High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

  The land was rolling and crisscrossed with streams. They were on the east side of Wolf Trap Run, threading their way through woods. Banjo, first out of the woods, wheeled his horse around immediately and hurried back to Mars. “Yankees on the road down there,” he reported.

  Mars held up his hand for the others to halt. He trotted to the edge of the trees with Banjo. “I make them out to be somewhere around three hundred.”

  Banjo nodded. “Enjoyin’ themselves, from the look of it. You know, Colonel, the sight of them Yankees, ridin’ around with all that blue on, gets on my nerves.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Mars grinned.

  “We’ve got forty men. Sun’s at our back. Scare ’em so bad they won’t have time to count how many we are.”

  “I expect they need a lesson in etiquette. It’s not the correct thing to trespass on another man’s property.”

  “Rude boys always get their noses bloodied.”

  Mars returned to his scouting patrol. He spread them out at the edge of the tree line. They’d have to gallop down a grade which leveled into a fine pasture. The turnpike bisected the pasture.

  “You boys have been bragging how you can whip two Yankees apiece. Now’s your chance.” Mars nodded to the bugler who sounded the charge.

  Geneva closed up next to Nash. She let out a piercing yell. Flushed, Nash hollered as well. The forty voices, joined by the rhythm of hoofbeats, surprised the drowsy Northern column of cavalry. Certain they were being attacked by a large force, they turned tail and thundered back toward Washington. Not a shot was fired.

  After ten minutes of thrilling chase, Mars galloped next to the bugler and told him to sound a retreat. Hooting, hollering, and laughing at the top of their lungs, the exhilarated men rallied and closed up ranks. Riding four abreast, they turned back toward the southwest.

  They camped out that night. Each man put his rubber blanket roll on the ground and put his blanket over that. Then he’d roll up in the blanket. When it rained, the men slept in twos. One rubber cover and blanket would be on the ground. The two would lie on the ground blanket, then put another blanket and rubber cover on top of themselves.

  As it remained warm, Geneva and Nash slept side by side, but not rolled up together.

  “You asleep?” Nash whispered. She was. Geneva must have a clear conscience, he thought. She didn’t know the meaning of the words insomnia or femininity. She smelled of leather. Last April, just thinking about Geneva gave him a hard-on. Now he had little time to make love to Geneva, but when he did, he thought of other women, women who looked and acted like women. He stared up at the stars. What was happening to him? Was his idea of civilization, of himself as a civilized man so much veneer? He thought of the mangled bodies at Manassas. He’d had nightmares about those twisted limbs and the blood. The stream itself was red from the blood flowing into it where men fell. After the battle, no one would drink from Bull Run. He prayed nightly. “Why, God, do we kill when the Bible tells me I am made in Thy image?” God sent no answer. He sent only more questions.

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1861

  Henley’s commissary department confirmed his opinion that the intelligence in politics was so low that even a mediocre person has to stoop to meet it. The state of Virginia, rich in agriculture, could feed its army. The entire South, blessed by rich soils and the cash crop tobacco, should be able to provide for its fighting men wherever they were defending its border. The problem was getting the food and fodder to the armies.

  General Josiah Gorgas in Ordnance proved an ally but he, too, was often hamstrung by the consider-the-lilies-of-the-field form of planning. The Confederacy already showed signs of strain in Kentucky and up and down the Mississippi River. Henley’s consolation, which he shared often with Josiah, was that things couldn’t be too much better in the northern capital either. A plague of golden locusts had been sent on both their houses.

  Henley had read the sixth chapter of Luke in his church almanac before his morning horseback ride. A reassuring and lovely chapter, it nonetheless stuck in his throat when he read the passage, “But woe unto you that are rich! for ye have received your consolation.” If this were true, then he was in trouble. Personal trouble was harder to bear than national trouble. As much as Henley worried about supplies, about this strange war and what was to come next, he wondered more about Kate Vickers.

  Surrounded by handsome men, wealthy men, adoring and dashing men, even government observers and attachés from foreign nations, rumors flew like confetti. She was rumored to be having an affair with Beauregard. Henley knew that wasn’t true. He wasn’t so certain about the rumor concerning Baron Schecter, a colonel in the army of His Imperial Majesty Franz Joseph. Sent to observe our spasm of national conflict, the baron had succeeded in observing Mrs. Vickers.

