White Doves at Morning: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page B

beyond.
    "Maybe there's something glorious about war after all," Jim said.
    "We might have to rethink that statement later on, Jim," Willie replied.
    "I hear a trip to Congo Square is two dollars," Jim said.
    "The fee for the doctor to stick an eight-inch hot needle up your pole is an additional three," Willie said.
    "If I had a lady like Abigail Dowling on my mind, I'd have the same elevated sentiments." Jim looked at the prostitutes hiking their skirts across the boulevard and sucked his teeth philosophically. "But I'm afraid my virginity is going to die a beautiful and natural death in old New Orleans tonight."
    Now New Orleans was surrounded by Federal gunboats and the city's surrender was expected any day.
    Where were Louisiana's troops? Willie asked himself.
    In Tennessee, protecting hog farmers and their wives, one glance at whom would make any man seriously consider a life of celibacy, Willie said to himself.
    As the column crested a rise he could see the great serpentine length of the army he was marching in, the mismatched gray and butternut uniforms, some regiments,
 like his own, actually wearing blue jackets, all of them heading toward a distant woods on the west bank of the Tennessee River.
    But his deprecating thoughts about his surroundings and the governance of the Confederate military were not the true cause of his discontent. Nor did he think any longer about the heaviness of the Enfield rifle on his shoulder or the blisters on his feet or the dust that drifted back from the wheels of the ambulance wagons.
    In the pit of his stomach was an emptiness he could not fill or rid himself of. When the sun broke through the clouds that had sealed the sky for days, lighting the hardwood forest in the distance, a bilious liquid surged out of his stomach into the back of his mouth and his bowels slid in and out of his rectum. A vinegary reek rose from his armpits into his nostrils, not the smell of ordinary sweat that comes from work or even tramping miles along a hard-packed dirt road, but the undisguised glandular stench of fear.
    "What day is it?" Willie said.
    "Saturday, April 5," Jim replied. "Why's that?"
    "I don't know. I don't know why I asked. What's that place up yonder called?"
    "To my knowledge, it doesn't have a name. It's a woods."
    "That's foolishness, Jim. Every place has a name."
    "There's nothing there except a Methodist church house. It's called Shiloh. That's it. Shiloh Church," Jim said.
     
    THEY camped late that afternoon in a clearing among trees on the edge of a ravine. The floor of the forest and the sides of the ravine were layered with leaves that had turned gray under the winter snow and were now dry and powdery under their feet. The sun was an ember in the west, the trees bathed in a red light like the radiance from a smithy's forge.
    Willie sat on a log and pulled off his shoes and massaged his feet. The odor from his socks made him avert his face and hold his breath. All around him men were stacking their weapons, breaking rations out of their haversacks, kicking together cook fires. The wind was blowing off the river, and the canopy of hickory and chestnut and oak trees flickered against the pinkness of the sky. In the knock of axes, the plunking of a banjo being tuned, the smell of corn mush and fatback frying, it was not hard to pretend they were all young fellows and good friends assembling for a camp meeting or coon hunt.
    Maybe that's all it would be, Willie thought. Just another long stroll across the countryside, a collective exercise that would be unmemorable once the grand illusion became obvious to them all.
    Jim poured water from his canteen into a big tin cup, then carefully measured out two spoonfuls of real coffee into the water, not chicory and ground corn, and set it to boiling on a flat stone in the center of his cook fire. His face looked composed and thoughtful as he squatted by the fire, his skin sun-browned, his sideburns shaggy, the road dust on his face streaked