by John Jakes
“Let me see that shoe.” Charles snatched the tongs from the farrier. “Heat it and put it back in the vise. It isn’t wide enough at the heel. His hoof spreads when he puts weight on it.”
“I know my job.”
Charles stared right back. “I know my horse.”
“You plantation boys are all—”
Charles stepped forward, handing Sport’s bridle to Ab. The farrier cleared his throat and began to pump the bellows. “All right, all right.”
Later that day, Charles bid Ab good-bye and rode north. In Richmond he visited Orry and Madeline, who had found larger quarters—four rooms, the whole upper floor of a house in the Court End district. The owner’s mother had lived there, and the quarters became vacant when she died. Orry paid the outrageous rent without complaint, happy to be out of the rooming house.
For Charles’s visit, Madeline fried up a dozen fresh farm eggs, never saying how she had gotten them. They all declined to discuss Ashton and her husband, and talked till four in the morning.
Charles told them about Gus, whom he hadn’t mentioned before. Orry reacted predictably when he heard the location of Barclay’s Farm. Lee was crouched at Fredericksburg with Jackson, but Hooker was just across the river with twice as many men. Orry said it was folly for Gus to remain in Spotsylvania County.
Charles agreed. They talked further. He slept badly, rolled up in a blanket on the floor, and left the city next morning.
North again through the Virginia springtime. Under blue skies, he rode by lemony forsythia and burning pink azaleas growing wild. Cherry blossoms shone like snowfields. The air smelled of moist earth and, here and there, of something else he recognized: rotting horseflesh. It was getting so you could tell where the armies had been just by seeing or smelling the dead horses.
Late that night, he crouched in a grove and watched a troop of southbound cavalry pass. Jackets and kepis looked black in the starlight. Black translated to blue. Union riders were behind Confederate lines again.
Only one aspect of the incident gave him comfort. The Yankees still rode with what he jeeringly called their fortifications—burdensome extra blankets, tools, utensils—as much as seventy pounds of unnecessary gear. The weight was hard on a horse. Charles hoped the Yankees never learned the lesson.
He reached Chancellorsville, a few buildings and a crossroads unworthy of being called a village. Turning right onto the Orange Turnpike, he continued toward Fredericksburg through the Wilderness, an all but impassable forest of second-growth oak and pine entangled with vines. Even in bright sunlight, the place looked sinister.
Where the Wilderness straggled out, he cut to the northeast. The fragile good cheer generated by the weather left him. He was back in the war zone for fair.
The countryside swarmed with Confederate engineer companies, trains of supply wagons, six-horse artillery batteries, slow-moving herds of scrawny cattle. An officer demanded his pass, then asked whether he had seen any Union cavalry between here and Richmond. Charles said he had. The officer told him it was probably Stoneman, reported to be striking at communication lines to the capital.
Gray-clad stragglers wandered through the freshly turned fields, going where and doing what, God only knew. So many soldiers abroad didn’t bode well for a woman living alone, even if the soldiers wore the right uniform. It was proven again when he came within sight of Barclay’s Farm. A white-topped commissary wagon stood in the road, and two rough-looking teamsters were eying the house as Charles approached. He put his hand on his shotgun, and they decided to drive on.
As he rode into the dooryard, Boz threw down his ax, leaped over some split logs, and ran toward him. “Hello, hello! Miss Augusta—Captain Charles is here.”
Boz sounded more than happy. He sounded relieved.
“Something’s troubling you,” she said. “What is it?”
They lay side by side in the dark. They had supped and talked, hugged and kissed, bathed and made love. Now, instead of feeling a pleasant drowsiness, he was struggling in the web of his own thoughts.
“Where shall I start?” he asked.
“Wherever you want.”
“It’s going badly, Gus. The whole damn war. Vicksburg’s threatened—Grant’s in charge there. Orry knew him at the Academy and in Mexico. He says the man’s like a terrier with a bone. Won’t let go even if the pieces choke him to death. Orry wouldn’t say it to anyone else, but he thinks Grant will have Vicksburg by the autumn. Then there’s Davis. Still coddling second-rate generals like Bragg. And the cavalry can’t find enough horses, let alone the grain to feed them.”
