Battle of Lookout Mountain by Gilbert L. Morris

good health to Royal.
    “What did he do now?” Royal asked in disgust.
    “Another fight. Some fella made a remark about the way he run off, and Drake just peeled his potato.” Rosie cast his light blue eyes up at the sky in an expression of awe. “He was a great big fella too. Done some prizefighting. Drake cut him down to size all right.”
    Walter Beddows, beside Royal in the ditch, asked, “How did he get in trouble over that?”
    “Major Bates was passing by.” Major Bates was the commander of the Washington Blues and was strict concerning fighting in the ranks. “He hauled Drake up and gave him a dressing down. I reckon he’s gonna pull guard duty for quite a spell to make up for that.”
    “Where is he now?” Royal asked.
    “Last I seen, Sergeant Pickens was takin’ up where the major left off. Ira sure don’t like it when any of his squad gets in trouble.” Rosie wagged his head sadly. “Don’t see why Drake has to be so put out about everything.”
    Royal answered quickly, “I think he’s still ashamed of running away. You know how Drake is—he’s awful proud.”
    “Well, he wasn’t the only one who run off,” Rosie protested. “I seen lots of fellas who got kinda
confused
about where the front line was in that there fight. Matter of fact, I might of run off myself with just a little more encouragement from them Rebels.”
    “Drake’s just got to face up to it,” Beddows put in. “I guess he never run from anything before, did he, Rosie?”
    “Not Drake Bedford. He always took a lot of pride in bein’ the toughest fella around, and nowwhen he looks like a weakling—why, it just sort of humiliated him.”
    The three men stood talking idly for a time. They were all sick and tired of digging and building fortifications, and saw little sense to it. The two armies lay face-to-face, so close the Yankees could hear the Confederate signals. Rebel tents dotted the hillsides. They could see Rebel signal lights on the summit of Lookout Mountain and up on the knob of Missionary Ridge.
    Royal glanced across to where the Confederates were camped. “We’ll likely have another big fight on our hands. Those Rebels look pretty strong!” he observed.
    At that moment Drake stalked up. His handsome face was flushed, and his lips were drawn tight. Anger, Royal saw, was bottled up inside of him, and it would take only a word to set him off again.
    “Hello, Drake,” he said cheerfully enough. “Come to give us a hand with this blasted ditch?”
    Drake passed him a sullen look and jumped down into the trench. Without a word he picked up a shovel, and soon the dirt was flying.
    Walter Beddows exchanged a glance with Royal and said, “Don’t work so hard, Drake. Leave a little of this here dirt for Royal and me.”
    Drake turned to him and said shortly, “You tend to your diggin’, Walter, and I’ll take care of mine.” He had actually done very little work on the fortifications, but now he was just ill-tempered enough to throw himself into it.
    “Well,” Royal said quickly, “maybe we’ll get to go into town when we get this ditch dug. I askedSergeant Pickens, and he said we might get a shot at it.”
    This excited some other soldiers, sweating as they went by, but Drake made no response whatsoever.
    Later on Rosie tried to talk with Drake.
    The company was lodged in a large, barnlike abandoned factory, and Drake was lying on his cot, staring up at the ceiling.
    Rosie sat down on his own cot and rubbed his legs. “You know, I got these shootin’ pains in my legs. Maybe I better go see the surgeon again.” Then he stared at his legs with dismay. “Sure hope they don’t have to come off. I heard about a fella once who got shootin’ pains, and they had to take off one of his legs.”
    Drake turned his head to the side, his mouth pulled down in a frown. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Rosie,” he said shortly. He was obviously still seething over the dressing down the major had