High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

“In front of God and everyone.”

  The two women allowed the deliciously awful comment to simmer and continued their majestic procession down Franklin Street. Who cares if the Yankees are at the door?

  MAY 20, 1862

  The tempestuous, erratic nature of May weather bedeviled Confederate and Yankee alike. One day would be cool and breezy. This would be followed by a stinker which usually gave rise to a thunderstorm of Biblical intensity. However, one or two hot days couldn’t shrink the swollen creeks and swamps. The land became a large bog. Infantrymen would sink up to their ankles, and after a punishing rain, the wagons would halt, imprisoned up to their axles in mud. Artillery men, lashing their draft horses and pulling and pushing the guns themselves, suffered the most because of the weather.

  The sound of rifle fire punctuated the air. Mars and his men covered the pullback of the army along the Williamsburg Road. Since the battle of Williamsburg, his regiment had kept just out of range of Federal skirmishers.

  Up ahead lay the sinister waste of the Chickahominy River sandwiched on both sides by a swamp which even in stifling August heat was two feet deep. Hooking off of that like a spur was the White Oak Swamp.

  Despite the extreme changeability of the weather, Mars could not believe that McClellan, with his superior forces, was allowing himself to be sucked into the Chickahominy. The intelligence received by cavalry units operating in the north of the state said that McDowell was moving out of Fredericksburg to reinforce McClellan. McClellan didn’t want to fight until he had a force of seven to one. How could the man not know the Confederates would attack before those reinforcements came, no matter what the ground, no matter what the weather? He must have thought that every Southern commander was as loathe to attack as himself. If Southerners had been that cautious, they would never have seceded in the first place.

  Whatever the reasons for McClellan’s sloth, Mars was confident that McDowell would never make it to Richmond. Stonewall Jackson would throw up a shout and a handful of gunpowder, and McDowell would withdraw to protect Washington. Two could play the game of threatening capitals. The fact that Richmond and Washington were only an anxious 115 miles apart made this tactic easy. Mars’s personal preference would have been to place the capital of the Confederacy in the geographic heart of the new nation, far enough away from Washington that the Yankees would have to march for weeks through hostile territory, risking annihilation wherever ground favored the defenders. Spiritually Richmond was the center, but Mars cared more for defenses than spirit, and right now Richmond trembled, exposed.

  Geneva and Banjo rode with Mars. He enjoyed their presence, since the sight of Yankees emboldened rather than frightened them. He often wondered if cowardice was inborn. Perhaps a man should not be punished for it. Better to take a man fearful of battle and put him behind the lines where he could be useful.

  A bullet smacked into a tree.

  “A little closer and I’ll get a shave.” Banjo puffed on his cigar.

  “You could use one, too.” Mars glanced at Banjo’s unkempt stubble.

  “Those boys couldn’t hit a squirrel in a year.”

  “You’re bigger than a squirrel,” Geneva said.

  “Let’s trot back about five hundred yards.” As they withdrew, Mars shook his head. “This crawl has got to be driving some of those boys crazy. How can they stay in sight of us like this and not push forward? If they don’t have a decent general, at least they’ve got discipline.”

  “Like a beautiful horse with no rider.” Geneva patted Dancer’s neck.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Jimmy. I received a letter from my wife two days ago, and your mother is now in Richmond. Preparing for hospital work, I take it. I saved your brother’s sash because I wanted to present it to her myself. Why don’t you take it to her?”

  “I could take it to her afterwards.” Geneva was nervous about seeing her mother. She wondered if it was the red scar on her cheek that made her shy, or maybe it was something deeper and unexplored.

  “I want the sash given her by hand from a member of this regiment.” Mars was determined about this. “Banjo, you can do it.”

  “I’ve never been to Richmond, sir.”

  “Never been to Richmond?” Mars exploded. “You’re going tonight. I’ll give you precise directions so you won’t get lost. Stay the day, and spend the night at my house. Kate will make room. Rejoin us tomorrow.”

  Banjo paused momentarily. “Are you sure there won’t be a fight? I’d rather stay if there’s hope of knocking them one.”

