And then I saw the other fellow. Young, almost frail, and made for a different world. He seemed as out of place as snowy virtue. A son of proper gentry he looked, of high folk bred to a taste. Clean-faced as a boy he was, but light brown hair flowed after him, long enough to whisk the collar of the whitest shirt south of Ohio. His sleeves billowed. And if his shirt was white, his horse was black. As black as coal before it leaves the mine.
The lad was fine as silver. With a polish to him. I could not see his features well, but knew he was not handsome. Not in the way that strikes the eye at once. No, he would have a look that unfolded with acquaintance, the look of character.
I knew all this, for I had seen such like in days gone by. Their families sent them out to India when the household could not afford a commission in a good regiment at home. Some became dissipated with phenomenal speed. But others rode alone into the frontier, learning things that threaten white men’s souls, or kept their troops in line when others faltered and saved the day that rightly had been lost. They were the pinch of pepper sprinkled over the bully beef of our regiments, thrice as vivid as the common run of officers. Few survived long.
Lord knows, I do not favor aristocracies. I think America blessed for the lack. Like Mick Tyrone, I believe each man should be judged on his own virtues and accomplishments, not by an inherited purse or pedigree. Yet, I have admired a few highborn fellows. Grudgingly. One in a thousand, no more. For the typical young heir is not worth the breakfast he consumes. But look you. There is no rule that measures all of mankind. I have known honorable heathens and even decent Irishmen.
“Why, that’s Drake Raines!” Wylie said. The recognition heightened his excitement. “No question who’s going to win this here race. No, sir. Old Drake’s the man to beat, from here to Natchez. Leastwise since Billy Barclay lost his legs at Donelson.”
The horsemen drew up in front of a rogue with his arms spread wide. Pawing and ready their stallions were, and holy terrors the two of them. The crowd pressed against the fence, disregarding modesty and the heat. Men stood on tiptoe, each calling encouragement to his favorite.
I saw the lips move on the human gate. Both riders nodded down at him. The noise dropped to a hush and the black horse snorted.
The fellow dropped his arms.
The bearded man rode wildly, as if the hounds of Hell were on his tail. Whipping his horse most cruelly from the start. But the slight young man kept up the pace, smooth and even as waves in a sheltered bay. He rode just like those officers in India who kept a different mount for every sport. Nor did he touch his horse with spur or leather. He might have been out for a meadowy jaunt.
The cracker fellow’s horse showed taller and broader. Seething rage, he gave it cruel encouragement. But the lad on the black was never an arm’s length behind. You got no sense of gritted teeth from that one. Twas fury dueling with fineness in the sun.
Their sound faded to no more than a hint and their figures became small. Half a mile out, they rounded a lone tree. A blur of white and black floated beside a reddish smear, and a confusion of legs throbbed against a screen of dust. Quieted now, the crowd peered down the field, listening intently amid the swoop of flies and the heavy settling of the day.
The riders grew larger again. Hoofbeats drummed like regiments advancing. Of a sudden, the onlookers exploded. As if a spark had got into their powder. Jumping they were. Shouting and shrieking, complaining and cursing. Their lives might have been staked upon the outcome. Or their souls.
Beside me, Wylie rose up in his stirrups.
At first, my escort did not join the shouting, but only called to me, “You watch now, Yank. Now you’ll see some real riding.” Then, in a wink, he caught the fever himself and bellowed, “Come on, Drake. You show him how, boy. Feed him some dust, hear?”
I sensed the bearded man on the brown horse burning. If longing were speed, he was bound to win twice over.
Beside him, the lad with the billowing sleeves stayed easy. As if the outcome were a matter of indifference. Only as the goal neared did he alter his posture. With a smoothness fit for a fancy ball. His rump rose slightly and his shoulders lowered.
I will admit I felt a degree of excitement myself. The devil does not lure us with dullness.
Twas all decided in the last sliver of the course, hardly the range of a pistol shot. The young fellow gave his horse its first whipping with the reins and the black beast surged ahead. Horse and man flashed by us, with the cracker fellow vanquished clear as Johnny Seekh.
