“Seven O’clock and all is well.”
The sentry paused a second while the call was repeated down the line. Then he pivoted and resumed the short beat of his post. This gave Reuben a chance to study his features in the gathering twilight. He was clad in a rumpled grey uniform with a splash of dirty butternut on the cuffs and collar. This told Reuben the man was a regular soldier, not a Home Guard.
Not knowing his name, the men called him The Hawk in recognition of his narrow, hooked nose. The Hawk’s shaggy beard was gray, and his shoulders stooped. His eyes were sad and sunken. There were rings around them from too much strain or lack of sleep. He limped slightly and lacked a couple of fingers on his left hand. Reuben concluded that he must be an invalid, a man sent to the home front to recover from wounds. He remained on duty because the Rebels needed every man they could muster. He could still do rear-echelon work like guarding prisoners. If he were lucky, he’d stay there until the war was over.
The Hawk’s rebel uniform hung limply on his stooped frame. The knees of his britches were patched. His elbow protruded from a hole in the sleeve of the arm that grasped the sling of his rifle. Like most southern rifles, it was a British Enfield. It had likely been exchanged for cotton in the Bahamas and smuggled past the blockade. The damn Brits would do anything to keep the cotton mills of Birmingham humming, thought Reuben.
And what of the Enfield? A good, solid rifle, but like all muzzle-loaders, slow to load. Thirty seconds would be a good reloading time for an experienced marksman in the dark. The woods were only thirty yards past the sentry’s post. At best, he could only shoot one of the three men in the escape party. The odds of that happening in the darkness of the quarter moon were low. Besides, the Hawk would be tired at the end of his watch.
Reuben wondered whether the Hawk was a true believer in the Southern Cause or some dirt-poor farmer conscripted into the Rebel Army. At any rate, he was far less dangerous than the teenage military cadets who guarded other parts of the camp. These fresh-faced kids were eager to brag that they had shot a Yankee. A weary old-timer might fulfill his duty to the Confederacy by aiming high.
Reuben looked for signs in the man’s expression. He seemed calm and collected. He also had a look of sadness. His movements were slow and deliberate as he shuffled back and forth. He didn’t look around much.
After a few trips back and forth on his route, his turnabout coincided with the sentry to his left. The other man spoke.
“Got a chew?”
“Wot did ya say?”
“GOT A CHEW?”
That was a solid gold clue. The sentry was hard of hearing. Maybe he had served in an artillery battery.
Reuben began to assess the odds and form a strategy. How often did his path meet that of his comrades at the end of each cycle? Could their footsteps be heard in the quiet of the night? Could their escapes be timed for when both sentries had their backs turned?
As the camp settled in for the night, Reuben edged closer to the Dead Line. He could now hear the footsteps of the sentries on their well-beaten paths. The sound ebbed and flowed as the guards approached and separated from each other. Lying low, he could barely make out their profiles against the sky in the dim moonlight.
Toward midnight, Reuben ended his study of the Hawk and his post. He returned to the rude dugout he shared with his co-conspirators.
He had a recommendation to make.
LDT June 11, ‘25
Unbowed Index: https://azrockdodger.com/2025/02/06/unbowed-the-saga-of-a-civil-war-cavalryman-index/
Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 