Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders Page B

can’t believe you joined.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    December 21,1864
    As we pull into the station, my stomach rumbles as much as the train. A shield of dull gray hangs above the city, and a foggy haze sits on everything. It looks like snow will fall from the sky at any moment, but the promise holds off. The smell of thick smoke and steam ambushes us as we step down from the train.
    A man wearing a dark blue overcoat is waiting on the station’s platform. His mustache is cut short to end above the corners of his lips. His chin and neck are shaven clean. Charcoal-colored hair hangs below the edges of his cap. He’s thin and walks parallel to the train in measured, crisp steps, almost in a strut. He points through the smoke toward a double gate nestled into a two-story-high wall and yells, at no one in particular, “When you get inside thecamp, go past the tents on the right. There’s a platform nearby. Gather there.”
    As I pass, the man grabs my shirt collar. “Hold on, young man,” he says, pulling me back to his side. “Kinda young-looking to fight a man’s war, aren’t you?” he asks.
    Golden oak leaves sit on his shoulder straps. Major, I think. I wonder if he’s Major Eli Lilly.
    â€œWell . . . actually . . .” I catch my answer before it slips out. Robert wrote home of some boys, as young as twelve, trying to muster in the army. Many wrote the number eighteen on a piece of paper and tucked it into the heel of their boots. When enlistment officers asked, “Are you over eighteen?” young recruits could honestly say, “Yes, sir, it’s a fact. I’m over eighteen and that’s no lie.”
    I recognize I have paused too long and need to say something. “Save it,” the major says. “I bet you’re ‘Over eighteen’! Right?”
    â€œYes, sir,” August Smith answers for me. “We’re over eighteen, and the Ninth is gonna help end this dadblamed war,” he assures the major. “As soon as we’re trained, the Ninth’s gonna end this fight in double-quick time.”
    The major eyes me up and down, points his chin toward the gate, and says, “Get inside.”
    As we walk away, August looks back over his shoulder. “Pleasant fellow,” he says. “Stephen, if you wait until you’re eighteen, the war will be over.”
    Large wooden gates open to reveal a city within the city bustling with activity. Immediately off to the left of the entrance, a man is yelling. “You’re going to be shot five times before you can get your powder in the barrel.” He snatches the musket from a soldier and continues his rant. “You should be able to fire three rounds per minute. Whoever loads faster, you or Johnny Reb, determines who will live. Watch the steps as I go through them again.”
    The instructor reaches into a black container strapped to his waist and pulls out an object the size of his thumb. “Retrieve cartridge from box and tear the paper with your teeth. Pour the powder and minié ball in.” He demonstrates.
    â€œRam the powder and ball into the barrel, and replace the ramrod.”
    He reaches into another container. “Prime the weapon with a percussion cap, and you’re now ready to cock, aim, and fire.”
    Beyond the men learning to shoot, in a field large enough for all of Centerville to fit in, men ride horses. The riders allmake their horses gallop on command then stop suddenly. They trot and walk in patterns.
    With so many people, the training camp must have a larger population than most towns in Indiana.
    August nudges my shoulder and points to a building opposite the main entrance. “I can hear my stomach growling. Maybe we can get something to eat there.” Along the far wall, smoke pours from several chimneys attached to a long building. “It’s gotta be the dining facility.”
    â€œThe major said we’re to gather