by John Jakes
He opened a lower desk drawer and. produced one of the folders that contained personal dossiers. Inscribed on the front in a beautiful flowing hand was the name Randolph.
Baker passed the folder across the desk. Bent opened it and discovered several pages of notes in a variety of handwritings, plus a number of news clippings. One of the dispatches carried the words By Our Capitol Correspondent Mr. Eamon Randolph.
He closed the folder and waited. When Baker began to speak, he did so in a tone that took Bent into his confidence. Bent’s gloom lifted.
“Mr. Randolph, as you’ll discover when you read those scurrilous articles, is not a partisan of those for whom we work. Nor is he fond of Senator Wade, Congressman Stevens, or their rigorous program for rehabilitating our Southern brethren after the war. You will find Mr. Randolph’s paper, the Cincinnati Globe, to be strongly antiadministration and pro-Democratic. Further, only the peace wing of that party earns its admiration. Randolph doesn’t go so far as some in the same camp—no advocacy of removal of Mr. Lincoln by violent means, nothing like that. But he definitely favors noninterference with slavery even after the South capitulates. We cannot tolerate the promulgation of that view in a period of crisis. I have been urged by certain administration officials to—shall we say—” Baker stroked his luxuriant beard “—chastise him. Silence him briefly, not only to remove an irritant but to warn his paper, and others of the same persuasion, to have a care lest the same fate befall them. Your work in Richmond impressed me, Dayton. That’s why I’ve chosen you to handle the case.”
82
THE THREE CONTRACT SURGEONS in filthy uniforms sat around a rickety table. Their hands were filthy too, stained with dirt and blood, as they were whenever the surgeons examined wounds.
One of the three picked his nose. The second surreptitiously rubbed his groin, an oafish smile spreading over his face. The third doctor drained a bottle of alcohol meant for the wounded. One of these, limping pitifully, was shown in by an orderly, who acted like a mental deficient.
“What have we here?” said the surgeon who had been swilling the alcohol; apparently he was the chief.
“I’m hurt, sir,” said the enlisted man. “Can I go home?”
“Not so fast! We must conduct an examination. Gentlemen? If you please.”
The surgeons surrounded the soldier, poked, probed, conferred in whispers. The chief stated the consensus: “I’m sorry, but your arms must be amputated.”
“Oh.” The patient’s face fell. But after a moment, he grinned. “Then can I have a furlough?”
“Definitely not,” said the surgeon who had been rubbing his privates. “That left leg must come off, too.”
“Oh.” This time it was a groan. The patient again tried to smile. “But certainly I can have a furlough after that.”
“By no means,” said the nose picker. “When you get well you can drive an ambulance.”
Roars of laughter.
“Gentlemen—another consultation,” cried the chief, and back into a huddle they went. It broke up quickly. The chief said, “We have decided one last procedure is necessary. We must amputate your head.”
The patient strove to see the bright side. “Well, after that I know I’ll be entitled to a furlough.”
“Absolutely not,” said the chief. “We are so short of men, your body must be set up in the breastworks to fool the enemy.”
Out of the darkness, massed voices roared again. Seated cross-legged on trampled grass, Charles laughed so hard tears ran from his eyes. On the tiny plank stage lit by lanterns and torches, the soldier playing the patient shrieked and ran in circles while the demented surgeons pursued him with awls, chisels, and saws. Finally they chased him behind a rear curtain rigged from a blanket. Applause, yelps, and whistling acknowledged the end of the program, which had lasted about forty minutes. All the performers—singers, a banjo player, a fiddler, one of Beverly Robertson’s troopers who juggled bottles, and a monologist portraying Commissary General Northrop explaining the healthful benefits of the latest reduction in the meat ration—returned for their bows. Then came the actors from the skit, who got even louder applause. Some anonymous scribe in the Stonewall Brigade had written The Medical Board, and it had become a favorite on camp programs.
Shadow masses stood and separated. Charles rubbed his stiff back. The mild June evening and the campfires shining in the fields away toward Culpeper Court House brought images of Barclay’s Farm to mind. Barclay’s Farm and Gus.