  “We’ve got a while. Clean up, and change into your dress uniform before you get to the house.”

  “Company.” Geneva pointed to a fine-looking man, early sixties, riding down the road to meet them.

  The major general stopped in front of Mars and saluted. “Sir, that was a damned foolish thing you did, asking your division commander to arm the servants in your regiment.”

  “I didn’t think so, General. They’re men, and they want to fight.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you think now or ever, Colonel!” The general’s gray beard quivered with anger. He set his jaw. “I also want to compliment you for your fine performance in the rear guard. It’s the most difficult position, and you are executing flawlessly.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  He put his mustard colored gloves on the pommel of his saddle. “Another thing. If I do not survive this war, you’ll more than likely be made a brigadier and asked to take command of a portion of my forces.”

  “I’m happy where I am, General.”

  “I don’t care where you’re happy; I care where you’ll be most effective. Who doesn’t want to command light cavalry, sir?”

  “I think, General, you’ll live forever.” Mars smiled but there was no warmth in it.

  “Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t, and sometimes I’m afraid I will.” A flash of humor illuminated the general’s harsh but handsome features. “I’ll relieve you of my presence in the sweet bye and bye, and I’ll relieve you of it now.” He saluted. Then he spoke again. “And I do wish you’d stop riding around with your tunic and shirt open like that. We are an Anglo-Saxon army, sir, not an Italian one!” He saluted again and rode off.

  “Who’s that old fart?” Geneva spat.

  “My father.”

  Geneva blushed. “Colonel, I’m sorry.”

  Seeing her discomfort, Mars bellowed with laughter. “I don’t like him either.”

  MAY 21, 1862

  King David told his men to kill his enemies, the Jebusites, even the lame and the blind. Lutie thought he was horrid to be so cruel. Her Bible lesson nibbled on her mind throughout the morning.

  Lutie, Sin-Sin, and Di-Peachy, together with Hazel Whitmore, Miranda Lawrence, Rise Rives, and Jennifer Fitzgerald, stocked and kept inventory of medical supplies. Kate Vickers worked harder than anyone would have thought possible. It was assumed that being so beautiful, she would be useless. Lutie knew better, but slowly the other ladies granted her their heartfelt respect instead of the usual polite pieties. Kate enjoyed Di-Peachy’s presence, but shrank from Big Muler. She told Lutie that he made her skin crawl.

  That morning Baron Schecter, impeccably attired as always, called upon Kate. While being pleasant to him, she told him she must continue working. He helped her wind bandages which set Jennifer Fitzgerald into a minor tizzy. She found Baron Schecter terribly attractive and told him he reminded her of her gorgeous Greer, fallen hero of Manassas. The baron flirted with her which made her work harder, and Lutie thought if the baron could have known the late and now sainted Greer Fitzgerald, he would shoot Jennifer on the spot.

  Kate’s liveried butler interrupted their work. “Miz Vickers, a lieutenant here to call upon Miz Chatfield.”

  “Show him in.”

  Banjo Cracker stepped into the foyer. Stiffly bowing, he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Vickers, I have something for Mrs. Chatfield. Is she here?”

  Lutie came over, and the
butler ushered them into the small, fragrant conservatory.

  “Mrs. Chatfield, Colonel Vickers wanted to present this to you himself, but he can’t leave right now.” Banjo carefully handed her a small package.

  Lutie unwrapped it. There, neatly folded with a note, was Sumner’s red officer’s sash. She held it up. Deep brown bloodstains were splashed over much of it. She put her head in her hands and started to cry.

  Awkwardly sitting, Banjo wanted to console her. He felt ridiculous. “Ma’am, your boy was a pistol! He’d walk down the line and people felt better for lookin’ at him. He stayed with his guns, and he had but three and they had six. What a man!”

  Tears falling on her soft, yellow dress, she replied, “He was, wasn’t he?”

  “Did he tell you about the time we stole the grain?”

  “No. My son stole grain?”

  Banjo told her stories about Sumner and his escapades. Before long, Lutie’s laughter bounced off the glass walls of the conservatory. Hearing Banjo talk of her son in such an unaffected and pungent style brought Sumner back to life for her.

