by Max Hennessy
‘No, Ma’am,’ Colby said. ‘I’m not.’
‘Then what were you doing at Marble Stop with Southern soldiers?’
‘Mere accident, Ma’am. I’m supposed to be a correspondent for the Morning Advertiser in London.’
The blaze went out of her eyes and she dropped her gaze and blushed. ‘Everybody wants to steal our horses,’ she said. ‘We’ve only got one left to pull the buggy. I’m Augusta Burtle Dabney.’
‘Handsome name, Miss Augusta.’
‘Big,’ she agreed. ‘Important. Maybe because I’m so small. Most people call me Gussie. Who’re you?’
‘Colby Goff, Miss Gussie.’
She gave a sudden grin that changed her whole face, melting the stern expression and setting her mouth in a long curve.
‘Guess I’d better call Ma,’ she said. ‘She’s upstairs hiding with her head under a pillow.’ She was about to turn away when she stopped again, frowning. ‘You said you’d got a message from General Stuart,’ she went on. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes, Miss Gussie. I don’t bring the best of news. Your cousin, Micah Love, was hurt at Parks Bridge and the General thought you might like to come to his bedside.’
For a second she gaped at him then the violet eyes blazed again. ‘Land’s sakes!’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Here, get this animal into the buggy while I go get Ma.’
They left within the hour, Mrs Dabney, a plump, pink-faced woman who clearly hadn’t her daughter’s straightforward courage huddled in rugs alongside Ackroyd, who was driving the carriage. The troopers rode as vanguard, and Colby trotted behind with the girl, who sat astride Ackroyd’s horse, her skirts carefully draped to cover her legs. Despite its size, she had it well under control.
‘Born in the saddle,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Did a few laps before breakfast every mornin’ on Pa’s back. ‘We all ride ’cept Ma, who came from Atlanta and only saw a horse when it was between shafts.’ She ran her hand over the pommel of the saddle. ‘Ought to be a side saddle, by rights. Pa’d have fits if he saw me like this.’
Colby eyed her curiously. ‘Don’t all that horse-sweaty leather come a bit hard on your – er–’
‘My unmentionables?’ She gave him a quick smile and lifted the edge of her skirt. Underneath it, he saw a pair of boots and cord trousers. ‘Belonged to my brother Marston. He was a bit younger then. They fit me fine.’
‘There was talk of a ball. You’ll find ’em a bit warm for dancing, won’t you?’
She flashed him another smile. ‘I got other unmentionables,’ she said. ‘With frills and lace and all on ’em. Packed in the trunk. I also got a hoop skirt. Still has the white roses of 1860 on it. It was my cousin Louie’s. She married a boy from Memphis and gave it to me when she went down there to live. It’s right handsome, but it looked better on her, I guess. I haven’t the shape.’
‘Where’s your brother now?’
Her face tightened. ‘He was killed at Gettysburg. I’ve got another with a Philadelphia regiment.’
‘A Northerner?’
‘It’s not all that odd,’ she retorted sharply. ‘You ask General Stuart. His wife’s father’s a Northern general and her brother’s fightin’ for the South.’
‘Where do your sympathies lie?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘With the boys who do the fighting,’ she said quickly. ‘Of both sides. It’s a politicians’ war.’
‘I suspect they all are.’
‘And the South’s going to lose it, I think.’
It was the first cold logical appraisal of the situation he’d heard from anyone and it startled him, coming from a girl.
‘You think so?’
‘Don’t you?’
There was no point in beating about the bush. She seemed strong-minded enough to look harsh facts in the face.
‘Yes, Miss Gussie, I do.’
She seemed satisfied that he had agreed with her. ‘I think all we can do now is go on fightin’ until we can finally give up with honour.’ She managed a wry smile. ‘Maybe it’s the best thing, anyway, because peace will be awful.’
She seemed so small and slight, and at the same time so realistic and courageous, he found he was concerned. ‘What’ll happen to you?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll be all right. Pa has business interests in Washington. They’re bein’ looked after. That’s how my brother, Tom, came to join the Northerners. Marston stayed in the south. He was here when it started and he and Micah Love were friends.’
