As if thinking of the devil summoned the beast itself, Lieutenant Pace appeared over the brim of the hill and made his way to the natural wall where Robert stood. The boy used a stick to point at prisoners who were not following his notion of correct behavior. Most offenses dealing with uniforms open to the warmth of the day.
The theory behind tight control of a soldier’s behavior centered on the opportunity for misbehavior when too much time presented itself and the idea of immediate response to an order, an important function in the heat of battle.
It was abundantly clear Pace believed the use of orders to show his own superiority over the common soldier.
The Lieutenant waived a sketchy salute, apparently also still fighting the thought of saluting an enemy officer.
“Yes Lieutenant,” Robert saluted casually while noticing Pace was not so impeccably dressed for once. The officer’s shoes were muddy and his coat dusted with fine dirt.
“I recommend we quarry more stone from this wall.” Pace stopped at Robert’s side and looked down into the quarry, using the stick as a pointer while he spoke. “The demands at the quay and the lighthouse are pressing; both sites will run out of stone in the next few days.”
“As you know, Lieutenant,” Robert watched Pace, wondering what the boy’s motive was this time. “We are awaiting the results of the search for a new quarry; this vein of granite must have a companion that we can use in safety. Don’t you feel it would be better to wait for all available information before deciding?”
“Indecision is a poor excuse for inaction.” Pace repeated an old lesson from West Point.
“Haste makes waste, Lieutenant,” Robert borrowed the stick, then used it to underline his observations. “There are two visible flaws in this wall, both of which extend all the way from the quarry to the lake. Though neither leak, how do you determine at what point they will fail? The only way to find out may flood the quarry. In this situation, waiting becomes the prudent course of action.”
“What if we build above ground buildings, including barracks and warehouses? We could abandon the cave.” The suggestion was an idea Robert supported and one he had previously presented. “There are very good veins of granite in the cave.” The Lieutenant continued eagerly. The desire to get out of the cave seemed to be as strong with the boy as it was for Robert.
“I made the same observation to Beltram,” Robert marveled that, for once, the conversation seemed friendly. “The answer is; ordering men to build barracks will interfere with our short-term goals. We will build barracks next spring.”
“Foolish,” Pace grumbled softly as he stared into the quarry.
“The men you are commenting on are our superior officers,” Robert glanced at Pace but kept his tone casual. “We must follow their orders, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, Major.” it was clear he did not like the answer.
They stood in silence, watching the bustling activity of the quarry. It was a peculiar moment of peace devoid of the constant arguing. There was almost hope that Pace might gain his humanity.
“I was told you were at Antietam.” Pace spoke eventually, shyly.
“Yes,” Robert nodded his head, his chin sinking to his chest. It was an oddity that both the Union and Confederacy had different names for that battle. Rebels knew that place was Shiloh. “We were at the cornfield, a god-awful place. Union troops kept charging up the same field over and over.” Robert would never forget the bodies, blood, and screams of the wounded when the field eventually caught fire. Burning flesh, followed by exploding cartouches, usually stopped the screams, but they would never leave Robert’s memory.
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“I wish had been there.” Pace was honest with youthful intensity.
“Then you would be dead,” Robert allowed kindness to enter his voice. “No union soldier survived that field unharmed, and most died. War is not glorious, Lieutenant. It is brutal. Were war any worse than Shiloh, it would be called Armageddon and the crack of doom. Too many good men have died, must you as well?”
“But we must stand as a Union,”
“Political words and political wars are all made by the same fools,” Robert voiced hotly, then smiled ruefully. “Pardon me Lieutenant. I know only one politician who came to war; General Trimble and hear tell he died at Gettysburg. If only all those proud peacocks took up the gun, maybe they would lose their taste for war,”
“Why did you continue to fight?” Pace hesitantly glanced at Robert.
“I fight to save my family, my men, and, if I am lucky, myself. We all started fighting for a host of reasons, but we continued to fight only to survive. If we stop the Union north of Virginia, then we would save our families, but as time passes and the Army of Virginia runs out of supplies, we must attempt a negotiated peace. This is the South’s only hope.”
“The South will lose because slavery must end.”
“The Federalist Control of States or the negroes? Which slavery are you talking about?” Robert motioned for Pace to join him as he strolled to the south end of the quarry.
“The negroes,” Lieutenant Pace’s voice broke as he spoke in surprise.
“General Longstreet said the south should have freed the slaves then fired on Fort Sumter. I agree with the General. Slavery has only confused the issue at hand.”
“What do you mean by Federalist control?”
“The slavery of men. There will always be men who think themselves superior of knowledge and judgment. These are men who would make slaves of us all.”
“Not everyone is fit to lead,” Pace again followed doctrine.
“By what means do they pick the righteous? By popular vote?”
“The will of God,”
“Only in a perfect world.” The major interrupted gently.
“I do not understand,” Pace spoke after a few minutes of silence while they walked, passing from the quarry wall to the stone road as men hauling stone gave way and allowed the officers’ room to walk. “War is simple. God is with the righteous, so only good men can win a war. We are winning. That makes the South evil in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Everyone thinks God is with them during war.” Robert offered no sense of exasperation or impatience, tainting his view of the conversation. So many discussions had occurred on dusty roads in the same fashion, even the questions were familiar. All were part of the search for meaning when surrounded by death.
Nodding to his men while Robert waited for Pace’s next argument, realizing he had moved past the anger that consumed the boy.
“Then who is right?” Pace finally asked grudgingly.
“I don’t know,” Robert shrugged. “Eventually, we all find we have pursued evil despite our best intentions. If we admit our failure and work to rectify the damage, then I suspect we are on the path to God.”
Ahead of the two officers, someone whistling a jaunty version of Dixie, trilling the notes like a songbird. Hurried whispering started in the troops as first one Confederate soldier, then the next sent the urgent message to the stop the whistling while passing furtive glances at Lieutenant Pace. motivated by the prospect, the Union officer might gain a modicum of humanity from a discussion with a man they all respected.
Robert saw the Lieutenant’s lips compress.
Still, the lone whistler continued.
“This is intolerable,” Pace glaring at Robert. “I have made my point clear, no whistling seditious tunes. Whoever is whistling that song is mocking my order.”
“You must allow men latitude to express themselves or you will create rebellion.” It was an obvious answer, a simple common-sense issue for all officers that Pace seemed not able to grasp.
“This is a prison camp; I will not tolerate revolt.”
Many of the Confederate soldiers who heard the comment stopped walking, each watching Lieutenant Pace with the silent anger all enlisted soldiers learned in war. They moved aside, allowing Robert and Pace to pass, watching the lieutenant carefully.
Men parted further, most of the soldiers completely off the road and revealing the and general seated at a fire by Beltram’s hut. Smoke drifted lazily around the seated officers and Beltram was smiling. Robert remained silent as the whistler continued his tune.
“There must be discipline.” Pace added, but some of the steam was gone from his anger as he noticed the angry men, yet he stubbornly refused to revise his opinion.
Robert and Pace stepped from the road and walked the last few yards to the fire.
Seated happily, with a mug of coffee in one hand and a pipe in the other, General Cornell was whistling.
Lieutenant Pace stopped short, looking from the General to the troops, then back to the General, his face turning red from anger or embarrassment.
“I knew if I started whistling that song, Lieutenant Pace would come running.” General Cornell laughed. Subtle laughter came from the men, the perpetrators hidden but audible. “Humor, Lieutenant, you need humor. Join us.”