by Джон Джейкс
Sweet clover scented the June night. The fires shone along the whole southern horizon. In camp, a few men were resting, writing letters, or playing cards with decks in which the court cards were portraits of generals and politicians. Mr. Davis, popular in the first year of the war, was seldom seen in the newer decks.
Most of the troopers had no time for recreation, however. They were sewing and polishing because Stuart had ordered every man to find or fix up a good uniform for the review. Much as Charles disliked the whole idea, he intended to look as presentable as possible and even unpack the Solingen sword. If Jeb wanted a show, he would do his best to contribute.
Brandy Station had been named for an old stagecoach stop famous for apple brandy served to travelers; the apples grew in orchards close by. Now the Orange & Alexandria line served the place. On Saturday the special trains started rolling in early, the cars packed with politicians and gaily dressed ladies, most of whom would attend both the review and General Stuart's ball at Culpeper that night.
In open meadows near long and relatively flat Fleetwood Hill, just above the village crossroads, Stuart's cavalry performed for the visitors. Columns of horse charged with drawn sabers. Artillery batteries raced, wheeled, loaded, and fired demonstration rounds. Flags and music and the warm smell of summer moved in the breeze that brushed over vistas of tasseled corn and flourishing wheat. Charles and the rest of Hampton's scouts took their turn galloping past the guests and reviewing officers gathered along the rail line. Speeding by, Charles saw the black plume on Stuart's hat dip and flutter; the general had bobbed his head when he recognized his old West Point acquaintance.
After the long and tiring review, Charles returned to his encampment, anticipating a good meal and a sound sleep. Tomorrow he had to scout the river near Kelly's Ford. He was putting up Sport when an orderly appeared.
"Captain Main? General Fitzhugh Lee presents his compliments and requests the captain's company at his headquarters tent this evening. Supper will be served before the ball, which the general may not attend."
"Why not?"
"The general has been sick, sir. Do you know the location of his headquarters?"
"Oak Shade Church?"
"That's correct, sir. May General Lee expect you?"
"I don't plan to go to the ball either. Tell Fitz — the general I accept with pleasure."
That's a damn lie, he thought as the orderly left. Everyone knew Fitz was Stuart's favorite and still jealous of Hampton outranking him because of seniority of appointment. Hampton's partisans, in turn, sneered at Fitz, saying he had risen rapidly solely because he was Old Bob's nephew. Might be something to it. Two of the five brigades of horse were led by Lees — Fitz and the general's son, Rooney.
Uncomfortable about the invitation, Charles spent the next couple of hours cleaning his uniform. At least he had the gift sword to smarten his appearance. Presently he mounted Sport and rode down a lane flanked by fields where bees hummed in the white clover blossoms. The sun was sinking. Northward, the I heights of Fleetwood swam in blue haze.
Wish I could get out of here and see Gus, he thought. Something's mighty wrong about this campaign.
"Glad you accepted the invitation, Bison. I've been feeling I poorly of late. Rheumatism. I need some good company."
Fitz did indeed look pale and unhealthy. His beard was big and bushy as ever, his uniform immaculate, but he lacked his customary vigor; he talked and moved lethargically.
He expressed surprise that his old friend didn't intend to enjoy the company of the ladies gathering at Culpeper. To which Charles replied, "I have a lady of my own now. I'd have invited her, but I couldn't get a message to her soon enough."
"Is it a serious affair of the heart? Going to settle down when this muss is over?"
"Could be, General. I've been thinking about it."
"Let's dispense with general and captain for one evening," Fitz said. He gestured his friend to a camp chair. "The old names will do."
Charles smiled and relaxed. "All right."
The fireball of the sun rested on the low hills in the west. The open tent was breezy and comfortable. One of Fitz's officers joined them for whiskey served by a Negro body servant. Colonel Tom Rosser, a handsome young Texan, had been ready to graduate in the class of May '61 when he resigned to fight for the South. The three cavalrymen chatted easily for fifteen minutes. Rosser twice mentioned a cadet in the later, June, class of '61 who was with the Union.
