“Mr. Jardine sounds like he was an excellent owner,” said the major.
“He improved as he went along,” said Caleb.
The orderly brought the coffee, and Major Rogers drank his in a quick gulp. “I’ve got to inspect the troops very soon, so time is short. Let’s get down to business.”
“All right,” said Caleb a bit warily.
“My job,” continued Rogers, “is to build one of the army’s first-ever combat-ready black units to fight this war. A lot depends on my success. So far, I’m not setting the world on fire. These New Yorkers, frankly, are not impressive. For a start, most of them stand about five foot nothing and weigh even less. And there’s not a whole lot of fighting spirit here that I’ve noticed.” The major slammed his palm down on the little table, jolting the coffee cups. “No, Mr. Rivers, I need young men like you to build a fighting unit to be proud of.”
He gestured toward his empty sleeve. “I’m not a whole lot of good as a fighter myself. I left this at Buena Vista. And I was right-handed, too,” he added ruefully. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t build an outfit able to disprove the general opinion that free blacks can’t or won’t fight. Do you see my problem?”
“Yes, sir,” said Caleb.
“From what you tell me, it sounds like you can fight. Can you ride?”
“Some.”
“Shoot?”
“Some.”
“It’s a long gamble,” Rogers said, “but have you had any experience with a saber?”
“Some,” said Caleb.
“By God,” said the major, pounding the table again, “I’ve got to have you, Mr. Rivers. What will convince you?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir,” said Caleb. He knew that once he signed up, he belonged to them. He feared that the army might be a bit like slavery. “How long would I have to sign up for?”
“We’re looking for three-year volunteers, but Lord only knows how long this damned war will last. Personally, I had a very snug little job out in Ohio when this blew up, but I doubt that I’ll ever get back to it.” He paused and looked at Caleb. “Damn, I’d conscript you if I could, but instead I have to convince you. I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Rivers, if you sign up, you won’t need this anymore.” He waved Caleb’s paper at him.
“I have to keep it,” Caleb said hurriedly.
“Of course you do,” Rogers said. “If I were you, I’d have it framed. But you won’t need it.” He reached awkwardly into the inside pocket of his many-buttoned jacket, delved into a wallet, and then threw a small printed card onto the table between them. “That’s my army identification card. Once you have one of these, nobody in this man’s world is going to question your free status again. It would take a very brave and foolish slave catcher to even look cross-eyed at you once he saw one of these.”
Caleb looked at the card and thought that the major was probably right.
“I can’t make any guarantees,” Rogers said hastily, “but from what I’ve seen of you, you’re going to make a splendid soldier, and if there is anything I—and the Union army—need right now, it’s more of them. You’ll train right here until the unit is fully formed, and then you could go anywhere and do anything. Hell,” Rogers laughed, “once you learn to read and write you might even become a sergeant.”
“I can read and write,” Caleb said, trying not to sound boastful.
“Can you, by damn?” Rogers looked at Caleb as if he’d found a diamond in his breakfast oats. “Can you? Then you have to join up. Damn it, Mr. Rivers, your country needs you. And if that doesn’t get you, do it for your own benefit. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that the rebs can beat us, but where do you think you would be if they did?”
“Back on the plantation,” Caleb said.
“The odds are strong,” said the major. “What do you say?”
Caleb ran everything through his head and made a decision. “I’ll do it, sir.” He held out his hand.
The major clasped it awkwardly. His grip was unusually strong. “Done!” he said. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Rivers. I swear it.”
Just then, a corporal knocked on the door frame and stepped into the office. “Formation, sir,” he said.
“I’m on my way,” Rogers said.
Rogers and Caleb got up. “I’ll walk you to the orderly room on my way to inspect those rascals,” said Rogers. “When can you report?”
“Next Monday morning?” Caleb said.
“Fine. Bright and early,” Rogers said as they walked. “Treat yourself to a good breakfast somewhere. The food here is appalling.” He caught himself. “I didn’t tell you about that, did I?” He laughed. “Well, you have to remember, I am recruiting. You don’t cook, by the way, do you?”
“Some,” said Caleb, “but I don’t plan to.”
“I don’t blame you. Filthy job. I suppose that’s why the food is so bad.”
At the orderly room, Rogers led Caleb to Garrison’s tiny office, where the sergeant was struggling with a stack of paperwork. Garrison jumped to attention.
“At ease,” Rogers said easily. “Sergeant Garrison, this man has agreed to enlist for three years. He will report ready for duty next Monday morning. He will be assigned to C Company under Sergeant Henkins. I’ve checked his paperwork, and all is perfectly in order. Do you have any questions?”
Garrison looked at Caleb and then at the major. “No, sir,” he said.
“I’ll leave him in your capable hands then,” Rogers said. The blare of a bugle split the air outside. “I hear someone calling me.” He offered his hand to Caleb again. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Caleb.
When Rogers was gone, the sergeant glared at Caleb. “So, you’ve agreed to join us, have you?”
“I’m joining,” said Caleb shortly.
“And we’re damned grateful,” the sergeant said.
Caleb did not answer. His expression was calm and unchallenging.
