Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [65]
The rumors of threats to American control of California came more frequently now, and so the infantry stayed at Los Angeles, at Hancock’s discretion. Other supply posts in far-reaching districts, not easily protected, were dismantled, brought to Los Angeles, and added to Hancock’s command.
Armistead was with his men, slept in his tent, when he heard the commotion, the sounds of another fight.
“Yaah . . . that’s it! Get him! Yeeahhh!”
He rolled off his cot, grabbed his jacket, heard more yelling now, men gathering. Poking his head outside, he saw the crowd, men in uniform and out, surrounding a dusty struggle. He pulled on his pants, grabbed his pistol, and moved unsteadily into the early morning sunlight.
There were other officers approaching, from other directions, and they pulled the spectators back, away from the fight, tried to get closer to the action. Armistead could see the men now, rolling on the ground, torn clothes, one very bloody face, and he pushed past more men, raised his pistol and fired.
The onlookers backed away, and Armistead stood alone over the combatants, kicked lightly at one, rolled him over, looked at the faces. He didn’t know them, thought one face familiar, and then other officers were there, lifting the men up. They looked at Armistead through beaten eyes, swollen red faces, one man bleeding furiously from his nose.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Do we have a problem here?”
One of the men, wiping at a cut on his lip, replied, “Major, sir. We was . . . having a disagreement, sir.”
The other man, smaller, felt the blood on his face, held his sleeve up against his nose, then said, “He called me a shit-kicker. Said my whole family was shit-kickers. Ain’t gonna take that from any man. Sir.”
Armistead heard the man’s distinctive accent, the deep drawl. “Where you from, soldier?”
“Miss’ippi, sir.”
“And you, soldier, you consider that a good reason to insult the man’s family?”
“Sir, begging your pardon, but we all knows what’s happening. The Southerners are deserting the army, quitting. Heard talk that even you, Major . . .”
Armistead looked at the man’s face, saw the cold anger, looked back at the man from Mississippi, who said, “Major . . . I ain’t decided if I’m going back home or not. We got a farm . . . my folks . . . my wife is raisin’ the kids, the livestock. I don’t want to fight nobody. But the army’s breakin’ up. That’s all we been hearin’. I hear tell you headed back to Virginia too, Major.”
The other man grunted, and Armistead could tell he had the better of the fight. He was a bigger man, older, with heavy, broad shoulders.
“He’s just like the others,” the bigger man said, “begging the major’s pardon. This here unit’s going to pieces because of this war. I been in this outfit since Mexico, sir. I seen you join this outfit, seen you move up from a wet-eared cadet to command of the regiment—”
A lieutenant, holding the man, snapped him up under the arms, said “Watch your mouth, soldier.”
Armistead raised a hand. “No, Lieutenant, let him talk. Talking is one thing maybe we all need to do. You may speak freely, soldier. What’s your name?”
“Corporal Garrett, sir. Thank you, Major. I just want to say . . . it makes me sick, sir, to see what’s happenin’ to this army. These farm boys got no understanding, no respect, it seems mighty easy for some to up and quit. I never been much in the South. I ain’t never spent no time around the darkies, I got no call to tell nobody what they oughta do. But this here’s the army. We got a duty . . . we all got the same duty, all of us, Major.”
Armistead looked up, spoke louder, to the broad circle of men. “I know many of you have been with this regiment for a long time . . . some of you, like Mr. Garrett, from the beginning. You are known in this army, you have a reputation, you have always conducted yourselves with honor. To those of you who do not understand why some are leaving, I can only say, it is honor as well. Since both of these