by Andy Kutler
But he didn’t.
Perhaps because this outcome had been known to him since the day the war began. Or maybe he had nothing left, his emotions siphoned away by four years of unimaginable inhumanity and the slaying of so many soldiers and civilians. And of course, that which gnawed at him the most; that he had willingly come back to witness every minute of it.
He sat on a camp chair outside his tent, smoking a pungent cigar that had been liberated from a North Carolina prisoner. It was close to midnight and the celebratory mood in the camp lingered, though for once their reverie was not completely fueled by liquor. General Grant, it was said, had forbidden the consumption of alcohol to mark the event. Maybe he didn’t think there was much to celebrate. Maybe he was leery of the sounds of a drunken army carrying in the wind, rubbing their victory unnecessarily in the noses of the defeated Rebels. The Rebels who were once again their countrymen.
Enforcement of that order must have been somewhat lax as pockets of soldiers and officers alike staggered and stumbled about the camp, arm in arm, rank and position forgotten for this one night.
Kelsey remained apart from it all, puffing on the cigar while blowing acrid smoke into the stale air around him.
He thought of Leavitt again. Long ago, Kelsey had labored to push any thoughts of the man from his mind. He had come to realize the senselessness of clinging to such hope, forcing himself to accept the finality of his decision to return here.
With the war over, and given all that he had been through, the thoughts were returning, and with greater urgency now. Would he stay on this path? Where would he go now?
And one name had never escaped his conscience. Hiram Travers. Had he missed his only opportunity? Is that why he was still here and nothing had changed?
Or maybe this was it. Maybe Leavitt was finished with him and this was his life now and forever. Perhaps what he did tomorrow, with the end of the war, was truly up to him. Would he stay in the Army?
Where else am I going to go?
He hadn’t heard the men approach. There were two riders, a sergeant and a corporal, emerging from the darkness as they trotted toward his tent. They climbed down from their horses, eyeing Kelsey warily, most likely curious if he was sober or not. They were hard-looking men and grim-faced, neither looking as if they had consumed an ounce of liquor.
“You Kelsey?”
“Yep.”
“Sergeant Major, Sixth U.S. Cavalry?”
“What can I help you with, Sergeant?”
Kelsey’s tone was curt, unnecessarily so. As if this man’s presence was delaying Leavitt’s arrival. The sergeant seemed not to notice, had probably dealt with a thousand assholes in this war.
“My name is Ohlds. First Sergeant, Troop A, Fourth U.S. Cavalry. This here is Corporal Gunston. He had picket duty this afternoon along the Black Snake Creek. They found one of your men down in the water. Dead.”
Kelsey stood, tossing the cigar away. “Who?”
Gunston shrugged. “Don’t know, Sergeant. But he’s wearing insignia from the Sixth. Young fella.”
“Shot?”
“Stabbed. A lot. Water was full of blood.”
“Show me.”
***
Kelsey and Royston stood along the shoulder of the creek, staring down at the lifeless body. One of Corporal Gunston’s squad mates had pulled the corpse from the water and it was resting on its side along the embankment. It was swollen now from the time in the water and the lantern Gunston held showed a ghoulish face drained of all color and twisted in confusion.
“What was he doing down here?” asked Royston quietly, his fists clenched tightly.
“Who knows?” Kelsey replied, taking the lantern and turning the flame up. The glow brightened, glinting off the dented brass bugle that still hung from Kirch’s shoulder. “Taking a piss. Looking at the stars. He liked to wander about, you know that.”
“He’d know not to walk outside a picket line in the middle of the night.”
“Not necessarily. We’re miles away from the Confederate lines.”
Kelsey saw Royston sway a bit. After Ohlds and Gunston had led him to Kirch’s body, Kelsey had ridden out to retrieve the colonel, invited by the corps commander to dinner at a local home. It had taken Kelsey nearly two hours to find the residence, losing his way twice in the moonless night.
