Rally Cry Read Free

slavery? And besides that, he could not help that he was only seventeen and had had to commit the sin of lying about his age in order to get in.
    He stole a sidelong glance at Hinsen, who was still cursing beneath his breath. He shut out the curses, and silently thanked God that at least the twenty-mile march was over, and he had survived it without the shame of collapsing from the exhaustion that in the last mile he thought would come near to killing him.
    "Some of them don't sound too happy."
    Andrew nodded as Emil Weiss, the regimental surgeon, came to stand by Andrew's side. Andrew looked down at the bald pate of the doctor, barely able to see the ruddy face, wreathed in a flowing white beard, that was usually lit up from a little too much medicinal brandy.
    Andrew swung down off his mount. He handed the horse over to a staff orderly, who took Mercury off for loading.
    "If they weren't complaining I'd start to worry," Andrewsaid philosophically. "I'm just glad Hans didn't hear that bttle exchange Barry got into or there would have been hell lo pay."
    "Mother Hans, clucking over his killer chicks," Weiss chuckled.
    "All your medical supplies in order?" Andrew asked.
    "Never enough," Weiss grumbled. "Dammit, son, never enough bandages, and that tincture of lime, can never seem to get an adequate supply."
    Weiss had joined the regiment shortly before Gettysburg, a fact which Andrew was forever thankful for. In spite of what the other surgeons said about the 35th's "crazy Jew doctor," Andrew and the men swore by him, a rare thing in an army served more often than not by half-trained country physicians and butchers.
    Weiss had studied in Budapest and talked incessantly about an unknown doctor named Simmelweiss who had figured out something called antisepsis back in the late '40s. Andrew had listened to some of the debates Emil had, his fellow surgeons calling laudable pus a good thing, and saying infection was simply a fact of wounds. Emil would always wind up roaring that they were medieval butchers, and infection could be stopped by boiling the instruments and bandages along with hand-washing between operations with tincture of lime.
    Whatever it was the doctor knew and used, the men of the 35th were found to have nearly twice the chance of surviving a wound as men from the other regiments.
    Andrew again touched the stump of his arm and felt he could claim loyalty to Weiss from very personal experience. Since Gettysburg he didn't even bother to correct Weiss for calling him "son." After all, the man was twice his age, and for that matter every man in the regiment, including the much-feared Hans, was addressed that way by Weiss, even when the old doctor was in one of his typical bad tempers.
    "The last of the men are aboard, sir," Hans reported, strolling up to join the two officers who stood by the edge of the dock.
    "How are the piles, sergeant major?" Weiss asked, as if inquiring about the gravest of injuries.
    Hans deftly shot a stream of tobacco juice that barely missed the old surgeon.
    "Perhaps our good colonel here should order you in for surgery—I could clear them up for you in a jiffy."
    "With all due respect—like hell, sir," Hans grumbled.
    For the first time in days Andrew threw back his head and laughed at the embarrassed discomfort of his sergeant and friend.
    "Well, gentlemen, shall we get aboard? I think it'd be best not to keep our good captain waiting."
    Not looking forward to what he knew would be life with an unpleasant ship's captain, Andrew strode up the plank, following the last of his men. Besides that, there was the other problem as well, for like Hans he suffered violently from seasickness, and the thought of it made him shudder.
    "Colonel Keane?"
    A young naval officer stood upon the deck of the steamer waiting for him.
    Andrew nodded in reply as the sailor saluted.
    "I'm Mr. Bullfinch, sir. Captain Cromwell awaits you and his officers in the ship's wardroom. I believe, sir, the rest of your