Got to put a stop to this. Line them all up by the boats. Tell the first man to get in. If he won't, shoot him. Then go on to the next. That'll change their minds in a hurry.
He told himself disgustedly to quit dreaming. Not even in Smith County could he get away with shooting white men just because they wouldn't obey him. Not in broad daylight, anyway.
The man standing on the barrel said, "If Black Hawk has holed up in that country, that means he's finished. Hell, his people will starve to death up there. What do we got to follow him for?"
Pushing his way through the crowd, Raoul heard a man near him call out, "Volunteers is what we are. That means we serve at our own pleasure. Well, I'm not volunteering for any more."
A chorus—"Right!" "Yeah!" "Me neither!" "That's telling 'em!"—rose all around Raoul, maddening him as a swarm of biting flies would madden a horse.
He saw a familiar stoop-shouldered back in the crowd—Justus Bennett. Ever since Old Man's Creek, Bennett had been whining about the fine suit of clothes and the two expensive law books he'd lost, demanding that the state of Illinois pay for them. Now he was standing here, encouraging would-be deserters just by listening to them.
Raoul grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around. "You're a lawyer. You know damned well this meeting is illegal. Get over there with Pope and Hode, or you're no more a lieutenant in my battalion."
Bennett stared back at him with beady eyes. "That's immaterial, seeing as we're all going home."
"No one's going home," said Raoul, loud enough to make the men around him turn to look. "Get the hell back to your outfit."
He gave Bennett a shove. The lawyer glowered at him, but slunk away.