by John Jakes
She hurried toward them. Having punished her, James was now prepared to be polite.
“My dear, may I present Mr. Lamar Powell of Valdosta and the Bahamas? Mr. Powell, my wife, Ashton.”
With that introduction, he made one of the worst mistakes of his life.
20
CHARLES TIED AMBROSE PELL’S bay to the top fence rail. Light rain was falling on him, the bald farmer, and the disappointing horse he had ridden twelve miles to see. The distant Blue Ridge was lost in mist as dreary as his spirits.
“A gray?” Charles said. “Only the musicians ride grays.”
“’Spect that’s why I still got him,” the farmer replied. “Sold off all my others quick—though if you want to know, I mislike doin’ business with you buttermilk cavalry boys. Couple of ’em rode through here last week with papers saying they was Commissary Department men.”
“How many chickens did they steal from you?”
“Oh, you know them boys?”
“Not personally, but I know how some of them operate.” The thievery, officially called “foraging,” contributed to the bad reputation the cavalry had already acquired, as did the widespread belief that all mounted soldiers would use their horses to ride away from a battle. There was an even chance that the men who had visited the farmer had presented papers they themselves had forged.
“About the horse—”
“Already told you the price.”
“It’s too high. But I’ll pay it if the gray’s any good.”
Charles doubted it. The two-year-old gelding was a plain, undistinguished animal; small—about fourteen hands high—and certainly no more than a thousand pounds. He had the shoulders and long, sloping pasterns of a good racer. But you didn’t see many gray saddle horses. What was wrong with this one?
“They don’t let you boys ride ’less you can find your own remount, ain’t that it?” the farmer asked.
“Yes. I’ve been minus a horse and hunting a replacement for two weeks. I’m temporarily in Company Q, as the saying goes.”
“They give you anything for providin’ your own mount?”
“Forty cents a day, food, shoes, and the services of a farrier, if you can find one sober.” It was a stupid policy, no doubt invented by some government clerk who had ridden nothing friskier than his childhood hobby-horse. The more Charles saw of army politics, camp life, the new recruits, the less easy it became to decide whether the Confederate Army was comic or tragic. Some of both, probably.
“How’d your other horse die?”
Nosy old grouch, wasn’t he? “Distemper.” Dasher had succumbed eleven days after Charles first noticed the symptoms. To this hour he could see the bay lying sad-eyed in the isolation the disease required. He had kept her covered with every blanket he could buy or borrow, and while they hid all the ugly abscesses, they couldn’t hide her swollen legs or mask the stench of the creamy pus flowing from the lesions. He should have shot her, but he couldn’t do it. He let her die and wept with sorrow and relief, off by himself, afterward.
“Um,” the farmer said with a shiver. “Strangles is a dirty end for a good animal.”
“Just as soon not talk about it.” Charles disliked the farmer, and the man had taken a dislike to him. He wanted to conclude the business. “Why haven’t you sold the gray? Cost too much?”
“Nah, the other reason. Like you say—only the band boys want grays. I heard you boys try to make the colors match so’s one bunch can be told from another.”
“That’s the theory. It won’t last long.” His search was proof. “Look, you don’t find many horses for sale in this part of Virginia. So what’s wrong with him? He’s broken, isn’t he?”
“Oh, sure, my cousin broke him good. That’s where I got him—off my cousin. I’ll be straight with you, soldier—”
“Captain.”
The farmer didn’t like that. “He’s a good, fast little thing, but something about him doesn’t please. Two other boys like you looked him over and found him kind of plain and, well, disagreeable. Maybe it’s the Florida blood.”
Instantly, Charles perked up. “Is he part Chickasaw?”
“Ain’t got nothing to prove it, but my cousin said so.”
Then the gray might be a find. The best Carolina racers combined the strains of the English thoroughbred and the Spanish pony from Florida. Charles realized he should have suspected Chickasaw blood when he saw the gray frisking in the pasture as he rode up.
“Is he hard to ride?”
“Some have found him so, yessir.” The farmer was growing tired of the questions. His belligerence told Charles to hurry up and decide; he didn’t care which way.