‘It’s a strange position.’
She gave him her quick grin. ‘It couldn’t be more neutral, though, could it? I expect it’ll be all right whoever wins. My father knows Abe Lincoln. Either way, we shan’t sit and weep. Ma might, but not Pa and me. We’re not that kind. If we win, that’s fine. If God should decide it goes the other way, I for one shan’t walk about with my heart on my sleeve cryin’ for the old days.’ She paused. ‘Last year it was easier. I guess we’re beginnin’ to see it different now.’
The skies were heavy as they stopped at an inn along the road. The place was in a state of disrepair and run entirely by a worn-looking woman whose husband was with Lee. There was little to offer but bacon, coffee and potatoes.
‘It’s like this all over the state now,’ Mrs Dabney said sorrowfully. ‘They tell me there are women and children and old folk who never taste anythin’ but boiled oats and corn meal mess.’
‘Even the Yankees have to bring their own provisions when they come south,’ Augusta went on. ‘It’s better in Atlanta, of course, but even they’ve not got much to laugh about, with all the luxuries stopped by the blockade and all the boys with the army.’
It was still bitterly cold when they went outside again and the sky seemed full of crows that moved from one clump of trees to another, cawing dismally, like a flock of evil omens. Augusta watched them with her huge slanting eyes, her thick dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
‘There’s nothing to fear from the Yankees down here,’ Colby said.
‘It isn’t the Yankee troops I’m thinkin’ of,’ she said. ‘It’s the end of the war.’ She watched the crows for a little longer. ‘It was excitin’ at first,’ she said slowly. ‘Even to me. There were even times when I wished I could be with the armies and Ma once slapped me when I said I ought to go and work in the hospitals. But you got swept along. Everythin’ was so wonderful. There was victory after victory and everybody said the Yankees were cowards.’ She stopped again. ‘I guess they weren’t really. Then when General Lee took the army north last year we were all wild with excitement and began to say the Yankees would know what it was like to have the war fought over their countryside. We wanted to see Pennsylvania a sheet of flame. I guess I did anyway, and we all said with one more victory the war would be over.’
Colby listened quietly. In her words was a nation’s agony.
‘But then in July all the news stopped.’ Her voice had grown quieter. ‘It was slow in comin’ because it had to come a long way. And when nothin’ arrived we began to dread what had happened. It was not knowin’ was the worst. While we waited, we heard that Vicksburg had fallen and the Confederacy was cut in two. That was bad enough, but just then we hardly noticed. I was in Richmond at the time visitin’ with my kinfolk and everybody knew somethin’ dreadful had happened. People waited in groups and stood on porches in the sun, tryin’ to say no news was good news when they knew it wasn’t anythin’ of the kind. Then we started gettin’ rumours that a big battle at Gettysburg had been lost.’ She sat in the saddle stiff and straight, her face blank, as though reliving a nightmare. ‘People began to wait at the railroad where the telegraph was, but nothin’ came so everybody went to the newspaper office. They brought out casualty lists. My brother’s name was in them. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it.’
Abruptly she relaxed and managed a twisted smile. ‘But, I have, Mr Goff. I have. Most times, anyway.’
Her cheeks grew a little pink, as if she’d talke
d too much, and she looked hard at the crows again. Then she turned to Colby. ‘You-all have learned a lot about me, Mr Goff,’ she said. ‘What about you? Why are you in America writin’ for the papers?’
‘Because I’m a soldier, Miss Gussie.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my father was. And he was because his father was, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. I think we were soldiers when Boadicea fought off the Romans. We’re too stupid to be parsons or go into business, but too honest to be politicians. It only leaves the army. My father was at Waterloo. My great-grandfather raised the regiment I’m in. It’s a good regiment. Nineteenth of the Line. Only cavalry regiment in the British army to wear green.’
‘Why?’
He gazed at her, wondering if she were pulling his leg. ‘Has to,’ he said. ‘Always has.’
She seemed puzzled that it should matter so much and he was equally puzzled that she couldn’t see that it did matter.
She was staring at him coolly. ‘If you’re a soldier, sir,’ she said, ‘how come you’re able to be here writin’. Shouldn’t you be back in England guardin’ your Queen?’
