XIII

The sheriff was ushered into the study by a servant in white gloves where Burnside Lee was stooped over a large table by the light of a hundred candles. My eyes are going to s**t, he said without looking up. The table was crowded with hundreds of pewter toy soldiers and elaborately sculpted with plaster terrain. What battle is this, Bill asked? Rossbach. Frederick the Great's most magnificent victory! Bill had never heard of it, and worried Old Bernie would open into one of those ramblings-on about things that interested no one.

 
Instead, Burnside straightened up and took a puff of his cigar and studied Bill. You want something from me, he said. Forget it. You used to be one of us, Bill. A Republican? Your father would roll in his grave. You used to be a Democrat!

 
My father was a Whig. So were you before the war. You're not one of them, and they're not one of us. We served. We gave it all to the Cause, but whose Cause was it? It was theirs. It was Dr. Prentiss and the rest of those selfish philistines. The darkies are free, but the Greeks are all still grasping at reigns. Don't you see what's going on down there? He pointed in the direction of Strangetown. That's the new world down there.

 
Burnside looked off. Sighed. The world sure has changed, that's for sure. Now my coloreds are out there voting Republican. And here you are! Royal Bill! King of Strangetown!

 
He began to contemplate. We should have freed them long ago, he said distantly. It would have spared a good many of my boys.

 
Looking down at his toy soldiers he heard distant cannon fire from beyond time. It was the preliminary bombardment before Hood ordered them forward into the woods. It was a triumphant moment. He was colonel of the 19th Alabama leading his boys into the primeval dens of Chickamauga. They moved through the forest hallooing the old rebel yell as though flushing quail. Stabs of musketry and carnage. When it was over, they had broken through. The blue bellies were in flight.

 
When he had sobered up, his horse was dead, his leg was gone and his boys were shot to pieces. His war was over. The boys all still loved him though. Every veteran tipped their hat to Old Bernie. And he reveled in telling old war stories and boring tales of historical arcanum. Bill was right. The Greeks were not one of us.

Bill approached Bernie and looked very serious at him. I need you to keep me informed of what Prentiss and the Greeks are up to. I want you to be my spy on the inside. Can you do this?
Bernie looked mournful. A rivulet of tears ran down his cheek. He was weeping for them all. All of those beautiful boys lost. Bill was right about the Greeks and their "Cause." Bernie looked up as Bill stirred inside the leather pouch he had brought with him. He drew from it a shot-torn flag. It was blue rimmed with a white border. At its center was a seal sewn with the image of an ancient Greek hoplite. Inscribed upon it were the names of Shiloh, Stones River, Chickamauga and Franklin. A Company, 19th Alabama Infantry Regiment. "With the Old Guard"

 
Bill pressed it into Bernie's hands, who was inconsolable. It was the colonel's first command. I kept it after the surrender, Bill said quietly. It's for you. The only cause now, old friend, is to get along with what's left. You'll do this for me, sir? For them? Burnside nodded yes.

With the Old Guard, Bill said.

Burnside Lee nodded again. With the Old Guard.