“The farms around here are stripped bare. The war doesn’t help anyone catch up, either. You plow an acre, ten minutes later a battery of artillery gallops across it, and you start over.”
“The superstitious boys say our luck’s turned bad. Sharpsburg might have been a victory instead of a stand-off if the Yankees hadn’t found those cigars wrapped in a copy of Lee’s order. Courage doesn’t count for much against bad luck—or the numbers the other side can muster.”
But Cooper had spoken of the numbers long ago, hadn’t he? Warned of them. Charles shivered in the dark. She stroked his bare shoulder, soothing. “I’d say those are all eminently respectable worries.”
“There’s one more.”
“What is it?”
He rolled onto his side, able to see her only as a pale shape.
“You.”
“My darling, don’t squander a single minute fretting about me. I can take care of myself.” There was pride in the statement, and reassurance. But he heard anger, too.
“Well, I do fret. Can’t sleep half the time, thinking of you stuck here by yourself.”
And that’s why no man should let himself fall in love in wartime. The conviction lay like a rock inside him, unwanted, upsetting—and undeniable.
“That’s foolish, Charles.”
“Hell it is. Hooker’s sure to attack Fredericksburg—maybe within a few days. The Army of the Potomac could overrun the whole county.”
“Boz and Washington and I can—”
“Hold out against bluebellies who haven’t seen a pretty woman for months? Come on.”
“You’re being quarrelsome.”
“So are you. I have good reason. I can’t stop worrying.”
“You could stop coming here, then you wouldn’t have to worry at all.”
Cold and flat, the words fell between them. He flung himself out of bed, crossed his arms, furiously scratched his beard in vexation. She rose to her knees on the bed, touched his shoulder.
“Do you think I don’t worry about you? Constantly? Sometimes I think I fell in love just when I shouldn’t have—with a man I shouldn’t have—”
“Then maybe I should stop coming here.”
“Is that what you want?”
A silence. Then he broke, spun, pulled her naked body up in his arms, hugging her and stroking her hair. “God, no, Gus. I love you so much, sometimes it makes me want to cry for mercy.”
Trembling, they held each other, he standing beside the bed, she kneeling. Finally, the searing problem had been exposed. Sometimes I think I fell in love just when I shouldn’t have—with a man I shouldn’t have. She faced the constant threat of loss. He bore a constant concern, one that weighed him down like all the gear carried by the Yankee cavalry. Lord God, Charlie—Ab’s voice—you forgotten why we’re all here?
Sometimes he almost did. A lot of men did. For some the burden became too heavy; they put distant wives and sweethearts ahead of duty and deserted. He would never join that company, yet he did recognize that the cancer of worry was in him, too. He knew it while he clasped her body and kissed her clean, soft hair. “Go to Richmond,” he pleaded.
She broke the embrace. “Charles, this is my home. I’ll not run away.”
“It’s no admission of cowardice to go for a week or two. Until Hooker moves, and something’s decided.”
“What if the Yankees came when I wasn’t
here? What if they looted this place or burned it? It’s all I have.”
“They can loot it and burn it with you standing in the kitchen.”
“Richmond’s too crowded. There is no place—”
“My cousin and his wife will take you in. Boz and Washington, too. I stopped to see Orry and Madeline on the way up from Sussex County. They don’t have much room, but they’ll share what they have.”
She sank back on her haunches, bringing her forearms across her breasts as if she were cold. “It would be a great deal of trouble to pack and—”
“Gus, stop. You’re a proud woman. Strong. I love that about you. But goddamn it—”
“I wish you wouldn’t curse all the time.”
The soft words conveyed her anger as nothing had before. He took a breath and grasped the post at the foot of the bed to steady himself.
“I’m sorry. But the point stands. Pride and strength and two nigras aren’t enough to protect you against Joe Hooker’s army. You need to go to Richmond, if not for your own sake, then for mine.”
“For your sake—?”
“That’s right.”
“I see.”
“You take that tone, I’ll sleep in the other room.”
“I think you’d better.”
Out he went, wrapped in a blanket, slamming the door.