Ab was thinking of less pleasant subjects. “Got to find me some Day and Martin to shine my boots. Damn if I ever thought when I joined the scouts that I’d have to get so fancied up.”
“You know Stuart,” Charles said with a resigned shrug.
“On some occasions I wish I didn’t. This is one. Goddamn if I want to go paradin’ for the ladies on Saturday.”
The two men crossed the railroad tracks, retrieved their horses from the temporary corral, and started for the field where they had pitched their tents with Calbraith Butler’s regiment. A massive movement of forces was under way below the Rappahannock; Ewell and Longstreet were already at Culpeper with infantry. Charles knew nothing of the army’s destination, but lately there had been much talk of a second invasion of the North.
Somewhere above the river there were certain to be Yanks. Yanks who would want to know the whereabouts of Lee’s army. So far as Charles could tell, no one was worried about the Yankee presence or its potential threat. Stuart had settled down at Culpeper with more horsemen than he had had in a long time—close to ten thousand. Some of those were on picket duty at the Rappahannock fords, but most were being allowed time to prepare for Stuart’s grand review for invited guests on Saturday. Many women would be coming by rail and carriage from Richmond, as well as from the nearer towns. Charles wished he’d had time to invite Gus.
The review was certainly typical of Stuart, but it struck Charles as inappropriate when mass movement of the army was under way, and that army was not in the best of condition. These days he saw many sore, swollen backs among the horses; sixteen or seventeen hours a day was too long for an animal to be saddled. In Robertson’s brigade he had seen horses frantically chewing each other’s manes and tails—starving even in the season of growth. In the brigade of Old Grumble Jones, the slovenly general whose liking for blue jeans and hickory shirts earned him the dubious honor of being called the Zach Taylor of the Confederacy, Charles had only yesterday spied half a dozen men riding mules. The best replacements they could find, he supposed.
Sweet clover scented the June night. The fires shone along the whole southern horizon. In camp, a few men were resting, writing letters, or playing cards with decks in which the court cards were portraits of generals and politicians. Mr. Davis, popular in the first year of the war, was seldom seen in the newer decks.
Most of the troopers had no time for recreation, however. They were sewing and polishing because Stuart had ordered every man to find or fix up a good uniform for the review. Much as Charles disliked the whole idea, he intended to look as presentable as possible and even unpack the Solingen sword. If Jeb wanted a show, he would do his best to contribute.
Brandy Station had been named for an old stagecoach stop famous for apple brandy served to travelers; the apples grew in orchards close by. Now the Orange & Alexandria line served the place. On Saturday the special trains started rolling in early, the cars packed with politicians and gaily dressed ladies, most of whom would attend both the review and General Stuart’s ball at Culpeper that night.
In open meadows near long and relatively flat Fleetwood Hill, just above the village crossroads, Stuart’s cavalry performed for the visitors. Columns of horse charged with drawn sabers. Artillery batteries raced, wheeled, loaded, and fired demonstration rounds. Flags and music and the warm smell of summer moved in the breeze that brushed over vistas of tasseled corn and flourishing wheat. Charles and the rest of Hampton’s scouts took their turn galloping past the guests and reviewin
g officers gathered along the rail line. Speeding by, Charles saw the black plume on Stuart’s hat dip and flutter; the general had bobbed his head when he recognized his old West Point acquaintance.
After the long and tiring review, Charles returned to his encampment, anticipating a good meal and a sound sleep. Tomorrow he had to scout the river near Kelly’s Ford. He was putting up Sport when an orderly appeared.
“Captain Main? General Fitzhugh Lee presents his compliments and requests the captain’s company at his headquarters tent this evening. Supper will be served before the ball, which the general may not attend.”
“Why not?”
“The general has been sick, sir. Do you know the location of his headquarters?”
“Oak Shade Church?”
“That’s correct, sir. May General Lee expect you?”
“I don’t plan to go to the ball either. Tell Fitz—the general I accept with pleasure.”
