by Max Hennessy
The Northern soldiers were still in the lounge of the hotel when they arrived downstairs the following morning. Sprawled in chairs and corners and on and under the billiard table, most of them seemed incredibly young and Colby wondered if he’d looked that young, too, when he’d had his own first taste of war.
Setting off just as daylight arrived, they passed a group of small wooden houses clustered round a church as though afraid of what the day would bring. Then, with the long ranges of the mountains shouldering their way south-west, they crossed a river by a wooden-roofed bridge, the horses’ hooves thumping hollowly on the planking, and began to come on acres of picket lines occupied by blue-clad men, and slopes dark with mules and horses, vast stacks of fodder, heaped ammunition and kegs of powder. What seemed fields-full of spare wheels for guns and limbers were laid out in rows according to size, and artillery parks were set up in squares, with spare caissons and cannon lined up like hansoms outside a station.
‘Battle coming all right, sir,’ Ackroyd observed. ‘They’re loading ammunition, not rations.’
Like everyone else except the civilians well behind the lines, the soldiers were sick of the war and when the military band that was playing started on ‘Home Sweet Home’ there was a derisive cheer. From the cavalry camp there was a lot of whinnying and a squadron of blue-coated men was making the ground tremble as it moved off. The high sweet notes of trumpets shrilled and the guidons cracked in the wind as the horsemen formed into column. It made Colby feel homesick.
Infantrymen were also on the move, some of them munching hard tack and cold beans as they waited for orders by fires where coffee was brewing at the sides of the road. Escorting cavalry had broken out nosebags but stood ready to snatch them away in the event of an alarm, while other men carried buckets of water from the river, slung on poles cut from the woods. Here and there a deserted regimental camp stood with tents flapping.
There was an air of excitement everywhere. It was obvious everybody was expecting a battle and they seemed to be expecting to win it, too. The armies had passed through this stretch of country before and there wasn’t a house left standing. Even the birds seemed to be wary, flocks of crows flying from one patch of woodland to another, cawing loudly as they went. There was no foraging and no looting because the farms were heaps of ashes.
The colonel of a regiment of Maine infantry looked up as they were ushered into his tent. He was staring at a map spread on a camp bed, frowning deeply and making notes in the margin. He was young and tired-looking but he showed no surprise as Colby announced himself. The Americans were growing used by this time to the interest shown by Europeans in their war. Half the British army had contrived to cross the Atlantic to have a look.
The colonel was far from happy with the disposition of his men. He was a lawyer by profession and, with his lawyer’s instinct, he clearly wasn’t prepared to take things at their face value.
‘I got some problems, you see, Captain,’ he said. ‘This war’s brought some queer types over here. We’d got some queer types of our own, mind: generals who make political speeches and politicians who make battle plans. But this guy they’ve put in command here’s different. He’s a Frenchman. Name of Cluseret. Gustave-Paul Cluseret. Know him?’
Colby shook his head and the colonel went on. ‘Sonofabitch’s nothing but a common soldier of fortune. Commissioned at St Cyr but got himself involved in the revolution in Paris in 1848. Said he was wounded in the Crimea and promoted captain with the Legion of Honour. Maybe he did. I don’t know.’ He was obviously worried by his disloyalty but clearly had little time for his commanding officer. ‘I guess, as a captain in the British army, you’ve maybe got more experience than me.’
‘Well,’ Colby agreed, ‘It takes longer to get to be a colonel.’
‘Yeah. Sure. Well, I was a lieutenant when this war started and I’m still only just beginning to find my way about.’ The colonel offered a long black cigar and lit one himself. ‘I asked around in Washington. I have friends there practising law and they’d heard of him. The goddam man was cashiered. In Algeria, for stealing stores. Well, that’s none of my business, but it seems when the war started he got himself a job as an aide to some political general and now we’ve got him shoved on to us.’
The colonel sighed. ‘I’m sure worried. I even heard the guy fought for the other side originally. Maybe their politicians aren’t so goddam interfering as ours and he could get nothing out of ’em and came north to try his luck.’ He shrugged. ‘You go talk to him. I guess he’ll see you. He likes newspapermen.’