Just at daylight, he stole back in, whispered her name, started when she sat up, wide awake. From the raw look of her cheeks, he knew she had gotten little sleep.
He held out his hand. “I’m sorry.”
They embraced, dismissed the quarrel, and over breakfast she said yes, all right, she’d close up the place and travel to Richmond before the week was out if he could get her a pass. He promised he would. He wrote directions to Orry and Madeline’s and went over them with her. Things were all right again. Superficially. For a man and woman to fall in love in times like these was folly, and each had acknowledged it.
Later that morning, he prepared to leave. “I’ll stop in Richmond and tell them you’ll be coming.”
They were standing in the dooryard. She put her arms around him, kissed him, and said, “I love you, Charles Main. You must not worry about me.”
“Oh, no, never. And Old Abe will raise the Stars and Bars in Atlanta tomorrow.”
He mounted, waved, and cantered to the road. After he had gone a half mile he reined in to look back, but a rattling column of caissons raised dust and forced him to the shoulder. He could see only sweating horses and grinding wheels. At last the column passed. The dooryard was empty.
When he returned to the brigade in Sussex County, he lied to Ab, saying the visit had been a fine one.
75
“MISS JANE, I HAVE got to confess—”
He had walked her to the stoop of her cabin in the dusk, tightening up his nerve along the way. She smiled to encourage him.
“I love you. I pray for the day I’m a free man and can ask for your hand.”
He had flirted with the declaration before but never said it outright. The words made her warm and happy. She looked at Andy against a background of cabins and overhanging trees and mist rolling in from the river to fill the spaces between. The hidden sun lit the mist to a dusty rose color. Softly, she said, “The day will come. When it does, I’ll be proud to say yes.”
He clapped his hands. “Great God! I’d kiss you if there weren’t so many people watching.”
Laughing, too, she said, “I don’t see anyone.” She pecked his cheek and ran inside. She leaned against the door, clasping her hands against the cleft of her breast. “Oh, my. Oh, my.”
Then the smell assaulted her. The smell of a dirty body and spirits. It wrenched her mind, gripped her attention. He was lounging against the whitewashed wall, his eyes bleary. Where had he gotten whiskey? Stolen it from the house?
“How dare you sneak in here, Cuffey. Get out.”
He didn’t move. Giving her a sly smile, he reached down and fingered himself. “I heard what that nigger said. He loves you.” The dark brown hand loosened one button after another until he could show her what was underneath. “He can’t do it near as good as me.”
“You drunken, foul-minded—”
Cuffey let go of himself and ran at her. Jane cried out and groped for the door latch. He caught her shoulder, yanking her so hard she stumbled. Then someone struck the other side of the door, driving her over to the other wall. She hit with a jolt, dazed, not seeing the door crash back or Andy peering in. Anxious blacks crowded the little porch.
Cuffey said, “Shut that door, nigger. Go do what you do bes’—kiss ol’ Meek’s backside.”
Andy quickly took it in: Jane slumped by the wall, bracing herself with her hands, Cuffey stuffing his dangling organ back into his pants. Andy tilted his head downward slightly and walked into the cabin.
Cuffey picked up an old stool and swept it in an arc, striking Andy’s head. One leg of the stool broke; somehow the splintered end drew blood from Andy’s temple. The blood streamed into his eye as he jumped at Cuffey and aimed a powerful but mistimed punch. Cuffey easily avoided it, then jabbed at Andy’s eye with the splintered leg.
“Let him be. Wait for help,” Jane pleaded. If Andy heard, he paid no attention. He walked forward like a soldier in a skirmish line, upright, scared, but never wavering. He laced his hands together to create a double fist. Cuffey kicked him between the legs. Andy doubled over, letting out a clenched, hurt sound. But he stayed on his feet. He lifted his joined hands and struck Cuffey where his neck met his left shoulder, a sideways blow that shot Cuffey against the wall and made him grunt explosively.
“You been begging somebody to do this,” Andy said, looming over the other man, pounding downward with his joined hands. He slammed the top of Cuffey’s head. This time Cuffey yelled. Andy began to hammer him like a nail, pushing him down to a crouch, then to his knees, working in sideways blows to the face for good measure. Cuffey’s ear bled.
