It was a beautiful day. The sun shifted warm beams of sunshine between the slowly migrating clouds, casting patterns of light and shadow over the land. Birds sang, cattle lowed in the corals, and all was quiet...for now. Blutch knew it wouldn't stay that way. If there was one thing he had learned from his four years in the Union army, it was that there was no such thing as a "quiet" day. Over the last few years of his young life he had seen more than his share of battle, destruction, and death. He shuddered.
Will this ever end? He wondered, glancing back at the Union camp. How he hated the army! Hated the war. Hated everything to do with it...but it was all he had known for the last four years. In a way, it was home...the only one he had ever had.
The small Corporal sighed wearily. He ground a fist into his tired eyes. Sleep had not found its way to the young man for several nights. He felt shaky, and unfocused. He yawned, then shook off the exhaustion that was threatening to overtake him. He mustn't let it show. It would only mean time in the infirmary, and that was the last place he wanted to be. The place reeked of fear and death. It was a place of depression, confusion, and hopelessness.
Blutch closed his eyes and shuddered again, wrapping his arms around himself. No, it wouldn't do him any good to end up there. He'd just have to rough it. Act like nothing was wrong. Especially around the Sargent. The Corporal smirked, casting a quick side glance toward his army's camp. The Sargent always watched his every move, and Blutch couldn't blame him for that. Over the years, he hadn't exactly given the Seargent any reason to trust him.
"He's probably watching me right now," he said to himself grumpily. "Guess I'll have to be real careful."
The Sargent stood with his arms crossed over his chest, sourly watching the small figure outside the camp. Around him, Union soldiers went about their business; some carrying crates, others cleaning their rifles, all staying clear of the irritable man in their midst.
Sargent Cornelius Chesterfield was a short tempered man, with a strong personality to match. He was much more sturdily built then most of the other men, and wasn't afraid to prove it. He was known for his quick temper and powerful punch. Not that many people ever dared to challenge him.
Despite these, rather less than charming, qualities, he was much respected by the men under his care. Chesterfield had an intense sense of justice, duty, and love for his country, which empowered him to seemingly face any obstacle with pure energy and raw courage. He loved the army with all his being. It was his life.
Today, however, the Sargent was in a foul mood. He glared, unaffected by the goings on around him, staring in cold, unswaying anger. The soldiers could hear him muttering darkly under his breath, and they flashed each other weary smiles. They all knew they could relax, knowing who the man's wrath was directed at.
It had started that morning, just like it did every morning...
The sound of a bugle filled the dawn air as soldiers rolled themselves from tangled beds of sheets and gear. Rushing into their uniforms to make it out into the camp for morning inspection.
With the first note, Chesterfield's eyes snapped open. He sat up immediately, preparing to shake his ever present companion beside him awake. He turned to do so, but was mildly surprised to see the bedraggled Corporal already up and half dressed.
"Blutch, what are you doing up so early?!" The Sargent exclaimed, annoyed that his companion had gotten up before him. "I usually have to drag you out of bed!"
"Well," Blutch responded, just as annoyed as he fumbled with his belt, "Today I saved you the trouble."
Chesterfield untangled himself from his resting place, his temper already beginning to flare up. So earily in the morning too.
"Heh," He grunted, as if it would settle the matter in his favor. "You should make it a habit."
Click. He heard the sound of Blutch's belt finally snap into place as he began to get dressed himself. Blutch grabbed his cap, shoving it unceremoniously onto his head, and stomped out of the tent without another word.
Chesterfield smiled to himself, taking the Corporal's silence as his angry submission to the Sargent's authority. He quickly finished dressing, fastening the belt without any trouble, and quickly marched outside.
The 22nd Calvary stood at stiff attention in the early morning light. Some stifled yawns and others struggled to finish buttoning a few stubborn buttons on their uniforms. The Sargent took his place in line, right beside the small Corporal under his leadership, giving Blutch a triumphant smirk as he did so. He saw the Corporal turn slightly red with temper, and than turned his attention to the approach of the superior officers. He didn't see the face that Blutch made in his direction.
Captain Stark walked up to the troop, sauntering like the Captain he truly was. He rested his hand on his sword at his side, stroking his fire-red beard with the other. He smiled with pride at the men before him.
Captain Stark was well liked by most everybody. He was kind-hearted, fair, and had the courage of twenty men; but he had one failing characteristic: the man was a lunatic. Or, at least, at times he seemed so. Oh, he followed orders, rushed to battle, and fought for his country, but at times he just seemed a bit...unstable.
He stood at attention in front of the ranks, returning their salutes sharply.
"Men," he began, standing like the dashing commander he believed he was, "I have good news."
The troop leaned forward expectantly, hoping, as always, to here that the war was over. Perhaps no one hoped this more than Corporal Blutch. His frustration over his annoying subordinate forgotten, he lost his stiff stance, looking at the Captain with interest.
