“You’re brave as hell with my back turned and a squad of guns behind you,” Pritchard said to the sergeant. “Wonder how tough you are without ’em?”

“Get back to work,” the sergeant ordered, “or you’ll find out.”

Ditch helped Pritchard stand and handed him his shovel. The husky sergeant laughed and motioned for his men to return their rifles to port arms.

“That’s a nasty gash,” Ditch said, examining Pritchard’s back.

“It hurts worse than it looks,” Pritchard said.

The duo dug until noon, when they were ordered to cease. They were then marched, behind the Union prisoners, back through the picket lines to the camp where they lined up for chow at the mess tent. It was clear that all the others within the camp had already been fed. The midday meal looked to be cornmeal, bacon, molasses, and hoecake. There was a boiling pan of coffee on the field stove, as well.

Ditch, Pritchard, and the Union prisoners were ushered past the appetizing buffet to an iron cauldron suspended over a small fire. There, they were handed tin bowls with no utensils. It was only when a scoop of gruel, composed of cornmeal and water, was plopped into their bowl, that they discovered they weren’t getting what the regular soldiers ate.

“What’s the matter, boys?” the sergeant asked when he saw the dismayed expressions on Pritchard and Ditch’s faces. “Don’t like the cuisine?”

“Horses get fed better,” Pritchard said.

“Best eat up,” the sergeant chuckled. “You’ll need your strength for digging this afternoon.”

“No, thanks,” Pritchard said, tossing his gruel to the ground. “I’d rather go hungry.”

“Pick that up,” the sergeant said, his laughter twisting into a scowl, “and eat it. Right now.”

“Eat it yourself,” Pritchard said. The crowd of soldiers finishing their meal and loitering near the mess tent suddenly quieted. Everyone nearby, including the prisoners and their guards, gave ground to the big sergeant and the much bigger gravedigger.

“I gave you an order,” the sergeant said, unlimbering his bullwhip. “Pick it up, boy. You’d best obey.”

“I ain’t your boy,” Pritchard said, his voice cold and flat. “And you’d best not try to smack me again with that whip. This time, I don’t have my back turned.”

Ditch, nervously watching his friend confront the sergeant, once again saw a curtain of darkness overcome Pritchard’s face. The last time he’d seen that look in Pritchard’s eyes was in a Missouri cropper’s shack, a split second before he gunned down two armed men.