"Name's George Custer. He's a lieutenant. Aide to Pleasonton. I used to consider him a friend, but I reckon I can't any longer."
Thinking of friendships and Hampton, Charles cast an oblique glance at the general. Why had Fitz invited him? For the reason he gave — company? Or another?
On the subject of Custer, Fitz said, "I hear they call him Crazy Curly."
"Why's that?" Charles asked.
Rosser laughed. "You'd know if you saw him. In fact, you'd recognize him instantly. Hair down to here —" He tapped his shoulder. "Wears a big scarlet scarf around his neck — looks like a damn circus rider gone mad." Softly, more reflectively, he added, "He doesn't lack courage, though."
"I've also heard he doesn't lack for ambition," Fitz remarked. "On the peninsula they called him Pleasonton's Pet."
In the universal fashion of cavalrymen, the three officers fell to discussing the strong and weak points of other opponents. Pleasonton got poor marks, but Fitz and Rosser were impressed by the exploits of a heretofore unknown colonel, Grierson, of Illinois. In late April, to divert attention from Grant at Vicksburg, Grierson had led seventeen hundred horse on a daring ride from LaGrange, Tennessee, to Baton Rouge, tearing up railroad tracks and killing and imprisoning Confederate soldiers along the way.
"Six hundred miles in slightly more than two weeks," Rosser grumbled. "I'd say they've been reading our book."
As the evening went on, Charles found himself growing depressed. He said little and watched his friend Fitz with a feeling amounting to envy. For a young man, Fitz had indeed come a long way — and not solely because of family connections. He had a reputation as a good officer, and he had certainly changed his style since Academy days, when he delighted in thumbing his nose at the rules.
Presently Rosser stood up, putting on his dress hat. "I must go. Pleasure to meet you, Captain Main. Heard good things about you. Hope we'll see you again."
Rosser's final remark seemed to pass some coded message to Fitz. As the general's Negro put tin plates of beef and spoon bread before them, Fitz said, "You're wasting your time with old Hampton, you know. I lost a colonel to gangrene a week ago. His regiment's yours if you want it."
Caught short, Charles stammered, "Fitz, that — well, that's very flattering."
"The devil with that. There are too many problems in this war, right down to and including my rheumatism, for me to squander a minute on flattery. You're a fine cavalryman, an able leader, and if I may say so, you're serving with a commander who is not all he should be — now wait. Don't bristle."
"But I've been with General Hampton for two years. I signed on with him when he raised his legion in Columbia. He has first claim on my loyalty." "Rightly so. However —"
"He's a competent officer and a brave one."
"No one doubts Wade Hampton's courage. But the man is — well — not young. And on occasion he has displayed a certain timidity."
"Fitz, with all due respect, please don't say any more. You're my friend, but Hampton is the best officer I've ever served under."
Fitz cooled noticeably. "Do you include General Stuart in that statement?"
"I'd sooner not elaborate, except on one point. What some call timidity, others call prudence — or wisdom. Hampton concentrates his forces before he attacks! He wants a victory, not casualties or headlines."
Fitz practically bit the spoon bread off his fork. "Amos? Get in here with the whiskey." As the servant poured, Fitz eyed his visitor with disappointment and annoyance. "Your loyalty may be commendable, Charle
s, but I still insist you're wasting your talents." No more nickname; the reunion had soured. "Most every officer who graduated from West Point when we did is a colonel or a major — at minimum."
That hurt. Charles took a breath. "For what it's worth, I was in the promotion line two years ago. I made some mistakes."
"I know all about what you term your mistakes. They're not as serious as you may imagine. Grumble Jones and Beverly Robertson are disciplinarians, too. Both lost elections to colonel because of it. But new commands were found for —"
"Fitz," he interrupted, "haven't I made myself clear? What I'm doing suits me. I don't want or need a new command."
