**Part 3 of the 'Running Away' series. The installments for this series seem to be running together (no pun intended). This selection references Silver and Gold and In Earnest from Part 2.

Man Plans, God Laughs

My younger brother enlisted before the ink was dry on the Declaration of War. Fending off pleas of patriotism and duty, I stayed behind to tend ailing parents and a new bride. This is the reason why I never signed up until it was in its third year. The best reason anyhow, for the real one is much darker.

It's not that I ignored the war. How could I when the newspapers were full of it and my students, young as they were, clamored to become part of it? Indeed, each took up their paper swords at recess to joust and slash at the—thankfully—invisible enemy in the courtyard. Once when Josie and I were taking a stroll through town as was our habit after dining, we were stopped by a group of boys celebrating their impending enlistment. They were asking all the older men they saw for advice. At twenty-three, I didn't consider myself old. I told them that very thing. They all laughed and said I should sign up with them. There'd been talk of the Conscription Act after all, why wait? The lot of them were like errant Thoreau's, each foregoing what he had in hand to gladly seek out their own impervious swamps*, far away from city and town life. But at what cost would they find their wilderness? My brother's price was far too high.

Alan. Almost two months had passed since I received word he had been lost in battle, and I was still shaken. Not that anyone other than my wife knew this. If you were to see me in the classroom, you would have said, He handled it so well. He went right on with his duties and never complained. He was a wonderful example for us all. None of this is true. Secretly, I was an utter coward, making my way in the changed world as best I could. I suppose his death was the driving force behind my ultimate enlistment. No patriotic thoughts of the Union swept through my mind when I signed the papers, I only wanted to make Alan's death mean something.

That was over two years ago.

I remember Camp Meigs with the fondest of regards. I was studying the shiny buttons on my coat that Josie had made for me, remembering how her lips pinched white as we said our goodbyes at the train station, when Colonel Lowell introduced you.

"Oh, hell, no." The murmured epithet and subsequent jab to my ribs from Corporal Atherton to my right made me raise my head.

You were a tall rawboned youth, Scott Lancer, bright and shiny in your too short-in-the-cuffs issued uniform. And you had no idea you'd already been weighed, judged and found lacking, but maybe your naiveté is what saved you, at least in the beginning.

You first became commander, and then became brother. And while I knew from the moment I met you that you were someone special—truly I did not know the half of it.

#-#-#-#-#

I, along with most of the others, watch the two men fight with some expectation. Although I am not a gambler, I do like a good match. As each blow lands, we yip and yowl out encouragement to which man we prefer. It's quite a sight, blood and sweat spotting the ground in equal amounts, under a sky blue enough to take Josie for an outing. Nothing at camp to occupy a man but infernal drills and maneuvers, the wondering over what the next days would deliver. I would have gone mad if I hadn't packed a few books. It wouldn't be too long before orders were written, however. Rumors in the camp spoke of Company B travelling to Mississippi, of all places. A hamlet known as Vicksburg. We gather around the map before reveille one morning to find it festooned to the side of the state much like a leech. It is a long way from Boston.

The match was made to settle a paltry grievance, without your permission.

With time, the fight turns sluggish. Both of the company's Corporals, Jimmy Atherton and Jack Mills, are wearing down, painted with reddened bruises. Atherton is the instigator, swearing that Mills took his pair of knitted socks. Now they are fit to damage each other. You watch the proceedings with a sharp eye, knowing full well that if Captain Miles were to ride up you would lose your command for letting the fight go ahead. But Company B, in the space of two short months, has their own way of settling matters.

Your eyes sweep around the tight circle, taking in the glee on the faces of the soldiers. Is it youthful indecision, or some inherent wisdom that made you hesitate? And while you wait, the few minutes of violence between the two corporals erase the drudgery, the complaints and the troubles of the men surrounding them.

Atherton lands a blow that sends Mills reeling. Large in size, he doesn't go down, merely staggers. And aims back toward Atherton.

"That's enough," you bark and step into the circle of blue uniforms. "The fight is over."

You and Atherton make eye contact. Atherton hears you but the corporal twists back to his opponent and thrusts a straight-armed punch at Mills' jaw. You can never trust a Maine boy.

When Mills crumples to the ground, you stride up to the corporal in your serious long-legged gait. Just as the victor turns, you swing out a heavy round-house blow of your own that sends Atherton down beside the man he'd bested.

"You ever disobey an order of mine again," you tell the stunned and blinking Atherton, "there will be worse for you." You straighten your spine and glare at each of your men, including me. Every single one of us silent now.

"Any more disagreements, save them for the Rebels. We're going to be on the move soon enough." You growl like a bear, waiting to lunge. "Now get these soldiers out of here."

The men, most of them years older than yourself, leap to do your bidding. A smile threatens your face.

Company B knew you as an able rider, could read and write, and issue commands with the best of the regiment's officers, but until then we didn't know we had a leader.

