The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

Yankees. If they got Anse, there’s a slim chance we can learn of it and take steps. Leastwise, nosing a little downwind ain’t goin’ to do a bit of harm.” He moved out of the firelight with his usual noiseless tread and was gone.
    CHAPTER 17
    PoorRebel Soldier.…
    “Sergeant Rennie reporting suh, at the General’s orders.” Drew came to attention under the regard of those gray-blue eyes, not understanding why he had been summoned to Forrest’s headquarters.
    “Sergeant, what’s all this about bushwhackers?”
    Drew repeated the story of their adventure in Tennessee, paring it down to the bald facts.
    “That nest was wiped out by the Yankee patrol, suh. Afterward Private Croff found a saddlebag with some papers in it, which was in the remains of their camp. It looks like they’d been picking off couriers from both sides. We sent those in with our first report.”
    The General nodded. “You stayed near-by for a while after the camp was taken?”
    “Well, I was hurt, suh.”
    He saw that General Forrest was smiling. “Sergeant, that theah story about your belt buckle has had a mightly lot of repeatin’ up and down the ranks. You were a lucky young man!”
    “Yes, suh!” Drew agreed. “While I was laid up, Privates Croff and Webb took turns on scout, suh. They located some of our men hidin’ out—stragglers from the retreat. They also rounded up a few of the bushwhackers’ horses and mules.”
    Forrest nodded. “You returned to our lines with some fifteen men and ten mounts, as well as information. Your losses?”
    Drew stared at the wall behind the General’s head.
    “One man missin’, suh.”
    “You were unable to hear any news of him?”
    “No, suh.” The old weariness settled back on him. They had hunted—first Croff and Webb—and then he, too, as soon as he was able to sit a saddle. It was Weatherby’s fate all over again; the ground might have opened and gulped Kirby down.
    “How old are you, Sergeant?”
    Drew could not see what his age had to do with Kirby’s disappearance, but he answered truthfully: “Nineteen—I had a birthday a week ago, suh.”
    “And you volunteered when—?”
    “In May of ’62, suh. I was in Captain Castleman’s company when they joined General Morgan—Company D, Second Kentucky. Then I transferred to the scouts under Captain Quirk.”
    “The big raids…you were in Ohio, Rennie? Captured?”
    “No, suh. I was one of the lucky ones who made it across the river before the Yankees caught up—”
    “At Chickamauga?”
    “Yes, suh.”
    “Cynthiana”—but now Forrest did not wait for Drew’s affirmative answer—“and Harrisburg, Franklin.… It’s a long line of battles, ain’t it, boy? A long line. And you were nineteen last week. You know, Rennie, the Union Army gives medals to those they think have earned them.”
    “I’ve heard tell of that, suh.”
    The General’s hand, brown, strong, went to the officer’s hat weighing down a pile of papers on the table. With a quick twist, Forrest ripped off the tassled gold cord which distinguished it, smoothing out the loop of bullion between thumb and forefinger.
    “We don’t give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just be granted a birthday present without any one gittin’ too excited about how military that is.” He held out the cord, and Drew took it a bit dazedly.
    “Thank you, suh. I’m sure proud.…”
    A wave of Forrest’s hand put a period to his thanks.
    “A long line of battles,” the General repeated, “too long a line—an end to it comin’ soon. Did you ever think, boy, of what you were goin’ to do after the war?”
    “Well, there’s the West, suh. Open country out there—”
    Forrest’s eyes were bright, alert. “Yes, and we might even hold the West. We’ll see—we’ll have to see. Your report accepted, Sergeant.”
    It was plainly a dismissal. As Drew saluted, the General laid his hat back on the tallest pile of papers. Busy at the table, he might have already forgotten Drew. But the Kentuckian, pausing outside the door to examine the hat cord once more, knew that he would never forget. No, there were no medals worn in the ragged, thin lines of the shrinking Confederate Army. But his birthday gift—Drew’s fist closed about the cord jealously—that was something he would have, always.
    Only, nowadays, how long was “always”?
    “That’s a right smart-lookin’ mount, Sarge!” Drew looked at the pair of lounging messengers