  “How wonderful to see you.” Henley caught up with Kate and the baron out for a morning ride. He touched his hat and the baron did likewise. They despised one another. Behind Kate rode another fifteen young men in a twitter. They called her the Confederate Venus.

  She threw back her head and laughed. The men moved closer to be near the sound of such heaven. “Flatterers!” she accused them.

  “But it’s true, Mrs. Vickers.” Cried one green-eyed lieutenant, “We would follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  “I’d rather go to its center.” She smiled.

  “I’ll go! Give me a shovel and we can come out in China.” This was offered by another empty-headed but good looking boy.

  Henley thought to himself, You’d come out in the Indian Ocean and drown, you dumb son of a bitch. He serenely turned to the baron and asked if he was enjoying his assignment.

  Smiling through a tense jaw, the baron replied, “What I enjoyed most was meeting your wife. I don’t know when I have ever beheld such a charming, witty, energetic lady.”

  “Thank you. Lutie is home at Chatfield. Mrs. Vickers, I do hope you’ll visit Chatfield soon.”

  “I’d love to go when the foliage is a riot of color, Colonel. I too have been most anxious to see your Lutie again. She’s a fountain of wit and very beautiful.” Kate’s voice rang true.

  “No one is more beautiful than yourself, Aphrodite!” the baron refuted. “You are a generous woman to grant another such praise.”

  “Why, Baron, do you think all women fight over men?”

  “I do not think friendship comes naturally to women.” The baron’s light accent was gentle, but disdainful. These Americans are so primitive, he thought, but what can one expect of people who still keep slaves?

  “I do not think, Baron, that it comes easily to men”—Kate’s voice was like an alto scalpel—“else why would we be in a civil war?”

  SEPTEMBER 20, 1861

  “Good God, Miz Lutie, Jennifer Fitzgerald is comin’ up the driveway!” Ernie panted from running to the library from the kitchen.

  Sin-Sin hurried into the pantry off the dining room as soon as she heard the news. “I better hide the silver.” She began throwing silver into her apron.

  “She may be crazy, but she’s not a thief.” Lutie laughed to hide her own nervousness.

  A knock on the door cut short their conversation. Lutie glided through the cavernous rooms into the majestic foyer and opened the door. Jennifer, in riding attire even though she’d been driven in a carriage, smiled weakly.

  The two ladies walked to the long, arched window walkway where Lutie liked to receive guests in the warm months.

  Ernie presented a tray of her best morning sweets, then ducked around the corner only to find Sin-Sin hiding there. They jockeyed for listening positions in silence. As Ernie was so fat, she had the advantage.

  “A man named Cassius Rife,” Jennifer was saying, “owns a munitions factory in your original home.”

  “The Rifes spawn profit and contention and have been doing so since the late 1600s. I know the family only too well since Chalfontes came over with Lord Baltimore. The Rifes claim to have come over on the Mayflower, that overburden
ed vessel, but I think they packed over with Oglethorpe. Regardless, they founded Runnymede along with ourselves and the Creightons. Thatchers came later.”

  “Apparently he’s in business with Reddy Neutral Taylor for the express purpose of enriching themselves at the Confederacy’s expense.”

  “A scorpion and a tarantula, an interesting marriage of creatures.” Lutie observed Jennifer. Aside from pallor and alarming thinness, she appeared lucid.

  Jennifer abruptly cut off this subject and moved to the one closest to her heart.

  “I can’t bear to think of the way Greer suffered! I can’t bear my own suffering.”

  “He was killed instantly. I am certain of that.”

  Jennifer made no attempt to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “If only I knew that he was safe.”

  “Here.” Lutie handed her a Belgian lace handkerchief.

  “I’ve spent years being snide and nasty to you, and now I’m prevailing upon your good nature to help me.” Desperately she bargained. “I know you can talk to the dead. You know somebody from the spirit world. Please, please let me talk to my son.”

  Prepared for this, Lutie spoke slowly. “I can’t speak to the dead.”

  Miserable, Jennifer sobbed. “Oh, Lutie, I know you can. Please, I don’t care who you talk to, just find out if my boy is safe.”