“Has he got a name?”
“Cousin called him Sport.”
“That could mean lively, or it could mean an animal too different to be any good.”
“I didn’t ask about that” The farmer leaned over and blew a gob of saliva into the weeds. “You want him or not?”
“Put that headstall on him and bring him over here,” Charles replied, unfastening his spurs. The farmer went into the pasture, and Charles observed that Sport twice tried to bite his owner while the headstall was being placed. But the gray followed tractably when the man led him to the fence.
Charles walked to Ambrose Pell’s bay and pulled his shotgun from the hide sheath he had cut and stitched together. He checked the gun quickly. Alarmed, the farmer said, “What the hell you fixin’ to do?”
“Ride him a ways.”
“No saddle? No blanket? Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Texas.” Tired of the old man, Charles gave him an evil grin. “When I took time off from killing Comanches.”
“Killing—? I see. All right. But that shotgun—”
“If he can’t handle the noise, he’s no good to me. Bring him closer to the fence.”
He barked it like an order to his men; the farmer instantly became less troublesome. Charles climbed to the top of the fence, slid over, and dropped down on the gelding gently as he could. He wrapped the rope around his right hand, already feeling the gray’s skittish resistance. He raised the shotgun and fired both barrels. The sound went rolling away toward the hidden mountains. The gray didn’t buck, but he ran—straight toward the fence at the far side of the pasture.
Charles gulped and felt his hat blow off. Raindrops splashed his face. All right, he thought, show me whether your name signifies good or bad.
The fence rushed at him. If he won’t jump, I could break my damn neck. With his light mane standing out above the fine long line of his neck, Sport cleared the fence in a clean, soaring leap, never touching the top rail.
Charles laughed and gave Sport his head. The gray took him on one of the wildest gallops he had ever experienced. Over weedy ground. Through a grove where low limbs loomed, and he ducked repeatedly. Up a steep little hill and down to a cold creek; the water driven up by their crossing would finish the soaking the rain had begun. It occurred to Charles that he wasn’t testing the gray; the gray was testing him.
Long hair flying, he laughed again. In this wrong-colored, unhandsome little animal, he just might have discovered a remarkable war horse.
“I’ll take him,” he said when he returned to the fence by the road. He reached for a wad of bills. “You said a hundred—”
“While you was frolicking with him, I decided I can’t let him go for less than a hundred and fifty.”
“The price you quoted was a hundred, and that’s all you get.” Charles fingered the shotgun. “I wouldn’t argue—you know us boys from the buttermilk cavalry. Thieves and killers.”
He grinned again. The deal was concluded without further negotiation.
“Charlie, you were flummoxed,” Ambrose declared five minutes after Charles got back to camp with the gray. “Any fool can see that horse has nothing to recommend it.”
“Appearances don’t always tell the tale, Ambrose.” He ran a hand down Sport’s slightly arched nose. The gelding nuzzled in
a determined way. “Besides, I think he likes me.”
“He’s the wrong color. Everyone will take you for a damn cornet player instead of a gentleman.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I quit trying to be one when I was seven. Thanks for the loan of your horse. I’ve got to feed and water this one.”
“Let my nigger do it for you.”
“Toby’s your manservant, not mine. Besides, ever since I attended the Academy, I’ve had this peculiar idea that a trooper should care for his own mount. It is his second self, as the saying goes.”
“I detect disapproval,” Ambrose grumbled. “What’s wrong with bringing a slave to camp?”
“Nothing—until the fighting starts. No one will do that for you.”
Ambrose found the remark irksome. He stayed silent for some seconds, then muttered, “By the way, Hampton wants to see you.”
Charles frowned. “About what?”
“Don’t know. The colonel wouldn’t confide in me. Maybe I’m not professional enough to suit him. Hell, I don’t deny it. I only signed up because I love to ride and I hate Yankees—and I don’t want a bundle of petticoats left on my doorstep some night to tell everybody I’m a shirker. I thought I’d earn the respect of my friends by taking a legion commission, and instead I’ve lost it.” He sighed. “Remember we’re dining with old princey-prince this evening?”