  After a few questions, she discovered that Banjo had never seen Richmond. “Well, you are going to see it today, if you will allow me to be your guide.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, ma’am. I have never been in the presence of such a fine-looking woman. I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself. You’re so far above me.” He meant it, too.

  Rejuvenated by his assessment of her person and his obvious love for Sumner, Lutie smiled. “Nonsense! We know one another through Jimmy’s letters, and I shan’t be frightened for a single moment on our crowded streets, filled with riffraff, if I have such a warrior by my side.”

  Kate came in with Baron Schecter. “Lutie, you look radiant.”

  “The lieutenant has been entertaining me with news of both my sons!” Lutie clapped her hands together.

  Schecter narrowed his eyes. The man was clearly a peasant, an illiterate, ill-bred peasant. “Tell me, sir. How can your army be in retreat? If it had been up to me, I would have stayed in Williamsburg as long as there was hair on my head!”

  Banjo swept off his cap and bowed to the pretentious foreigner. “Colonel, we did.”

  Banjo’s bald head, fringed by brown hair, shone in the light. Lutie and Kate laughed until they cried. The baron tried to put a good face on it by laughing, too, but he didn’t much take to being outsmarted by a rube.

  The next day when Banjo rejoined his regiment, he happily told Geneva everything. He praised Lutie and said, “She’s a handsome woman, a handsome woman, indeed.”

  Incredulous, Geneva replied, “My mother? She’s as old as the hills.”

  MAY 29, 1862

  Standing on the Chimborazo Heights, Lutie surveyed the lands to the east. Below her flickered a carpet of light, the fires of the Confederate and Union armies. As far as she could see, pinpricks of fire, blazes of life, gave evidence to the mass of humanity preparing to tear out one another’s throats. She thought of those campfires as lit by Lucifer’s matches.

  Ascension Day, a feast she enjoyed, brought her little solace. Nor did the day’s lesson, 2 Kings 2, which told of Elisha watching with satisfaction as two she-bears destroyed and devoured forty-two children who had made fun of his bald head. Peering into the night’s valley, knowing what must befall it, brought dread. However, Rise, Hazel, Miranda, and Jennifer were her troops. She wasn’t going to lose heart in front of them.

  Kate Vickers, standing next to Di-Peachy, stared at the scene below with a shiver of anticipation.

  “My husband says that geography is destiny.”

  “My husband,” Lutie replied, “says it all comes down to firepower and food.”

  Rise, an incurable romantic, murmured, “The hearts of our men count for more than anything.”

  “Yes, as long as they continue beating,” Lutie dryly replied. Rise was a good woman but she’d taken to trailing glorious clouds of chiffon recently as well as quoting liberally from the tale of Arthur and Lancelot.

  “It’s an unforgettable sight.” Miranda spoke for them all. “When I’m a very old woman, I shall tell my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren what this looked like, how it felt, the tantalizing light wind and the violently scarlet sunset which preceded this unquiet night.”

  “My new friend, Lieutenant Banjo Cracker, thinks the Yankees hope to come through like birds of passage, enriching themselves in the process.”

  “I’m sure Lieutenant Cracker said no such thing,” Jennifer sniffed.

  “His exact words were, ‘They’re so greedy, they’d skin a maggot.’ I just softened it a bit for you,” Lutie replied.

  “What’s that?” Hazel heard a bugle.

  “Tattoo. It means it’s time to go to bed, and I suppose we ought to retire ourselves.” Kate returned to the two open carriages. Lutie hopped in next to Kate. Di-Peachy and Hazel sat behind them. Lutie rolled the reins between her fingers, two sets on the left hand and two sets on the right. She felt the lead horse nibble on the bit, asking, What do I do now? Are you ready? She glanced over her shoulder. The four ladies in the other carriage sat across from one another, driven by Kate’s liveried servant. Lutie nodded to him, and they started down the hill.

  “Do you think a great battle will commence tomorrow?” Hazel called forward.

  Kate turned her head. “Who knows? It’s worse not knowing than knowing. If I were out there tonight, I’d pray for it to start tomorrow just to get it over with.”