As they moved westwards again, a last troop of horsemen thudded past in the dust trying to catch up the infantry. They moved swiftly, their equipment jingling, different from European soldiers, horsemen without grace, a squadron of light cavalry in active operation against the enemy, troops without the polish of peacetime or any of the glitter of the parade ground.
They wore blue blouses with brass buttons, trousers with yellow stripes and heavy spurred boots. Carbines sat in leather buckets on their saddles and blue metal Colt revolvers hung from rings, while their sabres were carried under their left legs where they didn’t slap against the leathers.
Cluseret’s headquarters had a Gallic air about them. A glee club was singing somewhere in the darkness and they could hear a violin going. Cluseret himself was tall with a pale skin, black hair and beard, and he possessed the sort of coarsely-handsome face that must have made him a favourite with women.
He spoke English with a racy style, chewing all the time at a cheroot held in the corner of his mouth, and willingly discussed his plans for the coming action. Two of his aides, both Frenchmen with moustaches, imperials, wide-skirted coats and the pegtop trousers the French favoured, brought out a map and spread it on a table made of planks and barrels. ‘We are ’ere,’ Cluseret said, pointing. ‘Tomorrow we will move west. Their left, which outflanks our right, will then be ’anging in the air, while we get round their rear.’
There was a chilly lack of appeal about him that repelled Colby, and his plans were lazy and indifferent, while there was a clear carelessness in the way he was moving his troops, because by this time his cavalry must have been ten miles away, and his brigade was strung out with great gaps in it that could be hit anywhere by the enemy.
‘Suppose they move first?’ Colby suggested. ‘Wouldn’t that enable them to leave your left hanging in the air?’
‘Pooh!’ Cluseret snapped his fingers. ‘These Americans know nothing of war! They know nothing of anything, in fact. Their wine is tart. Their food consists only of fried meat. Their bread is dreadful. And their music is the sort a peasant from the Ardennes makes on a Saturday night at the café. They are totally devoid of taste.’
He gestured contemptuously. ‘They will never move to my right. The ’ills are in the way and they ’ave been too-tooing on their bugles for two days over on the left. In any case, it is a matter of indifference to me ’oo wins this ridiculous war. All I want from it are my naturalisation papers.’
It was a cynical attitude, and with the Southern army diminishing, it seemed to Colby that Cluseret was over-looking the fact that the Southerners had nothing to lose by taking risks.
As evening approached, the crows disappeared and a curious lull seemed to fall across the land. In the distance, they could hear the high-pitched wail of an engine as a train brought up more men. There had been a little skirmishing during the day among the outposts and the ambulances were taking away the few wounded, while the surgeons commandeered the sutlers’ canteens, laying out their instruments and cleaning the counters, so that when the battle started they could do their operations and amputations there.
The camp settled for the evening, and tents began to glow from the lanterns inside. The glee club was singing again in the darkness – ‘Was My Brother In The Battle?’ and ‘When This Cruel War is Over’ – then suddenly the song changed for ‘Rock of Ages’ and, looking at his watch, Colby saw that midnight had arrived. It wa
s now Sunday and the Americans were strict with their religion.
He could hear a constant chorus of nightbirds. Near his feet Ackroyd dozed in his blanket, his back against a log. The singing started again, softly, coming through the trees which stood out starkly black against the distant firelight, and he was just about to light a cigar when somewhere among the trees higher up the slopes he heard a faint shout and a clatter. No one seemed to notice and the hymn-singing went on near the fires. He nudged the dozing Ackroyd with his foot.
‘Tyas! Get up!’
Ackroyd had just pushed aside the blanket and was climbing to his feet when the woods came alive with the crash of firing.
‘Great Christ in the Mountains!’ The voice came from near the officers’ tent. ‘It’s the Rebs!’
Dragging Ackroyd with him, Colby plunged into the undergrowth just as horsemen came roaring down the slope from the trees. Lights were knocked over hurriedly and bullets started flying in every direction. Shouts were going up on all sides now and the whole area seemed to be shaken by the pounding of hooves as a swarm of ragged riders, difficult to see in the darkness, exploded across the camp. A tent went down and a fire was kicked to sparks and flying embers as a horseman crashed across it.
The colonel of the Maine regiment appeared out of the darkness. He was riding a horse in front of a small group of blue-coated soldiers who were firing raggedly at the flitting shadows. But they were silhouetted by the fires and as a solid volley crashed into them from the trees, the colonel fell to the ground and the few men still on their feet bolted.
An officer in a grey coat with a yellow sash wheeled his mount and, slipping from the saddle, bent over the sprawled figure.
‘That’s not him,’ he said.
Alongside him a trooper, gaunt, hairy and barefooted, was dragging the boots and socks from the colonel’s feet. Stuffing them under his arm, he let the naked foot flop back to the ground and held up the boots, grinning gleefully. The colonel was clearly dead and his worries would bother him no more.
Carbines were still snapping among the trees and yells of delight came as food and whisky were unearthed. The Federals had vanished into the woods down the slope and were keeping up a smart rattling fire, but it all seemed to be going too high.
Flames were leaping into the air, and an ammunition wagon exploded in a crimson flower, sending showers of sparks and rocket-like trails in every direction, to scatter the grey-coated soldiers.
The blast bowled Colby over and, as he scrambled to his knees, he saw a running fight going on. Giving Ackroyd a shove, they half-fell into a clump of mountain laurel, and raising their heads, they saw Cluseret’s French aides trying to make a dash for safety. One of them succeeded and vanished into the shadows, but a shot brought down the second so that he fell on his face, his body skidding inertly across the ground until it was stopped by a shrub.
The officer with the yellow sash was just about to dismount again when Cluseret himself appeared, wearing only a shirt and trousers. The young officer hauled his horse around.
‘Cluseret!’ he yelled. ‘You two-timing sonofabitch!’
As he spurred forward, Cluseret’s arm lifted. His revolver jerked, and the young officer dropped the sword and rolled over the tail of his horse. His eyes flickering from side to side, Cluseret plunged into the clump of laurel alongside Colby just as the Confederates swarmed round them.
‘You bastards was supposed to be attackin’ the other end of the line,’ a captured Federal corporal was yelling disgustedly.
‘That’s why we attacked this end,’ one of the Confederates said. ‘Who’s your commandin’ officer?’
The man he addressed jerked a hand. ‘That’s him, lying there. You bastards shot him.’
‘Not him,’ the Confederate snapped. ‘The general. Who’s the general?’
‘Cluseret? He’s a Frenchman.’
‘The treacherous dog was fightin’ for us until he went north with our goddam plans. How the hell did you think you whipped us at Pegler’s Mill? It warn’t skill, I can tell you!’
The camp was clearing rapidly and the Confederates were moving out already, stumbling under their loot. Two or three wagons lurched away and a man on a horse went past dragging at the halters of half a dozen led animals.
As the last of them vanished among the trees, the camp became still. A rifle popped occasionally and there was shouting among the trees, then suddenly it was silent except for the movement of shadows and the crackle of flames.
Rising to his feet, Colby glanced round. Cluseret was still hugging the ground among the laurels, and Colby stared at him, unimpressed.
‘Let’s see if we can find our nags,’ he said to Ackroyd. ‘Perhaps they’ve escaped.’
As they stepped from the clump of bushes, there was the click of a weapon being cocked behind them, and a quiet voice spoke.
‘If you two gentlemen would kindly step into the light of the fires, we’ll see to it that you’re not left behind by your friends.’
As they turned – slowly, because the Americans were always quick on the trigger – they found themselves staring into the muzzles of half a dozen Colt revolvers held by a troop of Confederate horsemen among the trees. They were led by a young officer who looked no more than a boy.
‘Your name Cluseret?’ he demanded.
Colby’s glance flickered to the bushes where he could see the grey material of Cluseret’s shirt just out of the sight of the horsemen.
‘Goff,’ he said. ‘Representing the Morning Advertiser.’
The Colt jerked at Ackroyd. ‘His name?’
‘Ackroyd. Tyas Ackroyd. He’s my assistant. And friend.’
The revolver moved again to indicate the body of the French aide sprawled by the tree.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
‘You seen this guy Cluseret?’
Colby shrugged. Cluseret hadn’t appealed to him much, either as an individual or as a soldier, but these men would more than likely lynch him if they found him.
‘Heard he left on the train,’ he said.
‘Did he, by God?’ The officer glanced at the riders with him. ‘Seems we missed him. You got proof of your identity?’
‘I have letters,’ Colby said. ‘They’re in my baggage. Over there.’
‘They’ll have to stay there. We haven’t got time. You’d better come along, anyway. If you’re tellin’ the truth, we can send you back under a flag of truce. If you’re not, you’re due for Andersonville or Belle Isle. Come to that–’ the young officer grinned ‘–why not see what the war looks like from our side for a change? The Bluebellies have all the famous newspaper names. Tell your man to get up behind the sergeant. You get up behind me. And no tricks. I reckon Beauty Stuart might like to see you.’
Five
It was the sound of music coming through the trees that indicated they had arrived. The young officer turned his head.
‘That’ll be the General’s band,’ he said. ‘They pluck a good string. The General’s a great guy for music.’
They were moving between a long avenue of oaks, and there were lights in the distance, and fires illuminating the front of a tall pillared house with high windows.
‘The Burtle House,’ the young officer said. ‘Kinfolk of mine. I’m Micah Burtle Love.’ He was riding now with his head twisted round, talking to Colby over his shoulder. ‘You been with those Bluebellies long?’
‘On and off, about a year.’
‘You’ll enjoy seein’ the war from our side.’ Love seemed to have accepted Colby’s identification quite happily. ‘We aren’t right fond of Europeans round here, mind. We had several. Guy called Fremantle. One called St Leger Grenfell. What you think of that St Leger? He said he’d done a bit of fighting here and there but nary a one of us took to him much. He had side-whiskers long as your arm and went about lookin’ like he didn’t like our smell. Soon after Gettysburg we got set upon by Buford near Madison Court House, and he bolt
ed back to headquarters to say we’d all been captured. But we’d all got away safe and he hasn’t showed his face in camp since. Then we had this Cluseret.’ Love’s face darkened. ‘That sonofabitch deserted and the Bluebellies ambushed us at Pegler’s Mill.’
As they drew nearer to the house, Colby saw its beauty was marred by damage. Shutters were missing. Trees had been chopped down and fences torn up, and there were windows broken on the ground floor.
‘Grierson’s lot came by,’ Love said laconically.
The cavalry horses were not tethered in neat lines in the British fashion but all over the place, to fences, rails, trees, some even left to graze where they felt like. Coffee and frying meat scented the air. There were a few women and girls about the steps under the great veranda of the house and Love gestured towards them.
‘The womenfolk sure are findin’ the war a terrible business,’ he said. ‘Can’t get any feathers or furbelows and all the time their menfolk are away fightin’.’
As he drew rein by the steps, several officers strolled towards him, their faces interested. Colby noticed that their uniforms were patched and threadbare, but they had a great deal of style about them with their long boots, curly-brimmed hats and huge sabres.
‘Who you got there, Micah?’ one of them asked.
Love grinned. ‘Says he’s British. Mebbe the General’ll want to talk to him. Where is he?’
‘Inside. Eatin’. Guess maybe he’s finished now. The music’s goin’.’
Accompanied by Ackroyd, Colby followed Love into the house. The girls on the veranda gave him a curious look as he passed and he noticed that their clothes, like the officers’, though clean and neat, looked threadbare. The sentry standing by the steps was barefoot.
‘We’ll get some more boots soon,’ Love told him. ‘Soon’s we kill some more Yankees.’ He laughed at Colby. ‘Better encouragement than final victory, footwear.’
The interior of the house also showed that damage had been done to it. Slashed furniture had been neatly repaired and half the chandeliers seemed to be missing. In a dining- room where the furniture should have been of oak, the table, chairs and sideboard were of crude pine and looked as if they had been brought from the kitchen to replace what had been stolen or destroyed. The few candles that burned were in bottles.