“Thanks for reminding me. I forgot.”
“Tell Hampton not to keep you, because his highness expects us to be prompt.”
Charles smiled as he led Sport away. “That’s right, in this army it’s dinner parties before duty. I’ll be sure to remind the colonel of that.”
Though Camp Hampton was the bivouac of an elite regiment, it was still succumbing to familiar afflictions, Charles noticed on his way to regimental headquarters forty minutes later. He saw human waste left on the ground instead of in the sinks dug for the purpose. The smell was worse because the late afternoon was windless.
He saw a pair of privates stumbling-drunk from the poisonous busthead sold by the inevitable sutler in the inevitable tent. He saw three gaudily dressed ladies who were definitely not officers’ wives or laundresses. Charles hadn’t slept with a woman in months, and he could tell it. Still, he wasn’t ready to take up with beauties like these; not with so many complaints of clap in the encampment.
In contrast to the busy sutler, the gray-bearded colporteur had no customers at all and made a forlorn sight seated against the wheel of his wagon reading some of his own merchandise. One of the Bibles he sold? No, it was a tract, Charles observed; possibly A Mother’s Parting Words to Her Soldier Boy, eight pages of cautionary moralizing in the form of a letter. It was a hot seller throughout the army, though most of the better-educated legionnaires jeered at it.
He passed two young gentlemen whose salutes were so brief as to border on insulting. Before Charles finished returning the salutes, the men were once again arguing over the price to pay a substitute when it was inconvenient to stand guard. Twenty-five cents per tour was the customary rate.
The next unpleasantness he came upon was a large pavilion with its sides raised because of the sweltering heat and dampness after the rain. Inside lay those already felled by the shotless war. Sickness was everywhere; bad water made men’s bowels run and constrict with ghastly pain; balls of opium paste did little to alleviate the suffering. Surviving dysentery in Texas had not kept Charles from spending another week with it in Virginia. Now there was a new epidemic in the army: measles.
He hated to wish for combat but, as he entered the headquarters area, he couldn’t deny he was sick of camp life. Mightn’t be long before he got his wish, at that. Some old political hack, General Patterson, had pushed Joe Johnston and his men out of Harpers Ferry, and word was circulating that McDowell would shortly move at least thirty thousand men to the strategic rail junction of Manassas Gap.
Barker, the regimental adjutant, was finishing some business with the colonel, so Charles had to wait. He scratched suddenly. God, he had them, all right.
About six, the captain came out and Charles reported to the colonel he greatly admired—Wade Hampton of the Congaree: a millionaire, a good leader, and a fine cavalryman in spite of his age. “Be at ease, Captain,” Hampton said after the formalities. “Sit if you like.”
Charles took the stool in front of Hampton’s neat field desk, one corner of which was reserved for a small velvet box with its lid raised. In the box stood an easeled frame, filigreed silver, containing a miniature of Hampton’s second wife, Mary.
The colonel rose and stretched. He was a man of commanding appearance, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, obviously possessed of immense strength. Though a splendid rider, he never indulged in the kind of equestrian pranks that were common in the First Virginia, commanded by Beauty Stuart, whom Charles had known and liked at the Academy. Jeb had dash, Hampton a forceful deliberateness. No one questioned either man’s courage, but their styles were as disparate as their ages, and Charles had heard their few meetings had been cool.
“I’m sorry I was gone when you sent for me, Colonel. Captain Barker was aware of the reason. I needed a remount.”
“Find one?”
“Luckily, yes.”
“Very good. I wouldn’t care to lose you to Company Q for too long.” Hampton drew a paper from a pile on the desk. “I wanted to see you about another discipline problem. Earlier today, one of your men absented himself without leave. He was present for morning roll call but gone by breakfast call a half hour later. He was apprehended ten miles from here, purely by chance. An officer recognized the legion uniform, hailed him, and asked where he was going. The young idiot told the truth. He said he was on his way to participate in a horse race.”
Charles scowled. “With some First Virginia troopers, perhaps?”