  “I think that’s why there’s been such a frenzy of gaiety in the city. Everyone laughs a little harder, dances a little faster. Every moment is so precious,” Hazel added.

  “I’ve been guilty of it,” Kate solemnly replied.

  “Guilty? I thank God for it.” Lutie asked the inside left horse to mind her pace. “When our boys have a moment behind the lines, they should be entertained. Let them forget for a night. If it makes us look silly, so be it.”

  “Croakers spoil the stew for everyone.” Kate referred to those citizens who found everyone and everything a portent of doom. Fortunately, there weren’t too many croakers left; most of them snatched their passports and fled. “Where has your husband been these last few days?”

  “Henley rides between the lines and his office. The commissary is trying to provide for roughly thirty-five thousand men as well as horses. I think the strain will kill Henley before the war.” Lutie frowned.

  Hazel piped up. “I miss his presence. I want this battle over with, so I can visit with your husband, Lutie.”

  “Good. You visit with him! He needs a break from me.” Lutie smiled, and her curls bobbed in rhythm with the carriage’s motion.

  “Just thinking about feeding an army makes me think about Yankees.” Kate’s profile was brought into relief as they passed by a lit shop window. “Do they suffer a pang of conscience when they eat sugar, molasses, or rice? Have they given up smoking? They curse slave labor, yet they’re quite happy to enjoy the fruits of it.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Hazel replied.

  “Sometimes the strangest thoughts flit through my mind, quite unconnected. Other times I see pictures, or I remember places that I’ve visited. I often wonder if I’m sane or not.” Kate bounced as the carriage wheel hit a poorly laid cobblestone.

  “Everybody does the same,” Lutie reassured her.

  The Vickerses’ imposing house came into view on the corner of Eighth and Franklin. Another bump tossed Kate onto Lutie’s shoulder.

  Lutie whispered in her ear, “Do we have a chance? Really, what do you think? McClellan has one hundred thousand men, and we have so few.”

  As Lutie reined in, Hazel and Di-Peachy leaned forward to hear every word.

  Kate replied steadily, “Mars says the only battle you lose is the one you fail to fight.”

  MAY 31, 1862

  Yesterday both armies had withstood not fire but flood. A raging thunderstorm had poured throughout the night. The dawn of the day saw leaden
clouds skimming the skies and threatening more rain. The Chickahominy raged. The men joked that conditions favored ducks, but Johnston, the Confederate commander, asked for an attack.

  Mars knew from attending staff meetings that yesterday was to be the day of attack. Nothing would prevent the Confederates today, if for no other reason than pent-up anxiety. Since the ground was impossible for any kind of cavalry maneuver, Mars requested permission to attend Major General Longstreet together with Brigadier General Stuart.

  At 8 A.M., Longstreet received the order to move. He commanded the center of the Confederate line, right on the Williamsburg Road. He tarried until 2 P.M. waiting for General Huger’s division to move up and support him in what would be a deadly frontal attack. Huger didn’t appear, so Longstreet went in without him. As usual, he sent out a regiment of infantry skirmishers, followed by regular infantry. Mars, itching for action, beseeched Longstreet to let him ride forward to correctly ascertain the enemy’s fortifications.

  This request granted, he moved toward the cannonade. Slipping and sliding, he cursed the ground. He could see infantrymen wading midthigh in the filthy water and mud. The closer he drew to the firing, the more he felt like an inviting target, a solitary mounted man amidst the muck and mire. He got within sight of an abatis, trees felled with their branches sticking out to impede progress.

  Mars asked a struggling captain, “Do you know what’s ahead?”

  “Our scout went out last night in the torrent. He said that one-third of a mile behind the abatis are rifle pits.”

  “From the sound of the artillery, I’d say they’ve brought up a battery in front of that,” offered Mars.

  “There’s also supposed to be a five-sided redoubt, and that could be evil in these conditions.”

  “Do you believe they are behind that in force, Captain?”

  “I do, and I think they have rings of redoubts on this road. It’ll be one obstacle after another.”