Breaking off his penetrating stare, Garrison pushed the stack of paperwork to one side and took out a blank form. “Well, you’d better sit down then,” he said. “Name?”
“Caleb.”
“Family name?”
Though it should not have, the question once again caught Caleb by surprise. He hesitated for a moment.
“Come on,” said Garrison. “I haven’t got all morning. The war will be over if we don’t get a move on.”
Caleb made up his mind.
“Jardine,” he said. “Caleb Jardine.”
48
Boyd Jardine had selected his NCOs and nearly recruited all of his troops when, after a few days away in Camden, he returned to Three Rivers with someone sitting beside him in the gig. The visitor was a tall, lean man with a full, biblical beard. He walked with a pronounced limp, but his broad shoulders suggested strength, and his dark, penetrating eyes revealed determination. The two men toured most of the plantation during the morning, and after lunch, Jardine called Drusilla and Big Mose into his study, where he and his visitor were drinking whiskey.
“This,” Jardine told his two most-trusted slaves, “is Captain Plunkett. He has come to Three Rivers with a view to acting as my overseer while I am away serving the Confederacy. I’ll likely be at home for some time to come, but my duties with the county dragoons will increasingly take up my time. Captain Plunkett, this is Drusilla, who runs the house, and this is Big Mose, my chief field hand. He—”
“We know Captain Plunkett, Massa.” Drusilla spoke determinedly with her eyes fixed on the visitor. “At least we know what people say about him. And we don’t like what we hear.”
“Why, you black bitch—” Plunkett started from his chair, but Jardine cut him off.
“Are you aware, Drusilla,” Jardine asked calmly but icily, “that you are speaking disrespectfully of a white man and a guest at Three Ri
vers?”
“I am, Massa,” Drusilla said, meeting his gaze. “May I speak directly?”
“Go ahead.”
“If Captain Plunkett comes to Three Rivers, I will not work in this house. I will return to the fields or ask to be sold.”
At this, Plunkett jumped from his chair and advanced menacingly on Drusilla with his fist raised, but she did not flinch. Before Plunkett could reach her, Big Mose moved to put his impressive bulk between them. His mild eyes were on Plunkett’s face.
But he spoke to Jardine. “Massa,” he said, “I feels the same. No disrespect to you, suh, but Captain Plunkett comes to Three Rivers, I can’t work for him.”
“I can see, Jardine,” Captain Plunkett said, getting control of himself, “that there’s a big job to be done here.”
“Thank you, Captain Plunkett,” Jardine said coolly, but he addressed Drusilla. “I assume that you have been discussing this with the people?”
“Yes, Massa,” she said firmly, “we have.”
“And can you tell me the basis of your objections to Captain Plunkett?”
“Yes,” she said. “Captain Plunkett is known in the county as a slave beater and a slave murderer. And we know it is true.”
“See here!” Captain Plunkett exclaimed. “I won’t have some goddamned slave wench blackening my name.” He would have struck her, but Big Mose remained steadfastly in his way.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” Jardine said, “for the rudeness of my people. If you will finish your whiskey, I’ll drive you to the landing to catch the next boat. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”
The men rode to the landing in stony silence, and Jardine’s mood was not much improved on his return. He disappeared into his study and was not seen again until dinner. He ate in silence, waited on by Drusilla and Caesar. When Caesar had gone to the kitchen with a tray load of dishes, Jardine said to Drusilla, “Tell Caesar that he will not be needed anymore today, and bring two coffees to my study.”
When Drusilla came into the study with a tray, Jardine told her to sit down in the chair where Caleb used to sit. Drusilla sat down uneasily and ignored the second cup of coffee. After a long silence during which he lit a cigar, Jardine said, “Might as well drink that cup of coffee, Drusilla. That’s what it is for.” As she sipped warily, he continued, “Don’t think that I underestimate what you did today. Though it angered me, I recognize that it took real courage. Mose wouldn’t have done it without your lead, and I don’t believe that Caleb would have done it, either. Not that he lacked the courage, but it just wasn’t his style. You are a remarkable woman, Drusilla.”
When she did not respond, Jardine went on. “But now that you have chased Captain Plunkett away—oh, don’t deny it,” Jardine said when Drusilla opened her mouth to protest. “You did it as surely as if you had chased him down to the turnpike with a broom. At this very moment he is probably telling all of Camden what a lily-livered slavelover I am and how you rule me with a combination of womanly wiles and obeah. Thanks to you and Mose, my reputation in this county is about shot.”
When Drusilla again said nothing, Jardine asked, “Aren’t you even going to deny it?”
“No, sir,” Drusilla said. “But even white people know what that man is.”
“Yes, they probably do,” Jardine admitted. “I must admit that he does not come without reputation. But damn it, Drusilla, I’m on call from week to week. This time next month, I could be in the field with my troop, far from Three Rivers. Do you really think that you and Mose can run this place without me?”
“Yes, Massa,” Drusilla said.
