Chapter Three
AN: Shame on me, I know. Update too long in coming. All I can do is apologize and hope my readers continue to stick with me. I have some ideas I'm tossing around and my muse is fickle. When the spring rains come, she'll be more affable.
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Goodnight stood at attention with a 100 men, all dressed in tatty, stained, ill fitting grey coats. The last campaign had been brutal. Days bled into weeks with both sides gaining and losing ground until after nearly three weeks, the battle was declared a stalemate.
Soldiers returned to their respective sides, broken, battered, bloodied, and suffering from numerous afflictions, most of which attributed to poor hygiene and lack of food.
Goodnight's own uniform was loose upon his already lean frame. He'd lost at least twenty pounds. Supplies had been scarce for the better part of two weeks, but Goodnight had suffered the worst.
Having proven himself by eliminating long range targets, he had been assigned a position above the battlefield, high in a tree, heavily camouflaged, where he was to stay until further orders.
Sadly, the enemy advanced, unknowingly camping at the base of his tree, forcing him to remain perfectly silent and motionless for several days.
Isolated from his regiment, he endured endless days and nights stuck in the crotch of the tree, relying on bark, leaves, (and the occasional bug) and morning dew to survive. When the sea of grey moved below, overrunning the enemy camp, he wept for joy, but it was short lived.
Supplies were low. Priority was given to those with more battle field experience, commanding officers and important soldiers. Lowly soldiers of the front line were not granted much food, as their inevitable death would mean a waste of limited resources.
Sadly, Goodnight also fell into such a category.
Ordered to remain in place, he suffered another week of near starvation, exposure, and numb, unresponsive body as the grays slowly advanced, forcing the Union devils into further retreat. The cramped area didn't afford room to stretch his limbs, and he was forbidden to leave his post in case the distant enemy had a spyglass trained onto their camp.
He had to stay hidden and always on alert.
When victory was finally sounded, Goodnight could barely move. Weak from hunger, fatigue, and sickness from being exposed to unforgiving rain, several men had to climb the tree and extract the sharpshooter who lacked the strength to stand, let alone lower himself down on a rope.
Three day travel to their next battle field was the only reprieve he was given to break his fever and regain strength. Thankfully, he had a strong bloodline, a blessing of what many would deem 'mystical.'
His grandmother was notorious for her predictions and many of the New Orleans elders sought her advice, and swore by her spiritual abilities.
The woman was a legend.
All Goodnight's life she proclaimed his impending greatness. The wonderful things he would do. The honor he would bring to the family. The great and glorious accolades he would receive. When he received the summons to war, he knew it was his destiny to earn glory upon the field of battle.
When he returned home from the war, if he survived, he would be celebrated for his role as a soldier. This was the future his grandmother predicted since before his birth. He would make his family proud.
Which is why he stood in perfect formation. Rigid posture, staring straight ahead, holding his head high while his commanding officer marched the line barking orders. Goodnight displaying every attribute of a veteran soldier.
"I hear you are quite the shot, son?" the burly, heavily mustached commander said, his ruddy face a few inches from Goodnight's.
"Sir!" Goodnight snapped, somehow making his posture even more severe.
The commander eyed the much thinner man critically.
"I guess some kind of use has to be behind those skinny arms and legs," he said, offering a dark chuckle that made skin crawl. "Not like a bony man can hold his own against real soldiers when it comes to fighting bare handed."
Goodnight's jaw clenched. He pursed his lips into a thin line to keep from speaking out of turn.
He wasn't a weakling. From far from it. His thinner frame was only due to hardship and lack of time to recover from extended hunger.
The commander rocked back on highly polished boots. It was doubtful such boots had seen real combat, nor knew the hardship of what front line soldiers endured for weeks on end.
Given the commander's girth and ruddy countenance, he was a well fed and pampered general who most likely earned his reputation by money and influence.
"Petite boys like you need to be toughened up," the commander continued, giving Goodnight another disdainful once over. "Learn from the real men out there taking bullets and charging the enemy head on."
Goodnight kept statuesque. He knew his worth. He had proved it the first skirmish when he saved three fellow grays, one of whom he carried on his shoulders miles to their camp.
Battle required a certain taste, and Goodnight had developed quite the palate. He was a connoisseur of war and death. As most cringed from the fight or had nightmares of death, Goodnight thrived. Excelled. Craved it. It set his bayou blood on fire!
"Captain Lambeaux?" the commander yelled.
A man stepped forward.
"What do you say we toughen up this little man?" the commander asked, narrowed eyes staring directly into Goodnight's soul.
"I know just wha' to do wit 'im," Lambeaux said in a voice like gravel and glass. He snickered. "Coupla weeks, he be a real man."
Goodnight wanted to argue he was a real man. He had proven himself worthy of the jacket. Many times. He wanted to state his impressive record, but mouthing off to a commanding officer was a sure fire way to get court marshaled and executed by firing squad.
The grays didn't mess around with insubordination. It was ruled by an iron fist and leather whip. You were beaten and broken, and made new again. If you survived.
And Goodnight was a survivor.
Lambeaux strode forward, scrutinizing Goodnight with a keen eye. His face was gnarled and grizzled, complete with sparse, scratchy beard and deep pock marks. His eyes were heavily shielded by the substantial brow that cut across his forehead in a solid line.
"I 'ear you're a good shot," he drawled in a tortured southern accent.
"Yes, sir," Goodnight confirmed again. It felt good to offer confirmation after the public dress down from the commander in front of others. Humiliation was a difficult wound to bear, especially when one was cursed with pride.
Lambeaux clucked his tongue. "Guess we see how good you are."
Goodnight's heart skipped a beat.
Lambeaux was notorious for being one of the best captains of the field. His team had the highest success rate in the confederacy. To be offered a position amongst such elite soldiers was an honor.
"You better be as good as you claim," Lambeaux growled. "Else, I shoot you m'self, boy."
Goodnight offered a single nod in answer. It took every bit of his self control to not correct the man about who was the one actually boasting about his sharp shooting abilities. But he wanted to be accepted, both as a soldier and as a man into the elite grays.
Exercising some hidden reserve of self restraint, Goodnight acknowledged his new commander. Soon, Goodnight Robicheaux would take his place with the elite. His name whispered in awe and hushed moments of solace. Others would take comfort in the knowledge his aim is true, their lives protected by his keen sight. He will be their guardian, removing threats from their path so they may claim victory.
His name would go down in history.
Oh, to be a legend! There was no greater honor! Fame and fortune were within his grasp!
In the distance, by the light of a full pale moon, the owl spoke in warning.
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Yes, Goody is winding himself up for what he believes to be his true calling. His journey is only just beginning, but don't fret, I know how much torture I want to put him through before I give him a reprieve.