by Robert Inman
Just as it had taken Jake Tibbetts by the short hairs. Try as he might, he could not stop it from intruding on him. Every so often, some ass — through ignorance or perversity — would ask him, “How’s Henry these days?”
And Jake would reply, “He’s in the Army,” and do it in such a way as to wither the inquiry. It did not keep asses from asking, but it usually kept the same ass from asking twice.
Now the war had intruded on him again, a beast that leaped from behind, a thief that violated his inner sanctum. It sent Billy Benefield in his Curtiss Stearman, and that had led to the compromising of his newspaper. And now, out of the night, it sent a pregnant woman, a refugee, who was just now giving birth in an upstairs bedroom of his home to his grandchild, a war baby.
Henry had played another dirty trick on him, and it was the war that enabled him to do it. Jake had long ago dealt with Henry, or thought he had. But now he was back like some wandering ghost, smelling of decay and the stench of war. Ghost-Henry and his Texas bride and the God-damned war had taken over Jake Tibbetts’s house and blown away his sense of self-destiny like a fart in the wind. It had driven him out of the house in the dead of night after Henry’s wife had been put to bed upstairs and the doctor had clumped in from the cold, sleep-bleared and sardonic, a man who had run out of surprises. It had driven Jake down the wind-whipped road with the cold slicing at the edge of his mind, peeling away layer after layer until it got to the raw, bleeding core of things. It had driven him, crazed from the shock and cold, to the old Underwood typewriter in his newspaper office because he told himself it was time for another editorial, after all these years. But in that, too, he failed.
As morning broke, Jake admitted his failure and muttered, “To hell with it.” Why try to tell people something about the war they already knew? Why try to deal with the ghost of Henry Tibbetts, who — exempt from service at thirty-one years of age and with a child at home — had gotten drunk and joined the National Guard a heartbeat before Pearl Harbor? And what good to publicly anguish over the sullying of the paper’s name? It was a private grief. At the bottom of it, he was what he was — a man who pissed into the wind, who still believed that a man had to take his life into his own hands, insofar as he was able. Once he began to make excuses, his nuts were in somebody else’s pocket.
That decided, Jake replaced the tattered cover of the Underwood, apologizing to an old friend for having kept him up all night listening to the babbling doubts of an old man.
Two
THEY HAD RIDDEN all night and they were flushed with victory, a bit maddened by the blood-spilling. Captain Finley was at the point with a small group of riders. They came hard into the walnut grove beside the creek bank, pistols drawn, bodies low-slung in the saddle, guided by the black smoke from the pine knots Young Scout had heaped on the fire. They were followed closely by the adjutant, Muldoon, and the main body of the Lighthorse Cavaliers. The ground trembled with their coming, a phantom troop in the gray half-light of daybreak. Young Scout rose from the fireside to greet them, his joints stiff from cold and waiting.
The troop boiled in around him, the horses splashing out into the stream, roiling the water, bending to drink with a great gasping noise. The creek was no more than waist-deep here where it widened at a bend. There was a narrow sloping sandbar on the near side and thick brush on the other down to the stream’s edge. Several horsemen galloped into the thicket on the other side, thrashing around in the brush to satisfy themselves it was clear. Breath came in sharp white puffs from the horses’ nostrils and steam rose from their heaving flanks.
They were lean, somber men — born to saddle, honed like saber blades, able to fight at full gallop, teeth bared to the wind. They wasted no motion. As their horses finished drinking, the riders urged them back up the bank of the stream into the walnut grove, dismounted, began uncinching saddles, tethered the horses in a picket line. Young Scout stood, barely breathing himself, watching them, watching their fevered eyes shot through with bottomless fatigue and the imprint of what they had seen and done at Hanover Courthouse. They made camp quickly. It was the mark of a good cavalryman that he could be off his horse and into his bedroll within minutes, dropping instantly into a death-sleep that knew no nightmares. Oh, to be like them, Young Scout thought. To ride and do battle and then sleep a just sleep.
