Company of Cowards by Jack Schaefer

Author:Jack Schaefer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of New Mexico Press
Published: 2017-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

And that afternoon. He sat cross-legged in front of the first tent with several folded-over blank pages from the small, leather-laced account book in one hand, the short piece of slate pencil in the other, marking in headings for an improvised company book. A few feet away Private Merriam sat hunched over, right leg out straight, left leg doubled up, shoe off, gently massaging the foot. A little farther away, in front of their own tent, Privates Selous and Webb squatted by a squared-off chunk of old board dotted with light and dark pebbles, playing checkers. Over by the remains of the fire Private Geary, sour-faced, sullen, was unpacking rations from a burlap bag. Beyond, Private Zattig stooped to dump a huge armload of deadwood, culled from the woodlot, at the feet of Private Fulton, who stood waiting, leaning on the ax.

He looked up at the sound of voices, faint, indistinguishable, from the farthest corner of the woodlot where the small stream cut through. He listened and heard, faint but clear, anger riding it, the voice of Private Kinsey. “Say that again, you filthy-mouthed fool, and I’ll show you who’s a coward!”

Another voice, low, indistinct, then the sound of thrashing activity in the far brush.

He was up, running, conscious that the others were moving too, and he broke through bushes and saw, on the near edge of the stream, Private Kinsey, cap gone, hair flying, handsome face flushed and already battered, mixing furiously with two strangers in cavalry uniforms. He caught a glimpse of two horses a short distance down the stream, heads low, drinking in routine indifference to the scrambling melee above them, then his attention was concentrated on the others around him, on Fulton, white-faced, staring, and Geary, still sour-faced, contemptuous, and Selous and Webb just puffing up, all these to his right, and to the left Zattig, striding forward, the light of battle leaping on broad face, and Merriam, tagging, trying to keep up, hopping, limping on shoeless left foot.

“Zattig! Merriam! Hold it!”

He watched the unequal struggle twenty feet away at the edge of the stream. Private Kinsey was definitely taking a beating. Deliberately he turned toward the right. “Fulton!”

The man’s eyes shifted to him and he spoke again. “There’s two of them.”

He saw understanding creep into the man’s eyes, wide, staring at him, followed by a fear, not perhaps of anything physical but of the psychic necessity to decide, to drive himself into doing, into moving, and the eyes pulled away from him, staring now at Kinsey and the two men hammering him between them.

Slowly, reluctantly, Private Fulton took a step forward. And another. And suddenly, frantic, desperate, breath sobbing in his throat, Private Fulton was driving headlong into one of the cavalrymen . . .

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