Royston had been drinking brandy, not in small quantities, and Kelsey had to help the man onto his horse. Royston had struggled to maintain his balance in the saddle but willingly sipped from the canteen full of coffee that Kelsey had thought to bring with him.
The effects had still not worn off, but at least he was in better shape than when Kelsey had found him. His voice, thankfully, carried no sign that Royston was still soused.
“I want a burial detail at first light.”
“A suggestion, Sir?”
“What is it?”
“Why don’t we have the quartermaster find us a coffin and then have the body transported to his mother in New York? From what you told me about those letters, I think she’d prefer to attend to her son herself. Will division let us do that?”
Royston rubbed the back of his neck. “I think so. For special circumstances. I can call in a favor or two. Damned good idea.”
He kneeled down, still wobbly, and placed his fingertips on a nearby rock to steady himself. His knee sank into the cool water along the bank, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He plucked the lantern from Kelsey and swept it across Kirch’s body. The wounds were in the chest and back. Royston had seen far worse in this war yet he still found himself wincing as he examined the blood-stained torso closely.
“Who would kill this boy? Everyone liked him.”
Royston stood again, turning to Kelsey. “You busted an arm when your horse got spooked and threw you. You’ve taken musket balls in your leg and shoulder. I’ve been shot once and nicked about ten times. This boy was in the thick of every engagement since sixty-one, and never suffered so much as a scratch. And then this happens.”
Royston took a deep breath and then leaned over, ripping the boy’s shirt open. “These stab wounds. Do those look like they came from a knife or a bayonet?”
“Neither, Sir.”
Kelsey and Royston both turned to Corporal Gunston.
“How do you know that?” demanded Royston.
Gunston hesitated. Ethan’s terse words unnerved him, and the young man suddenly looked a bit fearful.
Royston remained gruff. “I asked you a question, Corporal.”
“Well, Sir, I found this dagger.” He handed it to Royston who held it up to the lantern. It had a small, three-inch blade with a serrated edge. And it was still covered with blood.
“Where did you find this?”
“On those rocks next to him. I actually stepped on it in the dark. Couldn’t see a blasted thing out here. I swear I wasn’t stealing it, Colonel. Honest.”
“Sergeant, you and your man give us a minute.”
Ohlds and Gunston stepped away, leaving Royston and Kelsey standing over Kirch. There was a soft glow on the horizon as the new day approached.
Royston handed the dagger to Kelsey. “Did I ever tell you how the boy came to our regiment? He was selling sandwiches on the train that Cal and I, and Emily, took to Fort Worth. He wanted to be a soldier, asked if he could follow us west and enlist. The boy had to have been fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. Cal told him to come find us when he turned sixteen. About a year later, Kirch shows up at Camp Chance asking for me. He had quit his job on the railroad. The squadron blacksmith agreed to take him on. I think that was Emily’s doing. Then the next month we lost our bugler to fever, so I gave Kirch a horn and told him when he learned how to play he could join my company on a trial.”
“So he learned to play?”
“Not really. He was awful at first. Couldn’t remember his notes, and when he got them out, it sounded like he had a mouthful of sawdust. We let him stay, never filing his enlistment papers, thinking he�
�d quit inside of a month. But he stuck with it, learned how to play that bugle. And somehow, during this godforsaken war, he turned into a damned fine soldier.”
Royston sighed. “Five years he was with me, never let me down. Not once. You ever seen him run from a fight? Ever seen him cry? Ever seen him anywhere except exactly where he was supposed to be, right next to me?”
Kelsey slowly shook his head.
“A damned fine soldier,” Royston repeated. He shook his head, gritting his teeth in anger. Suddenly Royston wound his arm back and threw the lantern down, Kirch’s body disappearing into the night as the lamp crashed against the rocks.
He looked at Kelsey with an intense determination. “I need a break from this.” He turned and walked toward the camp.
“A break? Where are you going?”