Captain Finley moved among them, his black horse stepping gingerly as he made a full circle of the camp, speaking quietly to the troopers. When he had finished and satisfied himself about them, he allowed his own horse to drink at the stream’s edge. Young Scout followed him on foot to the sandbar and stood there watching him. Captain Finley sat slump-shouldered in the saddle, head bowed, unseeing, deep inside himself. Then he raised up, turned abruptly to Young Scout. “It was an abattoir,” he said. “No place for a boy. No place for a gentleman.” Then he dug his heels into the black horse and urged him back up into the woods, where he dismounted and handed the reins to a trooper. He knelt beside Young Scout’s fire, extending his hands to its meager warmth.
Young Scout followed, hunkered next to the fire across from Captain Finley, watching, seeing the great weariness in his face, the rust-colored stains splattering the front of his tunic. There would be stains, too, on the great curving blade of the saber that hung from Captain Finley’s belt. An abattoir, he had said.
Young Scout had waited through the dead of night, as Captain Finley had told him to, and the message had come, as he had known it would. The Lighthorse Cavaliers had indeed caught the Federals in their bedrolls at Hanover Courthouse and had made bloody work of the garrison. But when they turned to withdraw, they found that a force of bluecoat infantry had moved with uncharacteristic swiftness to block their escape. There was a brief chaotic firefight in the darkness and then Captain Finley wheeled and headed to the east, deeper into enemy territory. By the minute, the situation grew more grave. It was a matter of time until the Union cavalry would be barking at their heels. So Captain Finley had summoned him from his bed to find them a temporary hiding place. Young Scout had gone eagerly into the cold dark because his captain had called.
“You’ve done well by us, boy,” Captain Finley said.
Young Scout flushed with pleasure. Maybe now … now that he had proven himself … they would let him fight …
“But we have got ourselves into a fine stew,” Captain Finley went on. He drew a map from inside his tunic and motioned Young Scout to come around to him. He spread the map on the ground with a rock on each corner to keep the wind from plucking at it. Then he reached into the breast pocket of the tunic, pulled out a stump of a cigar, jammed it into the corner of his mouth.
“See here,” he said, his stubby finger poking at the map. “We have managed to get the main body of McClellan’s army between us and our own lines. And General Lee needs us. He’s hatching a mighty attack. Within hours he will send Jackson’s corps against McClellan’s right flank and attempt to drive him south and east away from Richmond. Longstreet, who is on Jackson’s right, is to hold fast and allow Jackson to pivot the enemy around Longstreet’s front. But if Jackson is successful, that will keep the Federals between him and us.”
Young Scout could see the brilliance of it. A bold attack by Jackson, the stumpy-legged bulldog of a general who moved entire regiments as if they were platoons, a master of feint and jab. Jackson might turn McClellan’s entire army to the east toward the sea, rescue Richmond from imminent danger, possibly even entrap McClellan against the James River and chew him to pieces.
Young Scout nodded. “Then we’re out of it.”
“The hell,” Captain Finley said. “The hell we are.”
“But …”
“What would you have me do, boy? Hunker here while the war goes on without me? Waste these hundred good men?”
Young Scout flushed. “No, but …”
“A man proves what he’s worth when the cards are stacked against him.” He fixed Young Scout with his red, weary eyes. “He doesn’t cut and run like a f
aint-hearted ninny, he hitches up his britches and gets on with the business. You understand that?”
“Yes sir,” Young Scout said, chastened.
Captain Finley studied the map for a long time, chewing on his cigar, rolling it from one side of his mouth to the other.
Finally, he said, “We’ll go east.”
Young Scout stared at the map. “But that’s away from our lines.”
“Exactly. The Federals will think they have us at bay. They’ll occupy themselves with trying to capture the fox at the back door while the bull smashes through the front. If we keep them busy awhile, Jackson will have a fine day of it.” He punched the map, showing how he would do it. “We’ll ride clean around McClellan’s rear, nipping at his haunches as we go. We’ll drive him to distraction. He’ll think he has at least a division on the loose at his backside.”
