Hard life decisions

Note: "Reveille" is an unpublished novel about a Civil War drummer boy, Charles Andre. Searching for something better than life in a New Orleans orphanage, he set out with his best friend and "pure-dee idiot" Ian O'Rourke, to join the First Louisiana Regiment. When Charles was turned down for the oddest of reasons, he was left with a major dilemma.

Chapter 5

Leaving home in a sense involves a kind of
second birth in which we give birth to ourselves.
Robert Neelly Bellah

Charles and Ian slipped down the creaky stairs in the dark, staying to the inside by the wall where the boards were tight. They maneuvered down the long front hall, through a small dining room to the kitchen, moving in the pitch darkness like blind men in familiar surroundings.
In the kitchen, Ian stood by the door listening, while Charles opened a cabinet door and pulled out two fist-sized chunks of hard bread he had placed there the night before.

He psssted to Ian and moved quickly to the back door, pushed aside the floor-level, wooded, door stop with his foot and slowly opened the door. He took a step down onto the small stoop and stopped dead in his tracks, feeling rather than seeing a presence on the miniature porch.

“Sit down, Charles,” Sister Bloody said, her lilting, accented voice hitting his heart like a railroad spike. Charles sat, his legs off the edge of the porch. He heard a scuffing noise as Ian came through the door: “Sit down, Ian,” Sister Bloody repeated.

“Gah-gah-gawd-a-mighty!” Ian said in a whisper. “Why dinit ya sca-scare the bah-bejeezus out of somebody?”

Charles could feel the nun’s dismay in the silence that enveloped them.

“Why—?” was all she got out before she started quietly crying. Charles couldn’t see her but he could “feel” her, sitting on the top step, holding her head in her hands.

“It’s not you, Sister. It’s this place. Ian and me have been here our whole lives. This is all we know. There’s got to be somethin’ out there better, somewhere, yes. We left you a note—“

“I know,” the sister said, “in the big Bible, in the chapter about the prodigal son. Appropriate in a way, wouldn’t you say?”

“We’re gah-going to jin up wah-with the Confederate Army, see us a big chunk of tha-the country,” Ian said, his voice shaking as if he were cold.

Sister Bloody sniffed once, again, then exhaled loudly. “So, you think fighting in this stupid war that’s split the country, split families, and has already left thousands and thousands of good lads dead and rotting on battlefields is better than living here with people who love you?”

“Not better, Sister,” Charles offered. “Different. New.” He didn’t say the thought ricocheting inside his head.

Loves us? Who besides you?

Charles felt her hand touch his knee, move to his arm and down to his hand. She held it, gave it a squeeze, pressed something cool and familiar into it and stood up. He took the rosary with the small crucifix and stuck it deep in his pocket.

“Come here, you two,” she commanded between gulping sobs. “I’m just being selfish. You’ve been such a big help in gathering food for the little ones. I’ll just miss you, that’s all.” Dry sobs racked her body.

The trio hugged on the tiny porch for what seemed like hours, but was still not long enough for Charles.

“You be safe, you hear me?” she said harshly, finally loosening her grip around their necks. “Be gone with you, if you’re going. Remember your lessons, especially the ones from the Church. Be safe and God protect you. And come back to see me after the war when you’re all grown up. And don’t forget your rosary and Hail Mary’s.”

“We will. We assuredly will, me and Ian,” Charles said, knowing for a fact that probably was a lie.

The boys slipped down the alley, willing themselves not to look back. Both stopped at the street corner and glanced over their shoulders. They could see nothing but shadows in various shades of black.

Charles put his hand in his pocket and directed his thumb and forefinger to gently stroke the small cross.


Daylight was breaking as Charles and Ian trudged along the well-worn path at the top of the levee. A soft summer breeze blew off the river cool and clean. Their destination was several miles east of the French Quarter; they were headed toward an old boarding house that had been converted into a Confederate Army recruitment center. The irony that the recruiting center was within three or four long rifle shots of the Union encampment located just up the river at DuCrois Station, not to mention the two battalions located in the city center, was lost on the two boys.

They had hiked to the Confederate camp the previous day to check it out and were amazed that the soldiers went nonchalantly about their business as though Yankee troops were not encamped less than five miles to the north and not more than six miles to the west. Tents sprouted in a vacant lot next to the old boarding house that had served as a wagon stop for east-west travelers before train tracks cut through the back country like dandelions after a spring shower.
Uniformed soldiers stood about, rifles close by, but few at the ready. Two soldiers sat over a small fire, cooking something on a spit. Ian pointed to the pair: “Dah-don’t that look like a cah-cat carcass to you,” he said. Charles forced the image and the ensuing thought to retreat.

He pointed out to Ian a smattering of civilians going in and out of the boarding house.

“Wah-well, ol’ sah-sot,” Ian said, “Here we are. Let’s go gah-get our sah-soldiering gear and go kill us some Yah-yanks.”

Charles wanted to wait a bit and observe the surroundings, but found himself trudging along in Ian’s footsteps. Confidence was one attribute Ian had in abundance, Charles thought as they entered the building.

Be nice if he had some common sense to go along with it.

Inside they were directed to the courtyard to the rear of the house and there they got in line behind a tall, lanky man, who looked to be in his early twenties.

“How old do you have to be to get into the army?” Charles whispered to Ian.
“I’m tellin’ ‘im I-I-I’m sah-seventeen,” Ian said.

Charles looked up at Ian and encountered his goofy grin. “What does that make me look like, nine?” Charles said.

“Tha-they only want men, ya dog dah-dick! Not Frenchie runts!” he finished with a chuckle.