That’s a damn lie, he thought as the orderly left. Everyone knew Fitz was Stuart’s favorite and still jealous of Hampton outranking him because of seniority of appointment. Hampton’s partisans, in turn, sneered at Fitz, saying he had risen rapidly solely because he was Old Bob’s nephew. Might be something to it. Two of the five brigades of horse were led by Lees—Fitz and the general’s son, Rooney.
Uncomfortable about the invitation, Charles spent the next couple of hours cleaning his uniform. At least he had the gift sword to smarten his appearance. Presently he mounted Sport and rode down a lane flanked by fields where bees hummed in the white clover blossoms. The sun was sinking. Northward, the heights of Fleetwood swam in blue haze.
Wish I could get out of here and see Gus, he thought. Something’s mighty wrong about this campaign.
“Glad you accepted the invitation, Bison. I’ve been feeling poorly of late. Rheumatism. I need some good company.”
Fitz did indeed look pale and unhealthy. His beard was big and bushy as ever, his uniform immaculate, but he lacked his customary vigor; he talked and moved lethargically.
He expressed surprise that his old friend didn’t intend to enjoy the company of the ladies gathering at Culpeper. To which Charles replied, “I have a lady of my own now. I’d have invited her, but I couldn’t get a message to her soon enough.”
“Is it a serious affair of the heart? Going to settle down when this muss is over?”
“Could be, General. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Let’s dispense with general and captain for one evening,” Fitz said. He gestured his friend to a camp chair. “The old names will do.”
Charles smiled and relaxed. “All right.”
The fireball of the sun rested on the low hills in the west. The open tent was breezy and comfortable. One of Fitz’s officers joined them for whiskey served by a Negro body servant. Colonel Tom Rosser, a handsome young Texan, had been ready to graduate in the class of May ’61 when he resigned to fight for the South. The three cavalrymen chatted easily for fifteen minutes. Rosser twice mentioned a cadet in the later, June, class of ’61 who was with the Union.
“Name’s George Custer. He’s a lieutenant. Aide to Pleasonton. I used to consider him a friend, but I reckon I can’t any longer.”
Thinking of friendships and Hampton, Charles cast an oblique glance at the general. Why had Fitz invited him? For the reason he gave—company? Or another?
On the subject of Custer, Fitz said, “I hear they call him Crazy Curly.”
“Why’s that?” Charles asked.
Rosser laughed. “You’d know if you saw him. In fact, you’d recognize him instantly. Hair down to here—” He tapped his shoulder. “Wears a big scarlet scarf around his neck—looks like a damn circus rider gone mad.” Softly, more reflectively, he added, “He doesn’t lack courage, though.”
“I’ve also heard he doesn’t lack for ambition,” Fitz remarked. “On the peninsula they called him Pleasonton’s Pet.”
In the universal fashion of cavalrymen, the three officers fell to discussing the strong and weak points of other opponents. Pleasonton got poor marks, but Fitz and Rosser were impressed by the exploits of a heretofore unknown colonel, Grierson, of Illinois. In late April, to divert attention from Grant at Vicksburg, Grierson had led seventeen hundred horse on a daring ride from LaGrange, Tennessee, to Baton Rouge, tearing up railroad tracks and killing and imprisoning Confederate soldiers along the way.
“Six hundred miles in slightly more than two weeks,” Rosser grumbled. “I’d say they’ve been reading our book.”
As the evening went on, Charles found himself growing depressed. He said little and watched his friend Fitz with a feeling amounting to envy. For a young man, Fitz had indeed come a long way—and not solely because of family connections. He had a reputation as a good officer, and he had certainly changed his style since Academy days, when he delighted in thumbing his nose at the rules.
Presently Rosser stood up, putting on his dress hat. “I must go. Pleasure to meet you, Captain Main. Heard good things about you. Hope we’ll see you again.”
Rosser’s final remark seemed to pass some coded message to Fitz. As the general’s Negro put tin plates of beef and spoon bread before them, Fitz said, “You’re wasting your time with old Hampton, you know. I lost a colonel to gangrene a week ago. His regiment’s yours if you want it.”
Caught short, Charles stammered, “Fitz, that—well, that’s very flattering.”