“Watch out, Andy, Mist’ Meek comin’,” someone called from the street. Jane stood, saw the blacks on the porch disappear and the overseer stride into view, pulling a pistol from his wide belt.
“Who’s fighting in here?”
“Cuffey and Andy,” a woman answered, just as Andy raised Cuffey by the front of his soiled shirt. Blood leaked from Cuffey’s nose as well as his ear. He blew the blood and mucus into Andy’s face.
“I kill you, nigger. You an’ everybody on this place.”
“Let him go, Andy,” Meek ordered from the doorway. Andy turned toward the overseer. The blood from his temple blurred his vision a little. Cuffey saw his chance and gave his adversary a shove.
Andy staggered, thrown back against the overseer. Cuffey tore down the flour-sack curtains Jane had tacked over the back window. He flipped one leg over the sill. “Give me room to shoot,” Meek shouted, pushing Andy.
Cuffey grabbed Jane and swung her into the line of fire. Meek jerked the pistol upward, and Cuffey dropped down outside the window. He bolted away into rose mist that was deepening to gray.
“Stop, nigger,” Meek commanded, discharging one round. Cuffey disappeared behind a live oak. The mist stirred and settled.
Meek swore an uncharacteristic oath. “Andy, what happened?”
“I was outside and—I heard Jane cry out.” The words were labored; he was still breathing hard.
“I came inside and found him hiding here,” Jane said. “He said dirty things to me, then unbuttoned his trousers.”
The listeners outside, especially the women, expostulated and groaned. Still angry at losing the culprit, Meek snorted, “If we gelded all you bucks, things’d be a sight more peaceful.”
Andy glared. “Listen here—”
The overseer was too mad to pay much attention. And just then a voice rolled out of the deep rose mist behind the cabin.
“I’ll kill ever one of you on this place, you hear me?”
“Get some men,” Meek said to Andy. “Eight or ten at least. It’s a bad ni
ght to chase runaways, but we’re going to catch that one. Then I’m going to sell him off.”
The pursuit ended three hours later, when the mist had become fog. By the light of a fatwood torch he was carrying, Andy reported the failure to Jane. “I ’spect he’s gone for good. Toward Beaufort, most likely.”
“Good riddance,” she said. The dank night and the memory of Cuffey’s wild face made her uneasy. She knew what kind of life Cuffey had led. His hatreds—Mont Royal, its owners, the more docile slaves—were understandable. Yet she nurtured the same hostilities and so did Andy, and neither had been ruined by them.
“Maybe I ought to keep watch here on the porch till morning,” he suggested.
“He won’t come back.”
“You heard what he yelled after he jumped out the window.”
“Cuffey’s been a braggart ever since I’ve known him. We’ll never see him again.”
“Surely hope you’re right. Well—good night, then.”
“Good night, Andy.” She touched his face below the strip of linen tied around his head to protect the clotted cut. “You’re a brave man. I meant what I said about being proud to marry you.”
His eyes shone in the flaring light. “Thank you.”
He walked down the creaking steps into the fog. As soon as her door closed he extinguished his torch, faced about, and quietly lowered himself to the edge of the porch, where he intended to stay until daylight.
Although Jane was awake for some time, she didn’t know he was out there. She heard instead the noises of the spring night beyond the window from which Cuffey had torn the curtain. She heard the doglike barks of the frogs, the three-note chant of the chuck-will’s-widow, the drone of insects. And, in imagination, she heard a voice promising vengeance. She lay with her hand clenched against her cheek, wishing she didn’t hear the voice but unable to silence it.
76
IN THE EARLY MORNING of April 28, Billy wrote by the light of a candle pushed into the mounting ring of a borrowed bayonet.
Lije F. and yr. obdt. are detached with a volunteer co. for duty with Gen. Slocum’s three corps. We march upstream tomorrow. Some suspect a great sweep around Lee and a strike at his rear. The regulars and vols are cooking rations for 8 days. Pack mules numbering 2,000 will replace most of the supply wagons, further evidence of a desire for speed and surprise.