alright, Sir. Some bastard gave me a lick with his musket, barely noticed it at the time," the sergeant replied, rubbing his sore shoulder.
"Well, if you keep pulling that lid you won't be able to use that arm at all," the captain stated. Sgt. Woodruff followed behind the captain as he walked off to a private place.
"Change?" the captain asked, as he turned to face his sergeant.
"Those burns on his legs are pretty deep," the sergeant started.
"I thought we get to Plank Road by now. Got any ideas about where we might be?"
The sergeant took off his hat, and began to scratch the back of his head, "I expect we keeping heading south, Sir, that way we at least be on our way to Richmond."
"I'm not planning on running to Richmond or any place else, Sergeant. Our orders were to secure the river ford."
The sergeant became anxious at this point, "Those orders were given before we lost two-thirds of our component, Sir! We don't even know who won the battle."
"All the more reason to do what is expected of us," the sergeant looked down at his feet from the captain's words. He was right, and the sergeant felt guilty of what he was trying to do. He put his hat upon his head again. The captain continued, "We'll head south, but we'll keep an eye open for the river crossing." The sergeant nodded his head. "We should get the men marching."
The sergeant went back to the rest of army, urging them to have faith and move on. The captain watched the sergeant as he wrangled up the soldiers.
Chapter 4:
I sat giving Jim the worst death glare I could muster. How could he have gotten rid of our colt! My colt! But I had faith in that colt. He knew his way back home to his mama. I knew he knew. It was just a matter of time.
Jim was sitting on a log next to Switters about the no-longer-burning fire. He was fumbling around with his hat, probably wondering how I would take the fact that the colt is gone. Or about Tyler.
"You got your housewife on you?" Switters asked suddenly. In his lap laid a piece of a shirt that he was planning on fixing up. Jim got the saddlebag, and took out the sewing kit. He threw it over to Switters, who caught it without a problem. As he began to fix up the shirt, Switters stated, "You know some of us felt like he was our kin, too. After being through the whole damn war with him, or maybe that's what's known to you guys?"
Jim answered drearily, "It is."
"This war's gonna be over someday, and everybody's afraid to come right out and say it. What's God's will, for everything to come to an end eventually?" Switters looked up at us, and threw back the sewing kit. Jim looked down, and placed his hat on his head. I looked at Switters, who was giving me an apologetic look. My face probably still read anger.
Jim got up and I soon followed. We were side-by-side walking over to Jen, when I heard the whinny. The colt shot in front of us, and Jim's face was priceless. "What the hell?" Inside me I was jumping and screaming for joy, but on the outside, as I learned from the army, I smiled and that was it. Then I heard:
"Rabb!" it was coming from the throat of Sgt. Longacre. My smile and happiness died right then and there. He took hold of my shoulder so I could face him. Jim spun around. "We're moving out. Why haven't you shot the creature? Is there something wrong with your weapon?" when Jim didn't answer, he shouted the question in my face.
Jim gave a sulking answer, "No."
"Then get it done!"
I barged into a conversation that I really should have stayed out of, "It's newly born, Sergeant!"
"Yes, but the longer it stays around the more its life's about disappointment," the sergeant had a hard grip on my shoulder, but I held my place. I glanced over at the colt, who was suckling again. A warm feeling shot inside me as I looked at him, something that felt like life.
"Do it a favor now, and send it back where it came from," the sergeant said to Jim.
"No!" I begged Jim. Hurt crossed over my face, but who would care. No union soldier ever took pity on another. When Jim shook his head no, I was so overjoyed that he had listened to me I nearly bursted out. He truly loved the colt!
"You want me to do it, then?" Sgt. Longacre asked. Neither of us answered because we both knew it was either gonna be us who had to kill the colt or Sgt. Longacre. I picked no one, really.
The sergeant removed his hand from my shoulder to whip out his pistol, and took an aim the colt. I turned away, and waited for the thundering, dreadful sound of the shot.
Nothing was heard, no shot was made. But the reply of Sgt. Longacre was something that made me smile and giggle to myself.
"Hell with it! We're moving out in a half an hour." He left on that note. I turned around to face Jim. He had disappointment all over his face. My happiness washed away.
"What's wrong? We get to keep our colt!" I said all cheery.
"Well, are you happy that we just pissed off the sergeant!" Jim said, walking off to tack Jen up.
I walked away, not wanting to piss Jim off any more than I already had. I happened to walk over passed the sergeant and Lt. Hutton.
"I thought you understood I wanted that colt destroyed," Lt. Hutton commented.
"I did, Sir," Sgt. Longacre was not comfortable at that moment.
"Well?"
"I thought you might like the opportunity to reconsider the order… Sir," Sgt. Longacre looked Lt. Hutton in the eyes now.
"Why would I wanna do that?"
"Because that colt is helpless and shooting it wouldn't be the gallant thing to do… Sir."
A long pause resulted from the sergeant's answer. I was about to turn back when the lieutenant said, "Have the man stand the horse."
I ran back as fast as I could.