The man in front of Ian made his mark on a long sheet of paper, said, “Thankee Sergeant,” and moved aside. Charles watched as he was directed to follow a soldier who also had an upside down V on his sleeves.

Ian stepped up and said in a loud voice: “Eh-Ian O’Rourke rah-reporting for duty, Sah-Sir!” He finished by standing at what he thought was attention and popping a salute, which ended up looking like he was trying to shield the sun from his eyes.

The sergeant looked at Ian like he wanted to spit in his eye. “So, ya wanna be a soldier in the best army in the world, do you, Snotnose!”

Ian relaxed and nodded his head up and down like a dog with an earful of ticks. “Yah-you betcha. Indeedydo I do.”

“So you say you’re at least sixteen. That be right?”

“Sah-sixteen, it is. How’d ja know?”

“Sign right cheer,” the burly sergeant said, pointing to a long line at the bottom of the page. “Ya git eleven Confederate dollars a month, a uniform when some more come in, a blanket after a while, some other trinkets, and you get half a tent to share. You get to do a lot of walking and take in the beautiful countryside and you kin pitch yore half-sheet anywheres ya a mind to inside a set area. How’s that for a deal?”

Without reading the document, Ian signed his name in a perfect cursive script.

“Why, that’s a fine hand, indeed,” the sergeant said, showing it to a younger, less-secure soldier standing to his right. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a pretty handwriting. You’ll do fine, Son. Get on with yourself with the corporal there,” he said as he pointed to a fat soldier leaning against the fence, “and he’ll get your gear and get you sit-e-ated. Welcome to the By God Johnny Reb Army.”

Ian jumped out of line and the sergeant leveled his eyes at Charles.

“What ya want, Boy?” the sergeant growled as Charles took a step up to the table.

“My name is Charles Andre and I want to join up, me,” Charles said, his voice cracking.

“We don’t take nigras nor runts, in that order. We ain’t in that bad a shape yit. Next!” the sergeant bawled.

Charles didn’t budge. “I ain’t no nigra an’ I ain’t no runt.”

“I said ‘Next!’ Now git!” the corporal said, loudly and with meaning.

Charles remained still, the tops of his thighs pressed firmly against the table. “I want to join up and fight Yankees,” he said in a measured tone, staring straight at the soldier.

Charles felt footsteps behind him and instinctively tucked his neck into his collarless shirt as a protective reflex.

“What’s the problem here, Sergeant?” a rich baritone voice rang out.

Charles glanced over his right shoulder and saw a tall man looking down at him. The man was in a tailored, clean uniform with gold braid, epaulets, and a shiny sword in an ornate scabbard. His hair was long, to his shoulders; a mustache perfectly framed his mouth on three sides.

The sergeant stood quickly and snapped to attention. “No problem, Major. This here quadroon or octoroon tis tryin’ to jine up is all. I was just sendin’ him on his way.”

The major’s kind eyes stayed on Charles.

“So, boy, are you a nigra like the sergeant says?”

“No, sir, Major-suh. I’s French, me.”

“How old er ya be, boy?”

“Seventeen, sir,” Charles said, stretching his age more than a year.

“So, you small for yore age, er ya?” the major said, looking sternly.

“All us Andre’s is small, then we shoot up quick-like. My spurt's about due.”

“Sergeant,” the major said, “what makes ya’ll think this young’un’s a nigra?”

“Wah-wah-well, just look at him. He’s a half-breed if I ever saw one. Part Messkin and Chinneyman, I suspect, and looks like he probably got some black blood, too. Zits obvious, ain’t it?”

The major turned back to Charles as he spoke to the corporal. “Did you happen to notice his eyes? Did you ever see light brown eyes in a nigra’s head? I did once, but it was only one eye and it was just part of that one eye. No, Sergeant, this lad is no nigra. He may have a little mix in ‘im, but nigra blood, if he got any atall, is a dribblin’. But he’s a bit small to offer up as cannon fodder to the gawddamn Yankees.”

He put his hand on Charles’ shoulder and gently pushed him out of line. “Go home, boy. Go home and thank God that you was not taken in this army this day. Come back when you are much oldah and much biggah.”

The major turned to leave, but Charles’ voice stopped him: “I’m an orphan. I got no place to go.”

Without turning around, the major, his chin seemingly resting on his chest, said, “Then go back to the orphanage. Now. Git away from this camp and when you git where you are going, git down on your knees and pray that you never have to fight in a war such as this. This is a bad-feelin’ war, boy. Go away from this camp. En don’t come back.”

Charles watched him march off, back straight, left hand on his sword to minimize the swing.
When he disappeared in the shadows of the house’s entryway, Charles set his shoulders square and marched after him. He dodged a backhand blow thrown at him by a sentry stuck like a pike by the front door. Charles skidded into the house. The major was halfway up a stairway to the right, just passing a large portrait of a bloated man with billowy white hair. The man in the portrait looked kindly and evil at the same time.

“Whatcha doin’ back, heah, Boy?” the sergeant from the courtyard said from a part of the room that direct sunlight could not reach.

Charles stepped two steps forward and snapped to attention: “Charles Andre, sir, at your service, I am.”

The sergeant walked out of the darkness and spat, the glob of dark brown tobacco juice speckling the cypress plank floor just to the right of Charles’ foot. “Go home, boy, go home now. And don’t come back around here no more.”

Charles felt his arm gripped in a death-claw as he was hustled out the front door and shoved toward the street.

He looked around the camp and thought he saw Ian in a long line of disheveled and uncoordinated recruits, marching down the wagon road toward a tent village barely visible in the distance.

Ce qui maintenat?

What now? I can’t go back. I have no place else to go.