The pounding eased to a pattering up the field, and the young man reined his horse about, letting it pace toward the waiting crowd. The animal shone as if polished with oil and its huge eyes glittered. Foam dripped from its mouth. The horse seemed more excited than its master, who only set a mild look upon his face, mouth shaped into a pleasantness not quite a smile. The fellow’s sleeves were slack now, sweated through, and his wet shirt clung to his chest. Had ladies been present, the display would have been unpardonable.
The bearded challenger had broken his gallop just past the finish, but he trotted far into the field before turning back toward the onlookers. As if covering a greater distance eased the fault of his loss.
“I won, all righty,” a soldier near us declared, “but it weren’t worth much. Can’t never get no odds against that Raines.”
Through all of this, no one but Wylie had taken the least notice of me. And the captain’s attentions had been intermittent at best. Compared to a horse race, Yankees were a trivial matter. Indeed, it had been my impression that we were to hasten directly to General Beauregard’s headquarters, but my escort had turned from the task without the least hesitation.
“Captain Wylie,” I said to him, swiping at the flies that flocked to my horse, “should we not be going along now? Ten days have been lost already, see.”
The Southron glanced at me. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten who I was. Then he said:
“In a lick. I just want to say how-do to old Drake.” He rose in the stirrups again, waving and calling, “Drake! Drake Raines!”
The lad had dismounted and was soothing his horse while admirers walloped him merrily on the back. When he heard Wylie’s call, he turned, crisp as a Guardsman, and swept back his hair to better scan the crowd.
He smiled a grand smile.
Passing the reins to a well-wisher, the victor leapt the fence, expecting the crowd to clear a space for him. And it did. He smoothed through the pack, smiling generously now. And yet that smile seemed a sort of mask to me. It was not meant to keep the world at bay, but to hold some business in. Still, twas white and lovely, a smile to haunt the elder sister of the beauty on whom it was wasted.
Delayed a dozen times by congratulations, he finally reached the snouts of our mounts and stopped. Up close, you saw the muscles that had seemed a fragile thinness from afar.
“Buck Wylie, as I live and breathe.”
His voice was soft as velvet, startling after the flinty tones I had come to associate with the Rebels.
With a creak of leather, Wylie dropped from the saddle. The fellows shook hands then clapped each other on the shoulder. Between smiles, each stared into the other’s face. I know that look, see. It is born of war, appearing when old friends find each other alive and whole after a battle.
“Guess the Yankees couldn’t catch you no more than Wid Loftus there,” Wylie said.
“Nor you, Buck. Hear you’ve been catching plenty of them, though.” At that, he turned his brown eyes up to me, showing me the exquisite plainness of his face, the bones as fine as Bohemia glass. His eyes mocked my squalor and he seemed about to speak, but he restrained himself. Manners, see. They don’t reach to the eyes, but they temper the tongue.
“Taking this one to old Borey,” Wylie explained. “Got himself a pass to speculate over that big nigger-killing.”
At that, the fine young man forgot me entirely. “I heard about that. Over at headquarters. Somebody told me they were Billy’s runaway
s.”
Wylie nodded, and both men looked down. Darkened. My escort kicked a pebble, stirring the dust. “Damn this war. Been awful hard on Billy. Ain’t it, though?”
“It has, Buck.” The victor’s eyes drifted.
“Seen him?”
“No.”
“Got to see him,” Wylie said.
“I don’t know,” the fine lad said, “that Billy wants to be seen.”
“Know where he is?”
“Shady Grove. So I’m told.”
“Tain’t far. Maybe I’ll get on down there.” The flesh around Wylie’s eyes tightened, adding a decade to his age. “And them niggers just run off? With him right there?”
The young man, Raines, shrugged. With a vast sadness. “Billy’s chasing days are over, Buck. He probably wishes he could run off from himself.”
“One of us got to go visit,” Wylie said. I noted a hint of reproof. “You ought to go, Drake. You and him was like brothers. I was only good for hunting and liquoring and playing tomfool.” He drew himself up and lowered his voice. “You got to forgive him now. The way he is.”