Royston didn’t slow down, whispering the words to himself. “I need to see about a promise I once made.”
CHAPTER 28
One Week Later
Camp Thaylor
Outside Stafford, Virginia
“Where were you when you heard the news, Colonel?”
“The news?”
“Why, yes. Appomattox, of course.”
Ethan gave the newspaperman a glance before taking another long drink from his beer.
“My apologies Tate, I thought you may have been asking about President Lincoln.” He didn’t even try to mask his sarcasm.
“No apologies necessary, sir,” the other man said, quite oblivious. “And you were where?
Ethan tried not to look at the man, his eyes instead taking inventory of what passed here as a canteen. The structure had been a small grain warehouse before it was seized by the Union Army. It was later auctioned to an entrepreneur with a vision to marry his beer and spirits with the thousands of idle soldiers biding their time at the cavalry depot in northern Virginia.
The storage bins and shelves had been removed, replaced by rows of tables covered in mugs of beer, playing cards and greenbacks. A bar had been fashioned using a long board balanced precariously on stacked barrels of beer. The comforts were crude but there was no shortage of alcohol, and the smoke-filled space was crammed with mid-level officers, happy to part with their back pay for warm ale in a dirty glass.
Ethan’s finger scratched the edge of the table, his mood substantially darker than those around him. The Army of the Potomac remained jovial following the surrender of most of the remaining Southern soldiers, but an air of uncertainty still hovered over the camp. It wasn’t just the shocking assassination of the president. Many, particularly those in the officer corps, were anxious to learn the fate of the Army, mostly comprised of conscripts and volunteers now. The politicians were talking about “reconstructing” the South and it was obvious that the Army would need to maintain some interim presence in those states. Yet Washington would soon begin the arduous process of mustering men out by the thousands, consolidating the Army back to its pre-war strength.
The newspaperman cleared his throat, a prompt. Ethan once again silently cursed his brigade commander for ordering him to participate in this interview.
Ethan’s expectations for Bennett Tate had been low, and the man across the table managed to meet every one of them. He was heavyset, perhaps fifty years of age, with a refined air and tweed suit that had probably been fashioned by a London tailor. As soon as they had seated themselves, Tate had produced an expensive handkerchief to wipe the mud from his shoes. He had not yet made the connection that this was a cavalry camp and therefore, more than just mud now soiling the fine silk.
“I was here.”
“In Camp Thayler?”
“Yes, we’ve been here since Petersburg fell.”
“I heard you were in quite the fight there. They say you yourself killed another colonel.”
Ethan didn’t respond. He took another drink from his mug and looked at Tate blankly.
But Tate wasn’t the type to let a question go unanswered. “Come now, Colonel. I could easily find this out on my own.”
Ethan frowned. “He was an infantry commander, Tate. He ordered a bayonet charge after his men ran out of ammunition.”
“Oh, my. An infantry charge, borne of desperation? That tale will surely enthrall my readers.” He pulled a notebook and pencil from his satchel and gave the pencil tip a quick lick. “But first things first. Tell me, where did you first see action? Have you been in many scrapes?”
He could still see the face of the Confederate colonel that damp, foggy morning outside Petersburg. He was a bear of a man who took Ethan’s saber swipe to the shoulder and still managed to pull him off his horse. Ethan was skilled with pistol and sword, far less so with his bare fists. The colonel absorbed Ethan’s blows painlessly, as if his fists were wrapped in pillows. He then pulled a boot knife, forcing Ethan to draw his Colt and put a bullet in the man’s head. The Confederate’s brain matter had sprayed across Ethan’s face.
“More than I wish,” Ethan finally replied, looking away.
“Yes, General Powell said you have been engaged against the enemy more than any other cavalry brigade in the Union Army.”
“If the general says so,” Ethan said dryly.
Tate rapped his knuckles on the table. “Do tell, Colonel. Thunderous cavalry charges led by the piercing notes of the brass trumpet! Johnny Reb running for his life! Sabers crashing down like the noble instruments of God! But please, your own words, sir.”