"Today," Stark continued happily, "We shall charge the ranks of the rebels to continue our fight for freedom!" He beamed at them with pure pleasure. Yup, definitely unstable.
Chesterfield had felt Blutch lean forward in excitement, and then shrink back in utter depression at the news. The Sargent felt a slight twinge of sympathy.
"That is all," Stark called, "We move out in two hours!" With that, he turned and marched back to the Captain's tent.
"Fall out!"
The men dispersed to prepare for yet another brush with the enemy. A brush with death.
Chesterfield stood beside the Corporal. Blutch remained where he was, hands clenched at his sides. The Sargent felt the twinge again.
"Come on, Blutch," he said, trying to act unconcerned. "We have work to do."
Blutch turned, giving him a murderous glance and started to stomp away. Chesterfield felt the little sympathy vanish. Angry, he stepped forward, grabbing Blutch's wrist.
"Look," he said in frustration, "I know your upset, but guess what, we all are, so just deal with it!"
Blutch wrenched his arm out of Chesterfield's grasp irritably. "I am dealing with it," he growled dangerously, "Now LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Slightly startled by his companion's outburst, Chesterfield took a step back. The bystanders paused to watch the fight they knew was about to take place. The Sargent locked eyes with the little man, quivering with anger, in front of him. They stood like that for several moments, before the Corporal turned sharply and stomped away, pushing a few soldiers aside as he made his way out of camp. Chesterfield glared after him.
"I'll have you shot for insubordination!" He yelled, more as a parting shot than an actual threat. Blutch didn't respond as he marched, waving a dismissive hand in the air.
...
And there stood the Sargent, still unmoving from the spot, as he watched the Corporal's form returning. It had been nearly half an hour, but Chesterfield hadn't let Blutch out of his sight. He wanted to be sure Blutch wouldn't attempt an escape. He waited for the Corporal to be close enough for eye contact, before turning to the rest of his men.
"Ready your saddles, guys! We move out in an hour and a half!" He gave Blutch a meaningful look. "All of us!"
Blutch didn't respond. He was too tired to argue any more. He rolled his eyes at the Sargent and went into the tent to grab his gear. Not that I ever use it, he thought rebelliously.
He pushed back the canvas flaps to the tent, bursting in dramatically. No one was there to witness this; everyone had already gotten their stuff. The tent was empty.
The small Corporal grumbled as he made his way over to his messy pile of blankets that he called 'bed'. Anger rose in him as he began to attach his sword to his belt.
Another charge, he thought bitterly, another day of death and misery. His hands started shaking, making it hard for him to handle the weapon. Was there no end to this stupid war? Hadn't enough blood been shed? His hands shook harder.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" He cried, finally throwing the sword back onto the bed in anger. He regretted it immediately, as he suddenly felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. Grabbing the fabric tent wall, he steadied himself, eyes closed as everything spun. It made him feel hot and sick. His heart was racing, he could feel it pounding in his chest.
As suddenly as it had started, the intense feeling went away. Blutch gulped in a few deep breaths of air, feeling everything return to normal. He wiped a shaky hand across his brow. The only remaining symptom was his fast heartbeat, but even that was slowly becoming stable again.
"I...I better not let that happen again," he said to himself weakly, "Especially in front of the Sargent..."
He felt exhausted, but he knew that if he complained to Chesterfield the Sargent would think he was just faking to get out of the charge...that or would send him to the infirmary. Neither option appealed to the Corporal.
"I..I'll just have to 'deal with it'." He smirked again, remembering that those were the words that Chesterfield had used only an hour ago.
Bending over carefully, he picked up his sword, attaching it to the belt quickly, lest the shaking begin again. Click! It snapped in place without any trouble.
Shaking off whatever visible traces of his ordeal were still lingering, he braced himself and pushed through the tent flaps.
"OOFH!"
Blutch ran smack into something standing just outside the tent. The force of the impact caused him to stumble back slightly. Rubbing his chest, were he had received the brunt of the obstacle's force, he looked up to see the red face of Sargent Chesterfield. Blutch felt his heart speed up slightly once more. He fervently hoped that the Sargent hadn't been standing there long, and had seen his little episode. His fears were not grounded, however, and he soon realized this as the Sargent pointed a finger toward the horse corral.
"BLUTCH! Go get Arabesque ready, and NO MORE FOOLING AROUND!"
Blutch backed away, nodding as he quickly ran off in the direction indicated. The Corporal knew better than to argue when the Sargent was in as bad a temper as that!
Chesterfield watched him fairly fly toward the horse pen. Blutch ducked and dodged as he swept through the crowd of soldiers, until he was lost from view. Chesterfield nodded in satisfaction, and turned to prepare the rest of his men for battle.