“What about Jackson?” Young Scout asked. “How will he know what we’re up to?”
“You’ll tell him,” Captain Finley said, and Young Scout’s entire body tingled.
“Me?” Young Scout whispered.
“If I sent a grown man and the Federals caught him, they’d have him dancing at the end of a rope. But they won’t suspect a poor farm boy, and even if they did, they probably won’t hang him for it.” Captain Finley winked. Young Scout felt his stomach lurch.
“You risk everything,” Young Scout said.
“No,” Captain Finley said. “These hundred good and lusty men” — he jerked his head, indicating the Cavaliers huddled in exhaustion in their bedrolls in the walnut grove — “risk everything when they rise from their blankets and put on their boots and ride off with me to do battle.” His voice was a deep rumble, like slow rolling thunder. “They risk life, and more than that, honor. I can’t guarantee their lives, Young Scout, and I can’t be the keeper of their mortal souls. All I can do is protect their honor. And I do that by being bold.” He paused for a moment, studying Young Scout. “Remember this, boy, if ever the Lord gives you the terrible burden of leading good men: Take matters in your own hands and shake them for all they’re worth.” He leaned close and Young Scout could smell his powerful gamy man-odor. “Be careful, but don’t be timid. Consider McClellan, who creeps and parries like an aging lover, and whose losses are appalling. Don’t stand about smelling your own farts. Be bold! And whatever the consequence, take complete responsibility for it. Making war is the devil’s own business. You’ll not save your own soul by shrinking from it.”
Captain Finley sat back and sighed deeply. He took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it into the dying fire, then rose abruptly and walked to the sandbar at the edge of the stream. Young Scout sat gape-mouthed. “Come here,” the captain said after a moment, his back still to the boy. “Let’s talk about your mission.”
They walked out on the narrow sandbar at the edge of the stream.
“You’ll have to keep your wits about you,” Captain Finley said. He fished another cigar stub from the pocket of his tunic and stuck it between his teeth. “If the Federals stop you, tell them your mother has sent you to cut firewood for your aunt in Mechanicsville. Can you remember that?”
“Yes sir,” Young Scout said.
“Ride directly through the Union lines as if you know exactly what your business is,” Captain Finley went on. “Go straight to General Jackson at Savage Station and tell him what we’re up to.”
Young Scout nodded.
“Now. You need a sign.” He slipped the plain gold wedding band from his finger and pressed it into Young Scout’s palm. “Jackson knows it. Guard it well, and I’ll retrieve it from you in Richmond on the weekend.”
Young Scout felt the thrill of fear race through his chest. It was a dangerous business, almost foolhardy. No matter what Captain Finley said, the Federals could hang him as a spy because he was on a military mission dressed in civilian clothes. But Jackson’s success might well hinge on it. If he knew the Lighthorse Cavaliers were raising Cain at McClellan’s rear, he would strike even more boldly, throwing his reserves into the attack. And if Jackson succeeded this day, it could save Richmond from grave peril. The Confederacy could fight on.
“I’ll get through,” Young Scout said, looking up into the weary face.
But then he felt a rush of despair, struck suddenly by the realization that Captain Finley and his hundred good and lusty men would ride out to do battle while he again became a message boy. It was unfair! Captain Finley was sending him back there, back where there was nothing but confusion …
“You damned well better get through,” Captain Finley said, “or I’ll be ridiculed as a fool or worse for having tried it. Better to be thought a fool than a pissant, though.” He threw back his head and laughed, his fine teeth bared to the wind, framed by the bold black slash of his moustache.
Young Scout felt the first bullet cut the air between their faces even before he heard the report of the rifle from across the stream — a nasty click of a noise like the jaws of a small vicious beast snapping shut. Then there was another shot that tore a piece from the brim of Captain Finley’s campaign hat, and suddenly Captain Finley was grabbing him by the waist, scrambling madly back up the sandbar to the thin cover of the walnut trees, where all hell was breaking loose, men coming out of their bedrolls, eyes wild with sleep blasted by sudden shock and fear, grabbing rifles, firing toward the creek. Across the way, the bushes down close to the water’s edge erupted with rapid fire, and Young Scout knew instantly what was there — Federal cavalry armed with the new Sharps repeating rifles, a handful of men creating the chaos of a hundred. A small patrol that had stumbled onto Captain Finley’s sleeping troop.