He smiled at her naivety. ‘I think she’s got enough people at home for that,’ he said. ‘I was on sick leave. I had malaria.’
‘We have it further south. Do you have it in England?’
‘I was in India at the time. The Sepoy Mutiny.’
‘Murderin’ black men, I suppose?’
‘At least, Miss Gussie,’ Colby said gently, ‘we only killed ’em. We didn’t make ’em slaves.’
The shaft went home. ‘We never had slaves,’ she said quickly. ‘At least, not many. Why did they send you to India?’
‘Not me in particular. My regiment. It was experience. We’d just come from the fighting in Russia. The Crimea. I expect you’ve heard of it.’
‘ I’ve read Mr Tennyson’s poem. It’s a fine piece. “Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred –”’
‘Not impressed myself,’ Colby said. ‘There were nearly seven hundred of us for a start and we never called it the Valley of Death. That was the Worontzov Ravine, which was a route from the camps to the trenches, and you couldn’t have squeezed a couple of horses down there abreast, let alone ten squadrons.’
She was staring at him with shining eyes. ‘You were with the Light Brigade?’ she said. ‘How is it you weren’t killed?’
‘A few of us managed not to be.’
‘What a hero Lord Cardigan was!’
Colby’s eyebrows rose. ‘I doubt if he’d be considered fit to command a corporal’s picket in your army.’
‘But he was so brave.’
‘Bravery don’t always go hand in hand with virtue. Ask Tyas there. He’s brave enough and he’s even been known to swear.’
‘Was he there, too?’
Ackroyd puffed out his chest. ‘That I was, Miss. Right in the front line be’ind the captain. ’E saved me life. Stuck me on ’is ’orse when I’d been wounded.’
‘And they sent you to India to fight those horrible black murderers after all that?’ She was staring at him with shining eyes now. ‘Were you with Cousin Micah at Parks Bridge?’
‘Couldn’t avoid it. He gave me a shove and there I was, right in the middle; we were hoping we might get Custer, but he was somewhere else and we had to be satisfied with one of his colonels!’
She looked shyly at him. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Goff, not only are we related to General Stuart through my mother’s side, but we’re also related by marriage on the Burtle side to Custer.’
Colby’s eyebrows rose. ‘You certainly do manage to hedge your bets,’ he said.
Seven
When Colby brought Gussie Dabney and her mother to his room, Micah Love was looking pale and thin, but he managed a faint smile.
‘My old flame, Gussie Dabney,’ he murmured.
‘She was never your old flame, Micah Love,’ Mrs Dabney said quickly. ‘Your new flame either.’
‘She used to throw her dolls at me,’ Love whispered. ‘That’s supposed to be a sign of true affection.’
Augusta gave Colby a quick glance and blushed. ‘Well, it wasn’t with me,’ she said. ‘All the same, we’re glad to be here to help.’
Love grinned weakly and indicated Colby. ‘You’ll know by this time all about this handsome devil here, I suppose.’
She became stiff and prim. ‘Mr Goff and I have talked.’
‘Stuart’s throwin’ a dance,’ Love said. ‘It won’t be much because his banjoist, Sweeney, died during the winter – I heard it was smallpox – but it’ll bring a little good cheer. You goin’ to let Gussie go, Mrs Dabney?’
Mrs Dabney was already fluttering round the room, seeking linen and bowls for hot water.
‘I guess I’ll have to,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be hard for everybody to find somethin’ to wear. Everythin’s torn up long since for bandages. They say you can even tell a Yankee spy these days because he’s the only person wearin’ new clothes.’
‘Better down round Texas,’ Love murmured. ‘The people round the coast always got the pick of the blockade runner’s cargoes. Texans were always different, though. They had difficulty raisin’ infantry regiments down there because nobody in Texas walks, and they had to raise mounted regiments then dismount ’em. Y’all goin’ to the dance, Gussie?’
Standing by the bed, small and embarrassed at the teasing, Augusta became severely practical. ‘My duty’s to look after you.’