The lad’s mouth hooked. “I forgave him long ago.” His voice assumed a false and jovial tone. “Come on now, Buck. You know an officer can’t just ride off at his pleasure. I’ll go see him. When I can. Maybe soon.”
The day had gone dark as winter where they stood, although the sun glared round us, and words froze in their mouths. A fellow with a heart-shaped face patted the victor’s back, ready to praise his riding. He sensed the chill and moved on with a mumble.
Wylie said, “Right warm for this early on. Might be a drought year coming.”
“Hottest April I recall,” the young man replied.
“Wasn’t he a hunting man, though? You ever seen the like?”
“Sure haven’t.” The fair young man willed a change in himself, in the conversation, in the world. “And how’s Mrs. Wylie? How’s your Ada?”
Wylie grinned. “Passable. Getting tired of feeding up the boys, though. You know how women are, Drake.”
“Well, Ada always seemed a fine one to me. Biscuits fine as spun gold.”
“Drake? You ever think on that last morning we was all together? How that hard frost made a cramping sound when you walked over it? With them dogs running and Billy hooting like a damn fool down in the live oaks? Had us some good shooting that day.” He shook his head and fussed at the earth with the toe of his boot. “Ain’t it funny how shooting sounds so different to a body now?” His raised his eyes and they formed a plea. “You recall that morning, Drake?”
“Sure, I do.” The fine lad, Raines, brushed back his hair again. He always did it with his left hand.
Wylie stared at the earth. “Aw, hell. Ain’t no good talking. Is it?”
“Depends. There’s pleasure in talking over certain things. Remembered pleasures. Old friendships. Other matters won’t bear too many words.”
“That’s so, I guess. You always were a fine talker, Drake. Just like your daddy. Always worth a listen.” Wylie laughed and there was a note of real glee in it, of an eagerness to flee a thousand miles from hopeless troubles. “I was feared you’d come back talking like a Yankee. With all that Yankee schooling between your ears. I wondered over that with your daddy once, when he come up for a shoot. Just before South Carolina went out, that was.” He smiled, almost laughing again. “He said there wouldn’t be nothing wrong with you a whupping wouldn’t fix and that you weren’t so big as he couldn’t do the whupping himself. How’s your daddy keeping, Drake?”
The young fellow smiled at the query. But I glimpsed a startling bitterness in his eyes. “Just fine. He’s up in Richmond. Helping old Jeff run the war.”
“He’s a fine Southron gentleman, your daddy.”
“He is that, Buck.”
“Well, you see him, you pay my respects. Tell him, after this here war, those dogs’ll be waiting for him. And for you, too, Drake.”
“Thank you, Buck. I know he’ll look forward to it.”
“Drake? You go see Billy Barclay. And you tell him Buck Wylie says hello. Tell him I’m fixing to come visit.”
“I’ll do that. Word of honor.”
I thought Raines would turn away at that. It would have been in the rhythm of things. But the young man paused. And raised a face as grave as a man bereaved.
“Buck? I don’t want to be . . .”
“The hell, Drake. What’s on your mind?”
“There’s something . . . I need to ask you.” His voice was quiet and duskier than any velvet now.
Wylie gave him a figuring look. Then said, “Drake, your daddy looked after us handsome when my pap died. A man don’t like to be beholden, but your daddy made it easy as he could. He’s a gentleman among gentlemen. Never played high and mighty. No more than you did. So you just name it. Anything you want, anything a body can do.”
“It isn’t like that,” Raines said. He glanced at me, face too somber for a young fellow who had just won himself a horse race. A hundred times too somber. And he looked away again. “It involves a matter . . . that a gentleman has no right to raise.”
“Aw, Drake. I never was no gentleman. Not like you and your folks. Nor Billy and his. And you’d be a gentleman no matter what you said or done.”
“I heard that you saw them. Billy’s runaways. That you and your boys slipped in and had a look before the Yankees put them in the ground.”