“Exactly.” Hampton brushed knuckles against his bushy side whiskers, dark as his wavy hair; the whiskers met and blended into a luxuriant mustache. “The race is to be held tomorrow, within sight of enemy pickets—presumably to add the spice of danger.” He didn’t hide his scorn. “The soldier was returned under guard. When First Sergeant Reynolds asked why he’d gone off as he had, he replied—” Hampton glanced at the paper—“‘I went to have some fun. The First Virginia are a daring bunch, with good leadership. They know a trooper’s first responsibility is to die game.’” Chilly gray-blue eyes fixed on Charles. “End of quote.”
“I can guess the man you’re talking about, sir.” The same one who had wanted to kill the Union prisoner they took some weeks ago. “Cramm?”
“That’s right. Private Custom Dawkins Cramm the third. A young man from a rich and important family.”
“Also, if the colonel will forgive me, an aristocratic pain in the rear.”
“We do have our share of them. Brave boys, I think, but unsuited to soldiering. As yet.” The addition declared his intent to change that. He slapped the paper with the back of his other hand. “But this foolishness! ‘To die game.’ That may be Stuart’s way, but I prefer to win and live. Regarding Cramm—I’m empowered to convene a special court-martial. He’s your man, however. You deserve the right to make the decision.”
“Convene it,” Charles said without hesitation. “I’ll serve, if you’ll permit one.”
“I’ll place you in charge.”
“Where’s Cramm now, sir?”
“Confined to quarters. Under guard.”
“I believe I’ll give him the good news personally.”
“Please do,” Hampton said, his eyes belying his dispassionate expression. “This man’s come to my attention too often. Examples must be made. McDowell will move soon, and we can’t mass our forces and overwhelm the enemy if each soldier does exactly as he wishes, whenever he wishes.”
“Exactly right, Colonel.” Hampton had no formal military training, but he understood that part of the lesson book. Charles saluted and went straight to Private Cramm’s tent. Outside, a noncom stood guard. Nearby, Cramm’s black bod
y servant, old and hunchbacked, polished the brass corners of a trunk.
“Corporal,” Charles said, “you will hear and see nothing for the next two minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
Inside, Private Custom Dawkins Cramm III reclined among the many books he had brought to camp. He wore a loose white silk blouse—nonregulation—and didn’t rise when his superior entered, though he gave him an annoyed stare.
“Stand up.”
Cramm went off like a bomb, hurling down the gold-stamped volume of Coleridge. “The hell I will. I was a gentleman before I joined your damned troop, I’m still a gentleman, and I’m damned if you’ll continue to treat me like some nigger slave.”
Charles took hold of the fine blouse, ripping it as he yanked Cramm to his feet. “What I’m going to do, Cramm, is chair the special court-martial to which Colonel Hampton appointed me five minutes ago. Then I’ll do my utmost to give you the maximum penalty—thirty-one days of hard labor. You’ll serve every minute of it unless we go up against the Yankees first, in which case they’ll punish you by blowing your head off because you’re too stupid to be a soldier. But at least you’ll die game.”
He pushed Cramm so hard that the young man sailed into his little wooden library cabinet, bounced away, and knocked down the rear tent pole. On one knee, gripping the pole, Cramm glared.
“We should have elected a gentleman as our captain. Next time we will.”
Red-faced, Charles walked out.
“Here we come, gentlemen. Nice hot oysters Creole. Got ’em fixed crispy and jus’ right for you.”
With a politeness so exquisite it approached mockery, Ambrose Pell’s slave Toby bent forward to offer a silver tray of appetizers on small china plates; Toby had been dragooned to assist the host’s hired servants, a couple of rascally looking Belgians. Toby was about forty, and in contrast to his servile posture, his eyes shone with a sly resentment. So Charles thought, anyway.
Privately, he termed that kind of behavior putting on old massa. He had a theory that the more expert a slave became at the deceptive ritual, the more likely it was that he hated those who owned him. Not that Charles blamed any black very much for such feelings; four years at West Point, and exposure to people and ideas not strictly Southern, had begun a change in his thinking, and nothing since had stopped it or reversed it. He considered all the rhetoric in defense of slavery so much spit in the wind and probably wrong to boot.