‘Your duty’s to enjoy yourself, Gussie Dabney. You know Stuart. He likes music and company and if I died tomorrow, you’d have wasted a good evenin’s entertainment. So go to it. If you want to see a good time, jine the cavalry. Doubtless, Mr Goff will lend you his arm.’
It had been in Colby’s mind to seek out Hannah-May Burtle, who was a lot less scrawny and a great deal less prickly, but it was difficult to say so and Love smiled.
‘That’s settled then,’ he said. ‘All I ask is that you come and see me from time to time and bring me a glass of punch. It would be nice to get drunk. At least I’d sleep without pain.’
As Augusta bustled off to join her mother, Love laid his hand on Colby’s sleeve. ‘See she gets a good time,’ he murmured. ‘It might be the last she’ll get for a long while. It might be the last any of us’ll get. The General’s had word that Sheridan’s about to make a move towards Richmond and the whole shebang’ll be movin’ off to get across his route tomorrow.’
When Colby went downstairs, there was a strange air of gaiety and grimness about the house. The Burtle family were busy putting up decorations and hanging regimental flags on the stairs and over the doors, and neighbours kept arriving with precious candles and sweetmeats.
There was a lot of noise and chatter but behind it there was an atmosphere of tension and the men wore smiles that disappeared the minute they were alone. Further news had come in. Two Federal corps were moving down the cold roads from Culpeper towards Madison Court House; Custer, with fifteen hundred well-mounted men, was in Charlottesville at last; and Stuart was intending to head there the following morning. Maps were spread on tables in quiet rooms and wagons were being discreetly loaded behind the house. There was a great deal of pretence, as if nobody knew what was going on, but Colby saw Hannah-May Burtle with tears in her eyes as she gathered a group of girls round her at the grand piano in the library.
A group of musicians with banjoes and fiddles were settling themselves in the big living-room where the carpet had been removed. Despite the cold outside, the room was warm from a blazing fire and aglow with the light of dozens of borrowed candles. As they waited for the music to start, several young officers, one of them a twenty-one-year-old colonel with a wooden leg, clustered round the girls at the piano, their voices thin and reedy over the buzz of conversation in the hall.
The song was clapped and Colby turned to find Augusta Dabney alongside him, the top of her dark head somewhere at the level of his shoulder. She wore a white dress festo
oned with fading roses, and over her shoulders had draped a yellow scarf of silk. The paleness of the colour set off her olive complexion and dark hair and the mysterious violet eyes. Pity she wasn’t a bit less scrawny, he thought, because there was something about her that was curiously disturbing.
She caught his eye on her and lifted the edge of her dress so that he saw the frills round her ankles. ‘Not whipcord this time, Mr Goff,’ she said, giving him a smile that was intimate and warm and indicated that they already shared secrets. ‘They’ll sing again,’ she observed coolly, glancing at the piano. ‘Though they shouldn’t. Cousin Burtle always sings off-key, and the tenor’s flat.’
He gazed at her, impressed by her forthrightness, and she beamed up at him, confident and sure of herself. ‘It’ll rain before the night’s out, Mr Goll,’ she announced. ‘I heard thunder, too. While I was dressin’. Considerin’ the time of the year, I think the Lord’s got it in for us.’
The singing came to its unsteady end and, as the group at the piano split up, Colby heard the steady patter of rain outside. Almost immediately there was a clap of thunder and several of the girls started wailing, putting their hands to their ears and clinging to the arms of the officers. A flash of lightning lit the trees outside with a purple glow and the girls screamed as the thunderclap which followed shook the house.
As the storm struck, the young men made protective noises. They seemed to have come out of the past, their talk, their clothes and their manners reminding Colby strangely of his father. They had arrived in their best, carefully-preserved uniforms, wearing cloaks and riding rangy horses; plumed, bearded, proud, and looking as if they were about to set off for Waterloo. It was the same heady atmosphere his father must have felt that night in Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball fifty years ago, before the two great armies clashed on the hillside at Hougoumont.
There was another clap of thunder and more wails.
‘It’s done for show, Mr Goff.’ The cool appraising voice came from alongside. ‘To show what tender flowers they are. They’re not frightened and neither am I, but if I couldn’t get attention without screaming at thunder, then I guess I’d give up and go home.’