My Enemy, My Love
By
Diane Wylie

November 1863
Mine Run, Orange County, Virginia

    Captain David Reynolds of the Seventeenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry, Company I, angrily threw down the riding crop he had wrenched from the corporal's clammy grasp. “Don't ever let me see you mistreat your animal again, Corporal!” The prancing feet of the huge black stallion he rode stomped it deep into the ever-present mud. “What kind of cavalryman are you, Forrester? You'd do well to remember your horse is your life!”
    Corporal Silas Forrester's face was beet red under the berating he was receiving, but David didn't care, he had to make sure these men knew what was most important to keep them alive. A few snickers from the other blue-coated men in his unit, gathered around on their own mounts, just intensified Forrester's scowl.
    “Yes, sir,” Silas responded, “I understand completely, Captain Reynolds.” Silas yanked hard on the reins of his still-jittery horse, hurting the animal's mouth. Its eyes rolled around, whites showing as it danced and stomped in discomfort. Silas was barely able to salute his commanding officer and remain seated on the animal.
    David regarded Silas from under the brim of his hat, “Perhaps you had better have a few riding lessons, Forrester. See Lieutenant Jones later today. That's an order!” David wheeled his own mount around and walked the horse away towards the group of tents clustered nearby in the open field. He could still hear the men lingering behind him.
    “Jones will fix you right up, Forrester,” someone jeered.
    “Yeah, a few lessons and you'll be a real cavalryman like the rest of us.” A burst of raucous laughter followed this remark.
    The last thing David heard from the group was Lieutenant Miller, David's right-hand man, taking charge of the situation. “Move, soldiers!” Miller's Irish-accented voice boomed. “Time to make camp! Forrester, get your horse properly settled and get some chow before you see Jones.”
    Arriving at the cluster of tents, David dismounted, handed the reins to an aide, and strode towards a lone officer sitting in front of the blazing campfire. Anger was still simmering under his skin in a rush of hot blood.
    “What's going on over there, Dave?”
    He made no answer. Grabbing a tin cup, he helped himself to the strong, black coffee condensing into mud over the flames and sat on the canvas campstool, pulling his plumed hat low over his eyes. Jack Montgomery, he knew, was not one to be put off by his silence, no matter how hard David tried. Sure enough, Jack asked again. “Trouble in the ranks?”
    Finally David looked at the amused face of his best friend, knowing that when he did, all of the anger would diffuse away as if it had never been. There was just no   more >>