The Union Lieutenant marched up the wooden gangway and stepped onto the deck of the Tulip.
The officer’s uniform was immaculate, the brass buttons and insignia shining brightly and shoes buffed to a gloss. No division badge pinned to the top of the hat set perfectly in place on the Lieutenant’s head. Only the crossed sword emblem of the Union Army of the Potomac identified the man.
It was his youth that caught Robert’s eye. This was a lad who had only recently joined the army; he had not seen short rations so common to a marching army. Baby fat still gave him a smooth face and his attempt at a beard and mustache was pitiful at best.
“How do you shave Lieutenant?” A voice asked from deep in the Confederate ranks. “Do you let a cat lick your beard off?”
“Silence,” the Lieutenant glared in the offending direction. Recovering his composure, he walked to Robert and looked up at the Confederate officer. “I expect obedience and proper form from prisoners.”
“Respect of senior officers, even enemy officers, is a courtesy required of all military personnel.” Robert’s eyebrows rose. “Or are you a political appointee?”
“West Point, class of sixty-four,” for the Lieutenant, the conversation was distasteful and Robert’s presence hardly tolerable.
“The Point was closed two years ago.” Robert withheld the obvious; the Lieutenant had not graduated from West Point. He leaped into service at the demand of the Union once he was old enough. Robert arched an eyebrow and looked at the Lieutenant neutrally.
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“Sir.”
“Please report Lieutenant” Robert knew this was the time to force the young man into proper behavior.
“The Major will now accompany us to the camp commandant. Sir,” There was no change in the Lieutenant’s demeanor.
“I prefer to oversee the billeting of my men before introducing myself to the senior officers.” It had been a long war; Robert tried to soften the tension with a smile. “Please convey my regards to the commandant.”
“Sergeant,” with a malicious grin, the Lieutenant then faced the gangway.
The guards who accompanied the Lieutenant to the quay quickly marched up the gangway and onto the Tulip, their boots loud upon the wooden deck. An uneasy silence claimed the prisoners as the union guards formed a line facing Robert to the sound of jangling equipment.
These young guards were unlike the men who had led the Confederate prisoners north; they possessed an air of hatred that equaled the Lieutenant’s anger. Whatever their individual reason, these men wanted to kill Confederate soldiers. These men were the battering ram created by the Lieutenant to enforce his will in the prison.
“Ready,” the sergeant stood to one side of the men, who raised their rifles.
Looking at the Lieutenant Robert saw what could only be maniacal glee in the boy’s eyes. The Confederate prisoners reacted to the threat by crowding toward the union soldiers.
“Hold,” Robert’s voice, gained on several battlefields, broke the silence. The men dressed in gray froze, their angry gaze traveling from Robert to the rifles, then back.
“The Major will accompany me to the commandant... Sir,” the Lieutenant repeated with a certain satisfaction.
“Your name, Lieutenant,” Robert requested, all the traits of a senior officer bred by culture and war visible to the surrounding men, his strength and character cool in the enemy’s face. He had finally found a union soldier lacking the civility and humanity required by honor.
“Lieutenant Pace.”
“Stand your men down and lead on.”
“Sergeant Howe, escort please.” Lieutenant Pace was smiling as he motioned Robert to follow the union soldiers with a sweep of his arm and a mocking bow.