“Well, Drusilla,” Jardine said, “that’s not very flattering, but my ego is not the important thing here. You read all those newspapers I gave you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know that the Yankees are serious about bringing us back into the Union. Unlike some of our neighbors, I don’t underestimate their chances. The North is very powerful. If they win this war, you and all of the rest of the people on this farm will probably be freed. The Yankees, most of them, anyway, probably don’t want to do it, but events seem to have got ahead of common sense. And, in the meantime, this place has to be held together or none of us will have a home once the war is over. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Massa.”
“Well, you’re one up on me then, but I won’t try to bring in another white overseer. I’ve always had my own doubts about the species, and I’ll have to trust you and Mose. But mostly you, Drusilla. Are you aware that you will probably be the only black woman in charge of a plantation in this county, if not the entire South?”
“Yes, Massa.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“Yes, Massa,” Drusilla admitted. “I am. But we can do it.”
49
Dressed in his best and freed of the dead weight of the revolver, but not of the reassuring presence of his money belt, Caleb said good-bye to Elmore at seven o’clock on Monday morning. Then, mindful of the major’s advice, he ate the best steak he could find at that hour and headed for the West Side Armory. Everything he owned was in the worn carpetbag. He was sitting in the outer office when Sergeant Garrison passed by him on his way to the orderly room, picking his teeth.
“You,” said Garrison without halting.
Caleb didn’t say anything. He’d already learned at this early stage in his army career that the less you said, the better.
He was still waiting half an hour later when a small, worried-looking private came out of the orderly room and said, “Sarge wants you.” Caleb followed him in.
Garrison did not look up. “That precious paper of yours,” he said, holding out his hand. Caleb gave him a true copy of the paper he’d had made the week before. Garrison got up and ostentatiously walked out of the office with the paper. Caleb just stood there.
When he came back into the office, Garrison said, “This is not the original.”
“No, sir.”
Garrison looked at him for a long moment and then sat down, pulled a form out of a desk drawer, and silently began writing. In a few moments, he stopped, turned the paper around, handed Caleb a dipped pen, and said, “Put your mark there at the bottom.” He pointed at the spot with a tobacco-stained finger.
Caleb took the pen. “I believe, sir,” he said, “that there is a five-dollar bounty for the soldier who recommended that I enlist.”
“So?”
“I’d like to be sure that he gets the money,” Caleb said.
“I’ll take care of that.” Garrison jabbed the form with his finger. “Make your mark.”
“His name is Private Henry Todd,” said Caleb.
“I’ll fill it in later.”
“I believe that’s T-o-d-d,” said Caleb.
“I know how to spell his goddamned name, Private,” Garrison bellowed. When Caleb again did not respond, Garrison shifted his finger up to another part of the form.
“Okay, if you want Todd to get the money, you write his name.”
Caleb quickly found the blank line and printed “Henry Todd.” He then signed “Caleb Jardine” at the bottom of the form, as he had practiced the night before, handed Garrison the pen, and sat back.
Garrison didn’t waste any time being astonished that Caleb could write. Neither was he pleased. “Orderly!” he shouted and, grabbing a piece of paper, scrawled a note. When the panting orderly arrived, he said, “Take him to Sergeant Henkins, C Company, and give the sergeant this.”
“Yes, Sarge,” said the orderly. “Follow me,” he added to Caleb. Caleb could feel Garrison’s eyes on his back as they left the office.
“You didn’t make any friend there,” the orderly said to Caleb as they walked across the parade ground.
Sergeant Henkins, a white-haired old man who had been yanked out of happy retirement by the declaration of war, looked at
Garrison’s note and then at Caleb.
“You’re late,” he said simply. “You’ve missed breakfast.”
“Yes, sir,” said Caleb.
Initially, Henkins had planned to follow Garrison’s advice to make Caleb’s life miserable, but in practice this turned out to be hard to do. Aside from looming over most of the rest of the recruits like a cypress tree in a swamp and being in superb physical condition, Caleb followed orders, learned quickly, seldom spoke unless spoken to, and showed all the signs of becoming an excellent soldier. However, one morning Garrison was watching C Company drill. He’d dropped a reminder in Henkins’s ear at the sergeant’s mess the night before, and Henkins thought he had better put on a show.
“Jardine!” his old voice shouted.
“Sir!”
“Fall out!”
Caleb stepped out of ranks.
“Give Jardine a rifle.” McMann, his fat, lazy corporal, went to the rack, selected one of the heavy old muskets used for training, and thrust it into Caleb’s arms.
“Port arms,” Henkins commanded, and Caleb brought the ancient weapon up, its muzzle at the height of his left shoulder, its butt at his right hip. “Forward march!” Caleb began moving. “Double time, march!” Just before Caleb ran into the high black-stained brick wall, Henkins shouted, “Column left!” and Caleb found himself running all by himself just inside the wall while Henkins stood in the middle of the parade ground shouting orders. The rest of the training units watched, feeling very grateful that they weren’t Caleb.
For five, ten, fifteen minutes, Caleb ran mindlessly. The musket was beginning to weigh seriously on his arms, but other than that he felt very little pain. To pass the time, he imagined that he was ahead of a pack of Kershaw County hounds, running for his life. Caleb could see out of the corner of his eye that Garrison was enjoying the spectacle and made up his mind that he would not give the sergeant the satisfaction of seeing him stop running before the order came.
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