“The devil with that. There are too many problems in this war, right down to and including my rheumatism, for me to squander a minute on flattery. You’re a fine cavalryman, an able leader, and if I may say so, you’re serving with a commander who is not all he should be—now wait. Don’t bristle.”
“But I’ve been with General Hampton for two years. I signed on with him when he raised his legion in Columbia. He has first claim on my loyalty.”
“Rightly so. However—”
“He’s a competent officer and a brave one.”
“No one doubts Wade Hampton’s courage. But the man is—well—not young. And on occasion he has displayed a certain timidity.”
“Fitz, with all due respect, please don’t say any more. You’re my friend, but Hampton is the best officer I’ve ever served under.”
Fitz cooled noticeably. “Do you include General Stuart in that statement?”
“I’d sooner not elaborate, except on one point. What some call timidity, others call prudence—or wisdom. Hampton concentrates his forces before he attacks. He wants a victory, not casualties or headlines.”
Fitz practically bit the spoon bread off his fork. “Amos? Get in here with the whiskey.” As the servant poured, Fitz eyed his visitor with disappointment and annoyance. “Your loyalty may be commendable, Charles, but I still insist you’re wasting your talents.” No more nickname; the reunion had soured. “Most every officer who graduated from West Point when we did is a colonel or a major—at minimum.”
That hurt. Charles took a breath. “For what it’s worth, I was in the promotion line two years ago. I made some mistakes.”
“I know all about what you term your mistakes. They’re not as serious as you may imagine. Grumble Jones and Beverly Robertson are disciplinarians, too. Both lost elections to colonel because of it. But new commands were found for—”
“Fitz,” he interrupted, “haven’t I made myself clear? What I’m doing suits me. I don’t want or need a new command.”
Silence fell in the tent. Outside, the black servant could be heard pottering at his camp stove. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Charles. If you won’t go where you can be most useful, why fight for the South at all?”
The faint scorn angered Charles. “But I’m not fighting for the South if that means slavery or a separate country. I’m fighting for the place where I live. My land. My home. That’s why most of the men joined up. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Davis understands that.”
Fitz shrugged and began to eat quickly. “Sorry to hurry you, but I must make an attempt to get t
o the ball. By the way, General Lee has announced himself available on Monday. General Stuart has ordered a review.”
“Another one? What’s he thinking of? Today’s review tired the horses and put the men in bad temper. We should be watching for Yankees north of the river, not expending more energy on military foppery.”
Fitz cleared his throat. “Let us agree those remarks were never uttered. Thank you for coming, Charles. I’m afraid you will have to excuse me now.”
The evening taught Charles a gloomy lesson. He and Fitz could no longer be friends. They were divided by rank, by opinion, and by all the political pulling and hauling of command. Next day an incident near Kelly’s Ford deepened his gloom. Scouting northeast of the Rappahannock, beyond the picket outposts, he and Ab stopped at a small farm to water their horses and refill their canteens. The householder, a skinny old man, struck up a conversation. With a bewildered air, he told them that his two elderly slaves, husband and wife, had run off the day before yesterday.
“Couldn’t get over it. Still can’t. They was always so nice. Smiling, biddable darkies—been that way ever since I bought ’em six years ago.”
“We had a lot of that in South Carolina,” Charles said. “Folks call it puttin’ on ol’ massa.”
“Can’t understand it,” the farmer said, staring right through him. “I fed ’em. Didn’t whip ’em but three or four times. I fixed up presents for ’em ever’ Christmas—cakes, little jams and jellies, things like that—”
“Come on, Ab,” Charles said wearily, while the old man continued to condemn the ingratitude. Charles mounted, and scratched the inside of his left leg. His case of camp itch was worsening. At least the rash wasn’t as bad as the clap that several scouts had caught from camp followers who dignified themselves with the title laundress.
Bound back toward Brandy Station, Charles pictured the foolish farmer with dismay, then disgust. More and more lately, he saw the peculiar institution for what it was and always had been. The reality of it—from the point of view of those enslaved, anyway—could be nothing less than fear and rage behind a deceptive mask. The kind of mask that had to be worn if the slave meant to survive.