#-#-#-#-#

We reach our place of encampment—near the leech called Vicksburg—under cover of night. It had nothing to do with Army subterfuge, rather we had pushed the 83rd Ohio Infantry ahead of us like slow sheep. I didn't know at the time how the military expected already exhausted men to fight. Thank God for horses.

The 83rd are a curious bunch. I notice in some men there is a hunger for rank. And, indeed, Lieutenant Cassidy has the disease. Something else about him strikes me as odd, but I push it off as enthusiasm for the job at hand. Travelling with a man for days on end, allows for certain piques to show through the armor. You are as open as sunshine. Simply put, we can rely on you, and that is no trifling matter.

I shudder when I think about that very first battle. I'll say no more than that.

We mourn the loss of Captain Miles and Private Anderson as no others after, for they are the first. We present a pathetic spectacle of dusty, dirty, ragged men, faces turned down. We are lost, looking for someone to hold us together—it had to be you. With the grace of hindsight, what a terrible burden for someone so young! You bloomed, but it isn't without its scars.

It is there in Mississippi you start to write: the Captain's good wife, Anderson's mother and father. By the end of the campaign, you are in danger of running out of nibs.

#-#-#-#-#

Whenever Colonel Lowell makes regimental rounds, it is a sign something was afoot. His speech is short and to the point. "Formal orders will be coming through your officers, but you may as well hear it now: We're to prepare for early maneuvers. We'll travel fast and light. Leave all unnecessary items behind for the trains to gather up." He pauses to rally the men. "There's a battle in the hills of Virginia, gentlemen, and General Grant wants us there."

After his customary pleasantries, repeated company after company, he takes you aside.

"Lieutenant Lancer? I hear you did a fine job with the 83rd at Vicksburg. From all accounts a tough fight."

"Yes, sir. Colonel Lowell, I can assure you these men are still ready to fight. They're as willing as any."

"I know that, Lieutenant," he says softly. "I know that." Ten years older than you, but younger than most men of his rank, he almost sounds like a father, a wealth of experience threading his weary words.

"I'm told," Lowell continues, "that you have some experience with bookkeeping. Fastidious was the word that was used."

You droop like a leaky aeronautical balloon.

"I suspect, sir, that my proficiency may be exaggerated. But I do have experience with credits and debts, general accounting."

"I have need for you at regimental headquarters to keep up with required reports, muster figures, payable accounts, communication to Washington…well, all of it."

"A staff officer, sir?"

"You sound aghast, Lieutenant."

"With all due respect, no."

Your bluntness startles the colonel to silence. His eyes narrow. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"I want to be with my men. For the battles ahead."

"That's very commendable, of course. But I need someone I can depend on, too. The families of the fallen must know if their loved ones are sick, missing or dead. The government requires their figures," He chuckles, but there is no mirth. "Simply put, the Cavalry not only traverses on horses, but on paper as well. What can I do to persuade you?"

"Nothing, sir. I'm quite happy where I am."

"I could order you, Lieutenant," and his voice is the softest yet. But he chuckles again. "Many of your peers would leap at the chance. A promotion would be forthcoming. You would not go forward."

"At the risk of being insubordinate, I would refuse the orders." Your head dips to the side, wary. "If I may ask, did my grandfather have anything to do with this request?"

"You are verging on insubordination now." Colonel Lowell sighs, a sound like rustling leaves. "It would be a safe position, yet you decline. I have just one question: Why?"

You come to attention so quickly the buttons on your coat are in danger of snapping off with the strain. "I don't wish to be safe." Then you sweep out your hand out to encompass the tents, horses and men of the company. "This is where I need to be."

His eyes round, as if finding something wildly unexpected underneath a microscope lens, and claps you on the shoulder. "Good man."

But I notice, and you must have realized as well—he never answers your question.

#-#-#-#-#

"Little Phil", a swarthy Irishman from rural Ohio with long arms, short legs and an unforgettable bullet-shaped head, arrives at camp with all the pomp and circumstance befitting his station. Sheridan's visit creates not a little hullaballoo, for General Grant has poised him to command the Cavalry Corps of the Army of the Potomac. But we are secretly excited to see his famous horse, Rienzi. We snicker at the thought of General Sheridan shinnying up his saber to mount that overly tall animal.

But we feel dazed and important that he should meet with our regiment and company.

We take a vote, the whole of us, that if we can't all get a picture together with Sheridan then you are the one. It is unanimous—almost. Corporal Atherton, that Maine boy, is always a hard-head. We show him the way of it, however.

You look splendid in your cleaned and patched jacket—if a bit too tall—with the General.

#-#-#-#-#

You never lose your composure in front of the men, but to some in command you present a different side. We ride up to headquarters, faces smeared and angry. You leap to the ground and come off shouting. "Damn it to hell, my men just drove the Johnnies back two miles. We broke their line." Your rage is all-encompassing, a scatter-shot of condemning words. "Where were D and E companies? No support from anybody, and damned well not from you. My men are bloodied and I can't even get back my wounded."