Despite all he had promised a moment before, wariness tensed my escort’s features. “I saw ’em. Wouldn’t mind if I hadn’t.”
“Was the girl there?” he asked in a voice as fragile as china. “You know the one.”
“There with them niggers, you mean?” Wylie spoke to delay, twas clear as light.
Raines nodded. “Was she there?”
My escort’s face turned fit for a burial. “She was. It weren’t easy to tell, for all the blood. The way they cut ’em up. But it was her, all right.”
The fine young man tugged at the front of his shirt, separating the drenched cloth from his flesh. When he spoke again his voice was flat. Only those who have known loss would have recognized the sorrow in his tone.
“This war’s been hard on Billy,” he confirmed.
DUST CHALKED MY LIPS as we rode down the street, although there was no wind and little motion. Corinth was built of boards nailed up haphazard, a place of careless angles and few bricks. The commercial buildings had the look of widowers who have stopped tending their persons. Only the signs hung in advertisement and a few rare shutters had ever seen paint. Dust veiled the windows and all things green were banished. Nor do I recall any citizens abroad, except a pair of fractious boys. But memory is imperfect, and only the great things and the queer ones stay with us.
When I remember Corinth, it is always the dust that comes to mind. Fine as talcum powder, hazing the afternoon light. It was a summer dust, though this was early spring.
The dust is what I recall, and then the wounded.
They leaned on whittled crutches in the doorways, befuddled by missing limbs. Armless men tipped back on armless chairs. Deep-eyed, they watched the world go by in silence. Now and then, a fellow spat tobacco then sank back into the general stillness, a somnolence I did not associate with the white race.
A healthy fellow strutted by in boots, an officer scanning shop facades. The wounded watched him go with an indifference worse than hatred. They were broken, futureless things, those fellows. And these were the lucky ones. Two weeks after the battle, they were alive and free of fever.
I wondered how many were farmers. That is a hard life even for those with limbs intact.
I had never seen such a town before, so crowded and so desolate at once. Beside me, Wylie averted his eyes from the invalids. Only to blurt out, “They’re just waiting on trains, Yank. They’re going home, those boys. Old Jeff’ll take care of them. They’re just going home.”
Yes. Home. To the wife who sees an armless stranger coming down the lane, hope and te
rror on his face. Home to children not yet skilled in pretense.
A locomotive huffed in place a block away, where tracks cut through the buildings. That engine was the only thing in the town that gleamed, catching the sun on its metals. It shone through the dust like a vision. Spewing little puffs of steam, with shimmers of heat off its boiler. As if it could not wait to leave.
As we drew near the station yard, I saw the men laid out. Another kind of wounded had been mustered, men who could not stand or even sit. They lay upon the earth, some few on blankets. Waiting to be moved deeper into their shrinking homeland.
Soldiers stripped to the waist shoved their comrades into freight wagons, laboring to a drowsy rhythm. They had the air of a punishment detail. Deserters, perhaps, recaptured and put to work. Whatever their sins, they needed supervision and had none that I could see. Little progress seemed to have been made in the loading, for the wounded lay waiting in hundreds in that yard. Dust crusted them, and the afternoon sun cooked all.
One decent fellow bobbed about the yard with a canteen. Watering the desert with a teaspoon.
Bandages listed every shade of pus and dried blood: green, yellow, brown, black. Crimson blotches marked reopened wounds. Complaints were low and few, though. Most of the men were too far gone, too weary, too listless. Here and there, a lad mouthed silent words, speaking to a phantom behind his eyelids. Suffering never has fit well into speech. Lips swelled and cracked. Skin reddened. Sweat gleamed on their faces, and their shreds of uniform showed great dark patches at the armpits, at chest and groin. The stench pierced.
A half dozen Negroes with shovels lolled by a fence. Waiting, I supposed, for men to die.
A boy began to writhe under the heat.
We are told to love our enemies. I cannot say I loved those men, for I did not. But I pitied them.
It shocked me when the music began to play. Rascal gave a start, but I was learning the business of the reins and I held him in.
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