The captain jammed Young Scout down into the ground behind a thick walnut tree and knelt, whipping out his pistol from the holster at his belt. He fired, taking careful aim at the brush line across the creek. A bluecoat tumbled from the bushes and splashed into the stream, sprawled half-in and half-out of the water, his boots still in the brush. The pistol bucked and roared again like a cannon erupting just over Young Scout’s head. He heard screams behind him in the walnut grove as men took bullets and fell, the frightened bellowing of horses, a wall of exploding rifle and pistol fire, lead smacking into tree trunks and cutting through the bare limbs of the trees, sending a shower of branches and bits of bark tumbling down through the storm of fire.
Young Scout flipped over on his back and looked up into the crazed face of his captain, contorted with rage at the craven stealth of the ambush, at his own slackness in having let them creep so close. Captain Finley detested ambush as a cowardly form of warfare. He showed no mercy in battle, but he was no bushwhacker.
Suddenly he leaped to his feet and unsheathed the gleaming silver sword with a long, flowing motion of his arm. “Charge the skulking bastards!” he bellowed. “Charge! Take no prisoners!” He was down the narrow sandbar and into the water in the flick of an eyelash, wading furiously into the stream with great raging steps, booming away with the pistol in one hand and waving the sword with the other, screaming his fury as a hail of bullets churned the water and sand. The Lighthorse Cavaliers erupted from the walnut grove with a roar, following him. Then Captain Finley went down and Young Scout’s heart lurched and he, too, was on his feet, yelling, storming down the sandbar. “Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch!” he screamed, not knowing whether he meant the bluecoated sons of bitches across the creek or the maddened bantam-legged sonofabitch who was rising again now in the water in front of him, waving the sword and blasting away with the pistol.
Young Scout splashed into the water and felt his feet go out from under him as he stepped into a hole. He went under, flailing with his arms, and the shock of the icy water took his breath. Through the rush of water in his ears and the wild pounding of his heart, he could hear the roar of the firefight going on overhead — the splat of bullets hitting water, screams of agony and anger, the steady rattle of guns. The water was numbingly cold. Cleansing. He could feel it sucking the life from him and he felt a sudden great jo
y. Oh, to die nobly for God and the Lighthorse Cavaliers!
Then he felt strong arms around his waist, pulling him to the surface.
Shit, he thought. Saved again.
Three
JAKE HAD NOT INTENDED to go home, not just yet. In fact, he had intended to prop up his feet on his rolltop desk, rear back in the swivel chair, put his chin on his chest, and take a nap.
But as soon as he got his feet propped and the chair reared back, the telephone rang.
He despised the instrument. He preferred to look a man in the eye when he dealt with him. He detested people who hid behind the telephone’s anonymity. People who called to complain without identifying themselves were cowards. “Meet me in the street!” Jake would roar at the caller — man or woman — as he slammed down the receiver.
He had once written a column about the telephone:
The main folly of the instrument is that it foreshortens time in a way the Creator never intended. It gives a man no time to think.
Consider the poor man who receives a telephone call informing him that his mother-in-law has died suddenly and tragically, and rushes to the rooftop of his house and flings himself off in a fit of grief. Had he more time to consider the matter, he might decide he was better off without her, or might — Happy Day! — learn that the dear woman had left him a sizeable share of her estate.
But the telephone was a necessary business evil. This morning, it had destroyed his plans for a nap. He picked up the receiver.
“Jake, come home,” Pastine said on the other end.
“Presently,” Jake answered.
“Now,” she said. “Lonnie’s fallen in the creek.”
“What!”
“Biscuit Brunson just brought him home, sopping wet. He won’t tell me anything. You’ll have to come home and deal with him. I’ve got my hands full.”