We were riding on a worn down path. All the cavalry was riding in order, two by two. Every horse was trotting along; nose next to the one in front's rear. Every now and then a horse would whinny or swoosh its tail. Jim and I were the odd ones riding double. Of course, Jim, being the man, got the saddle. I didn't mind, but the saddle bags could have used a little more cushioning. I would have rather ridden bareback instead, anyway. The foal was prancing along, trying to keep up with his fast trotting mother. We rode the whole day, most were saddle sore before noon. By sunset, we had gotten camp set up, and our tent stood next to a ledge overlooking a beautiful land. The sun was half hidden by the horizon, and the pink and orange sky made the scene feel like home.
"Some of the privates who've been down in these parts call this land Ashokan," Jim said, sitting on the tree stump next to me. He looked out over the horizon.
"What does it mean?" I asked. Ashokan didn't sound like an English word.
"What does what mean?" Jim was confused.
"Ashokan, what does it mean? Does it have some sentimental meaning?" I asked Jim, never taking my eyes off the horizon or the beautiful scenery.
"I don't think it means anything, but one private mentioned something of it being a peaceful, sacred place." Then Jen gave a whinny, signaling supper time. The colt was suckling once again. Looking at him got me thinking to a name. The colt had this type of aura that meant peace and safety. Names were running across my mind: Dusty, Wild, Willie, Sandy, or maybe Colin? None of the names fit; none, until I reprised the conversation my brother and I had just had, Ashokan. That was it! Ashokan! A perfect fit. I turned back to the horses. Jen was munching away at the feedbag shoved in her face. The colt now smelled the ground of new scents. He was definitely an Ashokan. Jim looked up towards a tree parallel from our tent. I glanced in his sight line. Mr. Covington was sketching another scene up there.
I sauntered up to him, and sat down close enough to him to start a conversation.
"I hope you'll be pleased to know I have named the colt," I said, and looked up at him. His face was so concentrated on the sketch, I hadn't known if he heard me.
He glanced up at me, "Now, what name have you given this fine looking colt?"
"Ashokan."
"Ashokan? What is that?" Tom had put down his sketch to be polite and have a friendly conversation.
"Ashokan's what you're sitting on, where the sun has set, where we made camp. This is Ashokan, Mr. Covington," I said, looking out into the horizon again.
"Well, I think it's a good name," Mr. Covington replied. He took out his sketch again. I walked around to his right side to see what he was drawing. He was a wonderful sketcher! You could see the grain of the horses' hair as if it were right in front of you. The blackness of the horses' eyes showed the expression of the calmness. It was true art. His hand wisped, and out of nowhere came a beautiful picture. My brother had walked up after feeding Jen.
"Evening, Private Rabb," Mr. Covington said, not taking his eyes off the picture.
"Evening," my brother replied, and he took his hat off due to the warm heat wave we were experiencing.
"Think we are likely to encounter any rebels?"
"Oh, I don't know, Sir. I suspect we might, you know? Maybe tomorrow or the next day," he paused for just a moment. "Ah, Sir." Mr. Covington looked up. "I was just wondering if you could… ah… draw that colt for me and my sister."
"I could do that," Mr. Covington replied, removing the finished sketch of the other privates' horses.
"I'm already obliged to you for the kind words you said about our brother the other day," Jim said looking down at his hat.
"We really thank you for those words," I said, settling on the ground beside the log.
"Well it would be a poor world if kind words came with an obligation attached. I'd be happy to sketch your colt," Mr. Covington said, preparing for a new sketch.
"Thank you, Mr. Covington," my brother and I spoke at the same time. My brother started to walk away.
"You care to watch?"
"I have other business to tend to. I'm sorry," Jim said, and walked over to another tent, most likely the lieutenant's.
"I'll watch, Mr. Covington," I said, and took the empty spot next to him on the stump.
His way of art was so unique. He would measure with his thumb for distance on the colt's body. I found this very ingenious.
"I'm city bred myself," he began up a conversation again. "New York. I don't know a lot about horses, but, oh, he seems like a fine one. Am I wrong?"
"Oh, no, Sir! See how his legs are straight, the way his shoulder kinda slopes there? Yeah, he could surely cut the ground if he took his mind to doing so. And his mother, there, Jen, she's from a mare whose own mother was a mustang from the wild horses way down in Texas. Our father got her there. He was in the dragoons during the war with Mexico," I said, and happened to glance over to the sketch. The drawing was almost a carbon copy of Ashokan. It was absolutely beautiful.
"So, you and your brother have known the mare for awhile?" Mr. Covington asked.
"Oh, yeah! Jen and my brothers go way back. Tyler, my brother, had the stallion from the same mare, but he broke a leg while he and Jim were chasing some of Mosby's gorillas over by the Potomac."
"Tell me about your brother, Tyler," Mr. Covington asked. This struck me as a little awkward, but I told him out of the politeness of it.
"Well, umm. Tyler, he was born to be a soldier. He was so brave, afraid of nothing. And I think that part of him, part of him liked the navy. You know, the war?"
"To some men war presents an opportunity," Mr. Covington said, and he looked up at me.
"Is that why you're here?" I asked, curiosity blanking my mind. I had never thought of war as an opportunity. I joined because I've always wanted to be a soldier.
"I would like to make a name for myself like everyone else. I wanna be remembered.