He again licked the tip of his pencil and leaned toward Ethan in anticipation.
Ethan sat back in his chair. “Where did you serve, Tate?”
Tate blinked. “Me? At my age?”
“Sure. I’ve got men older than you in my regiment. Did you see those Rebs at the end? You would have been a young buck among some of them.”
“Oh, heavens no.” He held up his pencil and grinned. “The only weapon I carry is this.”
Ethan didn’t return the smile and Tate became serious. “I performed a different service, Colonel. I made sure that thousands of my readers in the North understood the exploits of brave lads like yourself and the extraordinary achievements our army managed to—”
“As I expected,” Ethan interrupted. “Lest anyone forgets to say so, Tate, thank you for your service.”
Tate lowered his pencil and his notepad. “My dear Colonel, your words, as well as your scorn for my profession, are not lost on me. And no matter what you may be attempting to draw me into, it will not lessen my respect and admiration for your contributions and sacrifice, and those with whom you served. But whatever you may think of me, understand that my words will reach legions of readers, from my home in Indiana to your home in Wisconsin. A young man like you, with such a fine war record, could easily find himself in elected office. Ah, yes, you sneer at that. Well, politicians are mostly a lousy sort. No argument there. But not your father. I have heard much of him. And most expect half the generals in this army—Hancock, Grant, maybe even old George Meade—to run for president. Why not you in public office? Your story is a compelling one, and I can help you share that story with the voters. Think of what you could accomplish in office compared to being just another Army officer.”
Tate swept his hand across the boisterous room. “Don’t you want more than this?”
From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw Sergeant Kelsey pass through the door to the warehouse. Their eyes met and Kelsey approached the table, not even bothering to acknowledge the newspaperman.
“General Powell has sent for you.”
“Powell?” Ethan looked at Kelsey, waiting for him to continue.
Kelsey merely gave a shrug in return, having no idea what the general wanted.
Ethan nodded, understanding.
Tate was amused as he observed the silent back and forth. “Are the two of you married, by chance?”
Ethan finished his beer, ignoring the jest. “Let’s go, I may have an inkling of what the general would like to chat about.”
“Colonel,” Tate said, standing as wel
l. “If I could have just a few more min—”
“It was Powell who ordered me to sit down with you. Now he’s ordering me to report to him. And out here, generals outrank newspaper hacks.” He stood and started to walk out.
“My readers—”
Ethan didn’t look back as he followed Kelsey from the room. “Your readers can go fuck themselves.”
Kelsey hid a smile.
***
“He’s a politician.”
“Was. Now he’s the brigade commander.”
Kelsey shook his head. “He’s not going to say yes. Nothing in it for him.”
“He didn’t call me up here to tell me no,” replied Ethan. “He could have sent an aide, or even a note. He probably wants to make sure I haven’t lost my mind.”
The two men stood atop the ridge where the division and brigade leaders had placed their command tents. It was a clear spring day and the view was breathtaking, framed by the hills in the distance. A sea of white tents dotted the landscape below, stretching for nearly a mile.
“So, what am I doing here?” asked Kelsey.
“You are my good luck charm, Sergeant.”
A smartly-dressed aide emerged from the tent. “You can go in now, Colonel.”
Ethan and Kelsey pushed aside the canvas flap, entering the tent and coming to attention. Without looking up, the officer seated behind the desk muttered a few words for them to stand at ease. He had a single gold star on his epaulets and was busy scribbling his signature across a series of orders.
Adlai Powell had been an unknown to virtually every man in the brigade when he took command the previous month. They heard he was a former congressman from Indianapolis who resigned his seat to join the army. Whether it was fidelity to his country or his political aspirations that brought him into the Union Army was anyone’s guess. One of the more popular whispers was that Powell’s first command experience in the field had been a disaster, forcing his superior to relieve him of his duties.