  Somewhat frightened by Jennifer’s outburst, but also sympathetic to her pain, Lutie fudged. “I know Greer is safe. He’s with God.”

  Jennifer continued to sob uncontrollably.

  “Emil says Greer didn’t live long enough to store up a peck of sins. Greer’s with God and wishes you to leave off your terrible grieving. Just look at you, Jennifer.” Lutie now warmed to her embroidery. “You’re dangerously thin. You’ve powdered your face until you look like a bled pig. Forgive me, but I must be blunt. You are trying to deceive my eyes, but powder won’t help. How can Greer truly accept his new status, if he worries about you? We must accept death and we must accept life. You must pull yourself together and live. Otherwise, you dishonor your son.”

  Wide-eyed, Jennifer blurted, “He would say that! That boy worried over me. He would fuss if I missed a meal or didn’t take my afternoon nap.”

  “Yes, I wanted to mention those naps to you,” Lutie lied.

  Jennifer reached over the table and squeezed Lutie’s hand. “I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”

  “Then you must not fail Greer.”

  After more chat, Lutie walked Jennifer to the front door. She held out her hand to her guest, and Jennifer spontaneously kissed her. Lutie watched her drive away. She turned to find Sin-Sin lurking in the background with a smirk on her face.

  “I’m a wicked liar, and I’ll go to hell for what I just did.” Lutie threw her hands to heaven.

  “I woan say you lied zactly.”

  “What would you say?”

  “You has a kind heart.”

  “Wake up, Miz Lutie.” Sin-Sin’s voice filled her ear.

  Lutie sat up in bed. It was five minutes before midnight. Di-Peachy stood next to Sin-Sin.

  “Peter done run off,” said Sin-Sin. “And the pass—”

  “Gone? I knew it!” Lutie threw on her robe. “You were right, Sin-Sin,” she said triumphantly. “He showed his hand.”

  “He also stole your diamond and ruby earrings,” said Di-Peachy with a wince.

  “Oh, no,” Lutie wailed. “Those were my mother’s.”

  “He won’t get far. He can’t read, and he doesn’t realize the pass has no name or date on it.” Di-Peachy offered some consolation.

  “He may get far enough to sell my mother’s earrings, thank you!”

  “I knowed he’d bite.” Sin-Sin swelled. Her trap had worked.

  “Di-Peachy, come with me. We’re going into town right this minute. Let me notify the authorities. For all we know, he may have already been netted in a patrol.”

  “Iffin’ the patters be sober.” Sin-Sin despised those men.

  “There’s something else.” Di-Peachy fetched Lutie her shoes. “He took Tincia with him.”

  “That stupid girl!” Lutie ransacked her mahogany wardrobe for her old riding coat.

  “You gots to take a gun,” Sin-Sin said.

  “Why?”

  “Cause Peter got one.”

  SEPTEMBER 23, 1861

  The ringworm of chaos munched on both the Confederacy and the Union. General Fremont freed the slaves in Missouri as well as confiscated property belonging to Southern sympathizers. This hardened resistance in those states clinging to a slippery neutrality. Throughout the South, individuals thought that Fremont acted with the blessing of Lincoln. Their hatred of Lincoln and abolitionists in general reached a new pitch.

  Lutie dutifully read the newspapers. However, her concern centered on Chatfield more than the Confederacy. The bodies of Peter and Tincia, ripped apart by wild animals, were found by a farmer early this morning. The two slaves escaped no further than three miles north of town. The earrings of Lutie’s deceased mother, Diddy Chalfonte, were sewn in the hem of Tincia’s dress. The limbs of the dead couple were chewed, but the clothing on the torso was of no interest to the racoons, foxes, ravens, bobcats, and other animals that feasted on their corpses. Lutie was happy to have her mother’s earrings back, but sad that Peter and Tincia came to such a violent end. They’d been shot in the head and then dumped in a hurry. The pass was not on the bodies.