You round on the Major's assistant, his uniform pristine and tidy, and I step back because I had already been through two barrages today and didn't want to go through a third. Your words cut a swath as true as any saber, leaving both officers flushed scarlet by the time you left.

On a delayed fuse, the staff man explodes. "Lancer ought to be court-martialed. He's a disgrace to the uniform, to the entire regiment." He glares at your retreating back. "Mutinous. He should be relieved and placed under arrest."

The Major cocks his head and stares at me. "Well, Sergeant? What should I tell Colonel Lowell?"

I straighten to attention, acutely aware of my dishevelment in the neatness of the tent. "If he goes, I expect the company would leave with him, Sir."

"And you?"

The first smile of the day ghosts my lips. "I would lead the parade."

He shifts in his chair at my honesty. Then speaks to his man, "Sit down, Hawkins. There will be no court-martial today." He sweeps his eyes back to me. "Lancer is a fighter. We need him."

I salute the truth of that statement, if not the man, and follow you back to camp with our mounts.

#-#-#-#-#

Our winter camp in Virginia is peaceful, for all the violence of that spring and summer. Despite our complaints, our fears, our youth and inexperience, we are veterans. Some of us came to it kicking and screaming, others—like you—with quiet acceptance. We quickly learn that a garrisoned regiment is a bored one as well.

You take to walking through camp in the late evenings. It's jokingly passed around that we could set our watches by the ringing of Lieutenant Lancer's spurs after mess. Amid the drilling and frequent picket lines, you break up four skirmishes, orchestrate two snowball fights, learn all the non-rules for dirty poker (losing six dollars in the process) and borrow my Thoreau book for the tenth time.

You also find Private Paul Merrell, a man who didn't want to be found.

In came weather and holidays, and most importantly, letters from home. Like starving men at a banquet, we fall on them, sipping and tasting by candlelight until our eyes give out. You sit on the makeshift feed bin by the corral, with that goliath of a horse leaning over your shoulder nibbling at your sleeve. In due time, you push Mortimer's ugly nose away and carefully fold the letters along their creases and into your pocket, with a small grin. We know by then, from a few misplaced and outspoken jibes by Lieutenant Willoughby, that someone besides a grandfather and great-aunt resides in Boston. Her name is Julie.

Josie sent her own lengthy missives and scented envelopes, and I wear a similar grin.

It snows mid-December, bringing a welcome change from the cold rain, leaving the sky heavy with winter cloud. One night, snowflakes twist down like millions of soft feathers. I look up to the dizzying shower until something catches my eye near the creek's edge.

A tall figure in a greatcoat.

Like me, the new snow catches you by surprise. Peering upwards, you use both hands to make a tunnel for your eyes, watching the slow drifts of white. Your head cants, studying the creek, and you glance to your right and left to make sure no one is watching. Satisfied you're alone, you lift the tails of your coat and take a running leap onto the ice-encrusted water, sailing across to land in an undignified heap on the other side, laughing. Getting up, you dust off the snow. But you seem to sense someone is close by and I edge back under cover of the tent flap, thinking you have seen me. By chance, an owl hoots and takes flight. You shake your head and continue dusting.

Framed by a square of moonlight, you lift one arm and wave. Your shadow on the snow waves back. What are you doing? Once again, you check to make sure no one is watching. Then you strike a pose. Your left hand creeps up and out to your side as if hailing a Hansom cab on Federal Street after the theater. The right arm is held in circular fashion to the front. You step forward, and glide to the left, balancing on your toes. Back and forth you go. All the while keeping an eye on your shadow. You're smiling so wide I can see the white of your teeth.

I laugh. It's a creaky sound to my ears. It's been a long time, with the fighting, the marches, and the losses, it's been a long time since I've laughed aloud. Remaining where I am, I start to move, too. Stepping, dipping, even turning a time or two, with Josie in my arms.

You glance my way again, but I don't care.

In late-December your walks became more plentiful, something of a bad habit, as Lieutenant Willoughby was wont to say. It is the incident with Private Merrell that drove the activity, I believe, for he was caught doing the unthinkable just a week before.

As a group we are nonplussed, the man never said anything. No one knew horses as well, or could ride better, but there was something so afraid and careful about him, picking his way around the camp and corrals.

Perhaps Merrell epitomizes how we all feel about our place in the war, but are too duty-bound to say. I hate myself for thinking that way. The truth is, I yearn with every fiber of my being to be back in my little town, teaching in my classroom—despite the most cantankerous of students—and to have Josie's soft hand safely tucked inside mine.

You went to battle and killed. You were often bloodied in return. You risk your own life to bring back our wounded. You bury stalwart men in poor ground, write missives and send condolences to wives and parents. You lead us every day. Yet Merrell's attempt at running away stayed with you. For a reason I wouldn't find out until much later.

I would never have guessed we share a commonality.

tbc

*"Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps."