Soldier of the Queen

by Max Hennessy

  Love, his face blackened by smoke, grinned at Colby. ‘You-all sure found somethin’ here to write about!’ he yelled.

  Many of the Federal soldiers who had bolted for the woods had tossed down their weapons and Love’s men were picking them up in armfuls. Baggage, wagons, newly-slaughtered and dressed sides of beef lay around in confusion, and Love’s men were rounding up blue-coated soldiers in dozens. Then scattered shooting started from the woods but Sigsbee had brought his guns round the trees at the gallop and, swinging round, the iron-shod wheels carving the turf into great black swathes, they came into line. Men jumped off at the run and within a moment one of them banged out in a puff of white smoke. As it rolled back, bouncing on its wheels, they saw the shell strike the trees, bringing two of them down. Two more guns were brought into action and they could see the Federals moving about in the undergrowth searching for shelter. Then a rider burst from the wood and started westwards, low over his horse’s neck.

  ‘Gone to tell Custer,’ Love commented to Farley as he watched with narrowed eyes. ‘We’d better call the boys off, Ed.’

  Gathering the troopers into column, they trotted back up the slope and round the edge of the woods, every man with coats, trousers and boots strung across his saddle, rifles and pistols festooning his figure, and bottles, tins and sacks of food hanging from his belt. Behind them, mounted on captured horses or wagon mules, were the prisoners, sometimes riding two to a mount, and behind them again, driven by troopers whose mounts trotted on lead reins in rear, three dozen wagons loaded with equipment, clothing and food. ‘Reckon we’d better go find Jabez now,’ Love said. ‘Before Custer finds him for us.’

  They found Jerkins sitting on a hill near Parks Bridge staring into the distance. It was bitterly cold now and there had been a few flurries of snow, so that he was wrapped in a blanket as he gazed through his telescope. He was a lugubrious-looking man with a dreadful scar, gained at Chancellorsville, stretching down the side of his face.

  ‘Custer ain’t givin’ up none,’ he said. ‘He’s still heading for Charlottesville. But Curtis came back to say the general was moving between him and Lee. There’s one other thing.’ He gestured into the distance. ‘He’s sent one regiment back towards Marble Stop.’ Jenkins grinned, his thin face crinkling under its fuzz of beard. ‘It’s right there in front, Colonel, all on its ownsome, looking for a fight.’

  Love grinned. ‘Maybe we’d better give ’em one,’ he said. ‘That Custer’s goin’ to split his force just once too often.’

  Leaving the guns to catch up, Love drove his men as fast as they could ride and came up with the Federal horsemen at noon the following day. Scouting ahead, Jenkins had found a position in the trees across their path and Love sent one of his squadrons to the right under Farley to watch the flank.

  They waited in silence as the first file of blue-coated men breasted the hill where they had halted. As they paused on the summit, they seemed to suspect something was wrong, then they began to move warily forward again.

  ‘Classic ambush,’ Love observed calmly. ‘Get out your little notebook, Coll. These aren’t lines of supply troops, and we’ll show you how we deal with ’em.’

  The Union soldiers still seemed uncertain and Jenkins was rocking back and forth in his saddle as if trying to urge them on. ‘We got ’em,’ he breathed. ‘Come on, Bluebellies. A bit further. Just a bit further.’

  As he spoke, however, a shot brought their heads round and Colby saw a Union vedette go tearing along the fringe of the trees towards the column, pointing back to where Love’s men waited.

  ‘Goddam!’ Love snapped. ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘The sonofabitch saw us!’ Jenkins wailed as the Federals immediately began to open out into line, and an officer came tearing up the slope to place himself in front.

  ‘Guess this is it,’ Love said, and the Confederates moved out of the trees at a trot across the long slope towards the waiting Union troops.

  The Federal cavalry had halted again, as if uncertain what they were facing, and for a while there was a lot of manoeuvring and waiting. Then the column of Union soldiers came over the summit of the hill in line of battle, drawing slowly nearer until they were within four hundred yards of the Confederates. The officer in front waved his sword to order a charge and it looked for a moment as if the whole line was going to crash into the Confederate ranks. But Colby noticed that a number of the blue-coated horsemen were reining in and he knew immediately what it meant. The untrained Russian cavalry at Balaclava had shown the same hesitation when faced by the Heavies, and the British, leaping at once to a charge as their forward momentum stopped, had routed twice their own number. These men in front of him were inexperienced and as uneager to advance as the Russians.

  ‘Now,’ he said to Love. ‘Now!’

  Love gave him a fleeting grin and a nod, then turned to order a charge. As he did so, there was a crackle of firing from the blue line and he was flung back, his spine bending over the crown of the saddle. Two more saddles were also emptied and as Love recovered his balance and huddled, bent double over his horse’s neck, Colby heard him groan.

  ‘Jesus Christ and all His pink angels,’ he moaned. ‘The bastards have hit me!’

  His face had gone grey and he was already swaying. As a sergeant appeared alongside and held him upright, he lifted his head, slowly as if it weighed a ton, and held out his sword to Colby.

  ‘You rode at Balaclava?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Then go to it. Show the boys how to do it.’

  Colby gazed at him for a moment then he took the sword and spurred to the front of the line. Federal pistols were still crackling away and two more men rolled from the saddle and a horse went down with a crash. Ackroyd had joined him, no longer mounted on his ridiculous little horse but on one of the splendid Union chargers captured at Marble Stop. He, too had seen the opportunity that had been presented and was settling himself in the saddle and reaching for the sabre he had acquired.

  As the Union firing died, Colby sensed that the blue-coated men had all discharged their weapons in the surprise of seeing the Confederates and, now feverishly trying to reload, were virtually defenceless.

  ‘Sabres!’ he roared. ‘While they’re hesitating!’

  It was against all the rules of the game as played on this side of the Atlantic but he sensed he was right. Then, as he set off up the slope followed by Ackroyd, it occurred to him that, since he wasn’t a Confederate officer, he might be heading for the enemy alone. But, glancing round, he saw that the grey line was following him, not exactly with the precision of a line of highly-drilled British cavalry, but well enough. Here and there it ballooned as the men watched their front rather than their neighbours, and in parts where men had better mounts it had even edged in front of him so that he could see the bobbing rumps and floating tails and the clods of turf kicked up by iron-shod hooves. A wild yell broke out and he could see several of the men, caught by the elation of the charge, swinging their swords.

  ‘Points,’ he screamed. ‘Give points!’

  A Union battery had appeared over the crown of the hill and was trying to swing into line. The guns had already been unhitched and the teams were being trotted back down the slope as the two lines came together. Colby was several lengths ahead of his nearest men, with Ackroyd just on his quarter, and seeing the screaming horsemen coming towards them, the Bluecoats had started to edge backwards so that the shock of the collision sent the whole line recoiling on itself. Horses reared and fell as they were barged backwards and several went down, their riders flung under the flashing hooves.

  Colby found himself facing the officer who had taken command. He was a big man with a black beard, but he hadn’t the slightest idea how to use a sabre. As he slashed, Colby parried and, as he thrust under his guard, the officer vanished over the tail of his horse. There had been no time for Colby to bind the sword knot of the weapon round his hand and it was wrenched from his hand. A
s he swung away, reaching for his pistol, he saw the grey line surge among the Federals, fighting hand-to-hand in a din of clashing sabres, the rattle of small arms, frenzied curses and appeals for mercy. A sergeant on a bay horse broke from the mêlée and headed for Colby, swinging a rifle by its barrel. Grabbing for Love’s LeMatt, Colby cocked it with his thumb. The kick as he pulled the trigger almost knocked him off his horse but the sergeant’s face disappeared in a bubbling mask of red, and he crashed past, both the reins and the rifle dropped, to claw at his face. As he brushed by, spraying Colby with blood, a thin high shriek came from the hole where his mouth had been.

  ‘Christ, sir,’ Ackroyd said, appearing alongside. ‘What the ’ell was in that thing?’

  The blue line was beginning to fray now as the outside riders drew back, and finally the whole lot began to turn their horses and swing away, the Confederates in pursuit. There was a pell-mell rush, and Colby saw a second smaller column of blue-coated riders coming up the slope to the rescue.

  But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Farley’s squadron coming across the field flat out, crouching over the necks of their horses, the animals at a stretch gallop, manes and tails flying. There was a distinct crash as they smashed into the side of the fresh squadron. Horses and men went down, bowled over by the impetus of the charge and Colby found himself with Ackroyd and several others swirling round the battery. Guriners jabbed at him with sponge staffs and one of the guns actually fired. Men went down as the shell tore through the crowded riders, then a sword smashed down on the head of the gunner and he rolled between the wheels, screaming, blood pouring through his fingers as they clutched at his scalp.

  There was no longer any leadership on either side. Farley’s men were boring in from the flank, mingling with the rest of the grey-coated riders, then abruptly, the Federals broke and fell back, the Confederates still locked with them in a confused battle.

  ‘Rally,’ Colby roared. ‘Rally on me!’

  He swung his horse in circles, his pistol high in the air. At first he thought the wild Confederate horsemen hadn’t enough discipline to obey, but gradually the fighting died and they swung away in ones and twos and groups to line up behind him. The Federal cavalry were streaming away through the woods now, followed by infantry who paused from time to time to fire a volley.

  Farley appeared, grinning, his face dripping sweat despite the cold. ‘Guess we’d better vamoose, son,’ he said. ‘Before that Custer finds out. That sure was a neat bit o’ work.’

  As the smoke slowly drifted away, the field was littered with blue-clad figures, one or two of them trying to crawl to safety on hands and knees. A sergeant appeared alongside Colby carrying two guidons.

  ‘Thought these here would look right nice in your boudoir, sir,’ he said, saluting.

  ‘You don’t salute me,’ Colby said. ‘I’m not your officer.’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Sure looked like you was, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s the first time I ever seen anybody win a battle with cutlery.’

  Six

  ‘According to Micah Love, Mr Goff, you distinguished yourself near Parks Bridge.’

  With Love safely established in bed, Colby, still haggard with weariness, his clothes daubed with mud, waited as Stuart rolled up the map he had been studying. With generations of horsemen behind him, Love’s sortie had been meat and drink to him.

  With Custer’s remaining half-column quartering the countryside for the men who had destroyed his supplies, it had been Colby who had got the regiment on the road again. The river had been high when they had regained it and, with the horses exhausted and the weary riders’ heads hanging almost to the pommels as they dozed in the saddles, there had been a danger that they would be trapped, until Colby, riding up and down the bank, found the abutments of an old bridge. Jenkins’ skill as a builder had been clear as he had dragged down a deserted barn and used the ancient timbers to reconstruct it, and, as Colby and Sigsbee’s guns had waited with the rearguard, the wagons had trundled across. Smoke was already curling from the timbers as the last man reached safety and, as they had turned their horses at the top of the far bank to watch the flames, they had seen the first of Custer’s troopers galloping down to the river.

  Stuart was still studying Colby speculatively. ‘You have a cavalryman’s eye, I think,’ he said. ‘Why not join us? We could do with good men. I could find you a place on my staff and arrange with Richmond to grant you a major’s rank.’

  Colby shook his head. ‘I was only helping, sir. The Morning Advertiser might object if they found their correspondent getting too involved.’

  Stuart sighed. ‘I have to accept your decision,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, you’d better ride to Neese Ford. Colonel Love has relations there who’ll probably wish to be with him until he’s recovered.’

  The road south was rutted by wagons and caissons, and occasionally they came across wrecks with shattered wheels and the whitened skeletons of mules and horses. Virginia creeper had already half covered them, its flaming colours fading. In a hollow in the trees they passed a wrecked gun and, in a clearing in a cornfield, the grave of a group of Northern soldiers killed in a raid south during the summer. There were no names, just regimental buttons tied to the crude crosses and the single message – ‘Nine Northern Soldiers. Rest in God.’

  The wild pawpaws had been opened by the frost and the rhododendrons and mountain laurel were busy with feeding quail. Behind, mountains like gigantic wagons marched southwards into infinity.

  Neese Ford rested in a valley below the curve of a hill, and a river ran in the shadows where withered frosty grass lay among the dead remains of the summer’s flowers. On top of the slope was a farm building that had been built of clapboard as if it had originated in Kent. It was painted white with dark green shutters, and hanging over it were leafless oaks. Beyond it, the winter fields were white with rime.

  Colby stared about him. Ackroyd and the two troopers who had accompanied them were tethering their mounts to the rail and hitching at their trousers.

  ‘Give ’em a shout,’ Colby said.

  ‘Anybody to home?’ One of the troopers threw back his head and yelled.

  There was no sound.

  ‘Guess they’ve gone to Richmond, or mebbe Atlanta or Charleston,’ the trooper said. ‘It’s a mite safer down there.’

  The house appeared to be empty, though everything was in order, the antimacassars neat on the chairs, the family photographs in rows on a sideboard. Then Colby saw a glass of tea with the steam still curling above it.

  ‘Somebody’s home,’ he said. ‘Give ’em another yell.’

  The silence after the trooper’s shout seemed deeper than before and Colby frowned. There were no cattle or horses in the fields, no negro workers, and no indication of life. Yet the house didn’t look neglected, despite the peeling paint. Suddenly wary of marauders, he laid his hand on the gigantic LeMatt revolver Love had given him. Then, in the silence, he heard a shot, and, dashing round the house, saw one of the troopers just pushing his carbine back into its saddle bucket. Twenty yards away a turkey lay kicking in the roadway, a few feathers still floating down.

  ‘Came out as cool as you please,’ the trooper said. ‘Thought at first it was a Yankee.’

  He picked up the turkey and, using his knife to bare the tendons of a leg, threaded the other through it and hung the bird over the pommel of his saddle.

  The shot had brought no reaction from the house and, finally convinced nobody was at home, Colby was standing near the closed doors of the stable when he heard a faint clink inside. Swinging round, he put his eye to a crack in the door. Inside he could see a big chestnut horse. As he began to open the door, a female voice stopped him.

  ‘You-all! Hold hard!’ The voice was firm, strong and unhesitating. ‘You’re not havin’ my horse! It’s the last we’ve got and we need it!’

  ‘Look–!’

  ‘I’ve got an axe in my hand,’ the voice came again. ‘You just open
those doors and I’ll sink it in your head. I mean it. I aim to keep this horse.’

  ‘For God’s sake –’ Colby’s voice rose ‘– who wants to steal your damned horse, Ma’am? I’ve come from General Stuart with a message for you.’

  There was a long silence, then he heard chains being moved and a bolt being pushed back. Slowly the door opened and through the gap a girl emerged.

  ‘Who’re you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m from the cavalry.’

  ‘I can tell that – from the smell of the horses! Whose cavalry?’

  ‘General Stuart’s. I’ve been sent to find you.’

  For a moment she didn’t speak. She was very young, tiny with a heart-shaped face and enormous slanting violet eyes under a fringe of dark hair. Her mouth was too wide, though it curved upwards at the ends as though she enjoyed laughter, and her body was slender to the point of skinniness, lacking the rich curves of Hannah-May Burtle, her wrists so thin they looked brittle, though he noticed that she held the restive horse without trouble.

  Though her appearance was undramatic, her face a curious mixture, as though it had been put together haphazardly, her straight back and her wary expression indicated a firm will, a strong mind and a no-nonsense attitude to handsome strangers appearing on her land. Wondering what Georgina would have done if she’d been faced with a Northern cavalryman, Colby decided she’d probably have had a fit of the vapours and got herself raped for her trouble.

  Small as she was, the girl was staring at him hostilely. ‘How do know you’re not Yankees?’ she asked.

  ‘Do I sound like a Yankee? I’m English.’

  ‘Then why’re you wearing blue?’

  ‘It’s not a uniform.’

  ‘Your men are wearing blue pants.’

  ‘Taken from Yankee cavalrymen, Ma’am. Two days ago. At Marble Stop. We gave ’em a bloody nose.’

  ‘You a Southern officer?’ She wasn’t intending to relax without good reason.