“That’s a once-a-month job, though, not once a day,” he said.” But do remember to see to it every so often.” He paused, looked around at his audience. “You‘ve been very patient chaps, the lot of you. Thank you for your attention; I’ve said everything I need say. Have you any questions of me?”
“Yeah, I got one,” somebody said immediately. Heads turned toward him as he took a swaggering step out of his group. “You got your fancy-pants rifle there, Mr. Benny Lang, kill anything that twitches twenty miles away; What I want to know is, how good a man are you without it?” He gazed toward Lang with insolent challenge in his eyes.
“Beddingfield!” Captain Lankford of Company F and Colonel Faribault barked the name in the same breath. Caudell said it, too, softly.
“How’d Billy Beddingfield ever make corporal?” Rufus Daniel whispered. “He could teach mean to a snapping turtle.”
“You don’t want to get on his wrong side, though,” Caudell whispered back. “If I were a private in his squad, I’d be more afraid of him than of any Yankee ever born.”
“You got that right, Nate,” Daniel said, chuckling.
“Back in ranks, Beddingfield,” Captain Lankford snapped.
“I don’t mind, Captain,” Benny Lang said. “Let him come ahead, if he cares to. This might be—instructive, too. Come on, Corporal, if you‘ve the stomach for it.” He set down his repeater and stood waiting.
“Is he out of his mind?” Edwin Powell said. “Billy’ll tear him in half.”
Looking at the two men, Caudell found it hard to disagree. Lang was taller, but on the skinny side. Built like a bull, Beddingfield had to outweigh him by twenty pounds. And, as Rufus Daniel had said, Beddingfield had a mean streak as wide as he was. He was a terror in battle, but a different sort of terror in camp.
He grinned a school bully’s nasty grin as he stepped forward to square off with Lang. “That man’s face is made for a slap,” Caudell said to Allison High.
“Reckon you’re right, Nate, but I got ten dollars Confed says Lang ain’t the one to slap it for him,” High answered.
Ten dollars Confederate was most of a month’s pay for a private. Caudell liked to gamble now and then, but he didn’t believe in throwing away money. “No thanks, Allison. I won’t touch that one.”
High laughed. Edwin Powell said, “I’ll match you, Allison. That there Lang, he looks to have a way of knowin’ what he’s doin’. He wouldn’t’ve called Billy out if he didn’t expect he could lick him.”
One of Caudell’s sandy eyebrows quirked up toward his hairline. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms. “Can I change my mind?” he asked High.
“Sure thing, Nate. I got another ten that ain’t doin’ nothin’. I—”
He shut up. Big knobby fists churning, Beddingfield rushed at Benny Lang. Lang brought up his own hands, but not to hit back. He grabbed Billy Beddingfield’s right wrist, turned, ducked, threw. Beddingfield flew over his shoulder, landed hard on the frozen ground.
He bounced to his feet. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “Bastard,” he snarled, and waded back in. A moment later, he went flying again. This time he landed on his face. His nose dripped blood onto his tunic as he got up. Lang wasn’t breathing hard.
“You fight dirty,” Beddingfield said, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Now Lang smiled, coldly. “I fight to win, Corporal. If you can’t stand it, go home to your momma.”
With a bellow of rage, Beddingfield charged. Caudell watched closely, but still didn’t see just what happened. All he knew was that, instead of flying, Beddingfield went down, hard. He moaned and tried to rise. Benny Lang stood over him; kicked him in the ribs with judiciously calculated force. He stayed down.
Still unruffled, Lang said, “Has anyone else any questions?” No one did. He smiled that cold smile again. “Colonel Faribault, Captain, I think you’ll find I didn’t damage this fellow permanently.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had, sir. He picked the fight,” Captain Lankford said. He plucked at his chin beard. “Maybe some hours bucked and gagged will teach him to save his spirit for the Yankees.”
“Maybe.” Lang shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. “Good day to you, gentlemen. Private Whitley, do you mind giving me a lift back to Orange Court House?”
“No, sir, not a bit, sir, Mr. Lang.” Whitley hadn’t sounded nearly so respectful before Lang knocked the stuffing out of Billy Beddingfield.
“Good.” Lang ambled toward the wagon. “I could walk it easily enough, I suppose—it’s only a mile and a half—but why walk when you can ride?”
“I don’t know who that Lang feller is or where he comes from,” Edwin Powell declared, “but he thinks like the infantry.”
The other sergeants from Company D solemnly nodded: Caudell said, “Talk has it, he and his people are from Rivington, right in our home county.”
“You cut out that ‘our’ and speak for your own self, Nate,” Allison High said; unlike his messmates, he was from Wilson County, just south of Nash.
Rufus Daniel said, “I don’t give a damn how talk has it; and that’s a fact. Here’s two more facts—Lang don’t talk like he’s from Nash County”—he exaggerated his drawl till everyone around him smiled—”and he don’t fight like he’s from Nash County, neither. I wish he’d learn me that fancy rasslin’ of his along with this here repeater. Old Billy Beddingfield, he never knew what hit him. Look, he’s still lyin’ there cold as a torch throwed in a snowbank.”
The wagon started out of camp, harness jingling, wheels squeaking, and horses’ hooves ringing against the ground. It swung off the camp lane onto the road north. Billy Beddingfield still did not move. Caudell wondered if Lang had hurt him worse than he thought.
So, evidently, did Colonel Faribault. He limped over to the fallen corporal, stirred him with his stick. Bedtlingfield wiggled and moaned. Nodding as if satisfied, Faribault stepped back. “Flip water in his face, somebody, till he revives. Then, Captain Lankford, along with whatever punishment details you give him, have the stripes off his sleeves. A raw brawler like that doesn’t deserve to wear them.”
“Yes, sir,” Lankford said.
“That’s fair,” Caudell said after a couple of seconds’ thought. No one in his group disagreed with him. A corporal from Company F ran off the parade ground, returned a minute later with his canteen, whose contents he poured over Beddingfield’s head. The fallen bully spluttered and swore and slowly sat up.
Colonel Faribault said, “Each of today’s groups will hold its rifle and practice as much as possible until the full regiment’s rifles arrive, which, I am told, will be tomorrow.” His phrasing drew ironic chuckles—the time of promised shipments had a way of stretching like India rubber. He went on, “Try not to actually shoot, except at our target here, for safety’s sake—especially not when the rifle is on—what did Lang call it?”
“Full automatic, sir,” someone supplied.
“That’s it.” Faribault’s mouth set in a grim line that his little mustache only accented.” A fool with an Enfield can hurt one man with an accidental shot. A fool with one of these new guns can mow down half a company if he starts with a full banana clip. Bear it in mind, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”
Dempsey Eure carried the AK-47 as the sergeants started back to their cabin. He slung it over his shoulder, then said, “I’d sooner tote this than my old rifle, any day.”
“Don’t hardly weigh nothin’, do it?” Rufus Daniel echoed.
“Stubby little thing, though,” Allison High said critically. “Wouldn’t want to get into a bayonet fight or have to swing it like it was a club.”