Pvt. Wilmer Scoggins was not someone Charles would ever seek out as a confidante or for a friendly game of Wisk.  Every time Charles saw the burly former bullwhacker he had the same thought: If he was on fire, I'd go to the creek to get some water to put him out. But I'd walk damn slow going and coming.

Scroggins was a loud, profane dullard, who thought being drunk was as close as he would ever get to Heaven. He hated the army, hated the officers of the 9th, and only got along with two or three men in the company, all of his ilk. The men of C Company, 9th Connecticut acknowledged his strength was a blanket of unwavering courage he wore into battle. Or, his audacity in battle could be because, as one solider said in a whisper,  "he's just plain insane."

Scroggins took an instant dislike to Charles for the smallest of reasons: The youngster's slight stature.

"You're too small and buggery looking to be much good for nothing," Scoggins said more than once, eyeing Charles like a corn snake sizing up a crib mouse. For the most part Charles consciously stayed out of the bully's way. Like many slow-to-focus, mouth-breathers, Scoggins' attention was easily scattered and could be swayed from an intended target with relative ease.

On one particularly crisp, clean spring day, while the regiment was encamped at the southeast end of the Shenandoah Valley, Charles and Jacob Skimmer, a newcomer to the drum corps from the 21st Michigan who was reassigned "oy an accident", as he put it, was sitting under a chestnut tree near a small creek. Charles lightly tapped out sick call on a flat rock for practice while Jacob twittered on about life in Michigan.

Scoggins stumbled onto the pair and quickly decided that tormenting the young drummer would be wonderful pre-supper fun.

"Well, well, well," Scoggins said, running blunt, dirty fingers through his bird's nest of a beard. "If it ain't the squirt and that other skin-beater. Whatcha doin', boys, beatin' on your skins!" He hee-hawed at this own joke. Charles jumped up like he had sat on a hornet's nest. Putting his right hand to ear, he said, "Hark! Listen!" Jacob squinted at Charles like he was about to have a fit. Scoggins's beady eyes diminished in size until they were the size of lentils.

"Listen!" All three held their breath. "I swear that's cannon fire. Sounds like the Rebs are coming up the north road. Come on, Jacob! The colonel will be wanting us quick-like." As they ran back toward camp, Jacob looked hard at Charles. "I didn't hear nothing. What did you hear?"

"Nothing!" Charles said, laughing. "But it was the best damn nothing I never did hear."  They ran on toward the camp, laughing.
"Hark?" Jacob said, wheezing between gulps of breath and forced laughter.

"I read it once in a book," Charles said. "It sounded like the right thing to say at the time." He paused. "Hark! Yep, that's a right fine word."

Thirty minutes later, as Charles and Jacob gathered up their supper rations, they saw Sgt. Rooney, a square-headed Irish tough squared up with Scoggins. The sergeant was screaming. "The fooking Rebel Army is a-comin', now ya be saying? Well, where they be, that's a question I'll be askin' you?"

"Sergeant, that damn squirt—"

"You be shuttin' your face, Pvt. Scoggins. But since you think that the entire Rebel By God Army be comin,' I'm going to let you dig us a nice, deep hole so we can all hide it. I want that nice, deep hole right next to the nice, deep latrine at the end of that orchard. And, while you're at it, cover up the latrine.

"In fact, get in the hole that you be coverin' up. I'm sure you'll feel right at home in that nice, deep hole with all your relatives." The sergeant stomped off toward the mess area and the two boys ducked quickly behind a tent as Scoggins scanned the area, his face a thunderhead of hatred.

"Best you stay out of his way for a spell," Jacob said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, yeah, Charles answered. He tried to sound fear-free and knew he failed.