  That afternoon their remains were laid to rest in the slave cemetery at Chatfield. Disgusted though she was over the affair, Lutie read from the day’s lesson which was Luke 9: 1:37. The story of Jesus feeding the five thousand was a favorite of everyone. After the service, she strolled over to the white graveyard and stared at Jimmy’s grave. Buried two rows behind him were the bodies of soldiers unclaimed at the railroad station. Their graves were adorned with simple crosses into which C.S.A. July 21, 1861, was carved. Thick grass, which grew swiftly in the heat and moisture, already covered the earth.

  A tremendous thunderstorm was brewing in the west. Wind sliced through the huge oaks lining the driveway. Darkness closed in early on Chatfield. Sin-Sin lit candles while Di-Peachy fastened the shutters. Ernie, rattled from the dual murder, left as soon as her cooking chores were finished.

  The house in order, the three women retired to the living room. Di-Peachy sat at Lutie’s feet. Sin-Sin, agitated, paced. “What galls me is nobody found the pass.”

  “Maybe he didn’t steal it.” Di-Peachy softly spoke as Lutie watched the green-black clouds skim over the treetops. Flashes of lightning cast a pale blue glow on the window-pane. “I remember when we were kids how Peter used to cheat at our games. How strange that in a child character reveals itself.”

  “Jes wait ’til you has some.” Sin-Sin wore a hole in the carpet. “They is different in the womb.”

  “Sin-Sin, sit down. You’re making me dizzy,” Lutie said.

  “Ants in my pants.” Sin-Sin slowed her pacing, but didn’t sit.

  “At least we know who killed Alafin,” Di-Peachy said.

  “I gits the feelin’ we doan know nothin’,” said Sin-Sin glumly.

  “You think Peter didn’t do it?” Lutie was incredulous. “But your trap worked. You waved the pass about. When he had something to trade for cash he stole the pass and off he went.”

  “With Tincia.” Di-Peachy rubbed her temples.

  “Girl din have the brain of a peahen,” Sin-Sin grumbled. “My trap caught the wrong rabbit.”

  “Do you think whoever shot Peter killed Alafin?” Di-Peachy asked.

  “Peter crossed someone not afraid to kill.”

  “Then who killed Alafin?” Di-Peachy asked.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated Sin-Sin in the glare. “Thass what I like to know.”

  “You don’t think we’re in danger, do you?” Lutie asked.

  “No, not yet. ’Member that string of killin’s up at Bashton Plantation?”

  “That was in ’47. A house servant went crazy and k
illed young women. He’d sneak off at night and get into servants’ quarters at other houses, like a fox in a henhouse. Finally got so crazy he started killing them at Bashton. He didn’t last long after that.”

  “Men doan kill wimmins unless another man involved or some lunatic sex thing.”

  Lutie put her hand to her chin. “I think you’re right. But a man might kill a woman if she threatened to expose him in some fashion. Or if he’s out of his mind with love.”

  “Thass my point. We safe unless we gits in the way. Mebbe this man smarter than I thought.”

  OCTOBER 18, 1861

  No amount of drilling salvaged the restlessness in the camp. Scarce food and fodder grated on nerves as did the lack of battle. The war in Virginia, aside from skirmishes, hung suspended like a cocoon waiting for spring. Jefferson Davis, hot on the campaign trail, irritated some of the military men more than others, but the campaign was not greeted enthusiastically by anyone in the camp. Night frosts soured spirits, too. Mars kept his men busy on reconnaissance patrols, harassing Federals who moved too far away from Washington in search of forage themselves. Many times his regiment would ride on the south side of the Potomac only to watch bluecoats on the northern side. They appeared as bored as the Confederates.

  The men placed small stoves in the middle of their tents in preparation for winter. Infantry, artillery, and cavalry were quartered separately, the horses behind the cavalry tents. Each branch of the military made claims to being superior, but the cavalry, comprised mostly of wealthy men, bore the brunt of criticism—fancy boys, all powder and no lead.

  Geneva scrambled to go out on any mission no matter how small. Camp life didn’t offend her, but she preferred the saddle to the tent. The major occupations after drill were cards and drinking, usually followed by a passionate religious revival. J.E.B. Stuart, a devout Presbyterian and now promoted to brigadier general, offered a spiritual as well as sartorial example to his troops. Men stuck feathers in their caps or slouch hats and carried Bibles, but very often the Bible was set aside for a card deck.