Silence fell in the tent. Outside, the black servant could be heard pottering at his camp stove. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Charles. If you won't go where you can be most useful, why fight for the South at all?"
The faint scorn angered Charles. "But I'm not fighting for the South if that means slavery or a separate country. I'm fighting for the place where I live. My land. My home. That's why most of the men joined up. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Davis understands that."
Fitz shrugged and began to eat quickly. "Sorry to hurry you, but I must make an attempt to get to the ball. By the way, General Lee has announced himself available on Monday. General Stuart has ordered a review."
"Another one? What's he thinking of? Today's review tired the horses and put the men in bad temper. We should be watching for Yankees north of the river, not expending more energy on military foppery."
Fitz cleared his throat. "Let us agree those remarks were never uttered. Thank you for coming, Charles. I'm afraid you will have to excuse me now."
The evening taught Charles a gloomy lesson. He and Fitz could no longer be friends. They were divided by rank, by opinion, and by all the political pulling and hauling of command. Next day an incident near Kelly's Ford deepened his gloom. Scouting northeast of the Rappahannock, beyond the picket outposts, he and Ab stopped at a small farm to water their horses and refill their canteens. The householder, a skinny old man, struck up a conversation. With a bewildered air, he told them that his two elderly slaves, husband and wife, had run off the day before yesterday.
"Couldn't get over it. Still can't. They was always so nice. Smiling, biddable darkies — been that way ever since I bought 'em six years ago."
"We had a lot of that in South Carolina," Charles said. "Folks call it puttin' on ol' massa."
"Can't understand it," the farmer said, staring right through him. "I fed 'em. Didn't whip 'em but three or four times. I fixed up presents for 'em ever' Christmas — cakes, little jams and jellies, things like that —"
"Come on, Ab," Charles said wearily, while the old man continued to condemn the ingratitude. Charles mounted, and scratched the inside of his left leg. His case of camp itch was worsening. At least the rash wasn't as bad as the clap that several scouts had caught from camp followers who dignified themselves with the title laundress.
Bound back toward Brandy Station, Charles pictured the foolish farmer with dismay, then disgust. More and more lately, he saw the peculiar institution for what it was and always had been. The reality of it — from the point of view of those enslaved, anyway — could be nothing less than fear and rage behind a deceptive mask. The kind of mask that had to be worn if the slave meant to survive.
Gus would understand his feelings about slavery, though he dared not express them to Ab or anyone else with whom he served. He was beginning to think that whereas he was fighting for his home, the politicians in charge of things were fighting for slogans, rhetoric, a "cause." A wrong one, at that.
No ladies attended the review on Monday; it was a less pleasant event for that reason. Less pleasant, too, because some idiot invited John Hood, and he brought his entire infantry division. The cavlarymen growled threats of what they would do if a foot soldier dared to taunt them with the familiar, "Mister, where's your mule?"
As Charles feared, the review exhausted everyone — and they were supposed to be ready to advance Tuesday morning. He and Ab rode directly from the review field, where they had glimpsed Bob Lee, handsome as ever but graying rapidly, to Hampton's encampment. Charles's sleep was restless, and he woke abruptly, jerking his head off the saddle and rolling out of his blanket to bugling and the drummers pounding out the long roll.
It was just daybreak. The camp was in turmoil. Ab ran up, swirling the fog that had settled during the night. He carried their coffeepot in such a way that Charles knew he hadn't had a chance to heat it.
"Off your ass, Charlie. General Stuart paid too damn much attention to the ladies an' not enough to the bluebellies. A whole cavalry division's across the river at Beverly Ford."
"Whose?"
"They say it's Buford's. He's got infantry an' God knows what else. They may be crossin' at Kelly's, too. Nobody's sure."
The bugler sounded boots and saddles with several sour notes. "They's thousands of 'em," Ab said, dropping the enameled pot. "They come out of the fog an' took the pickets clean by surprise. We're s'posed to go along with Butler to scout an' guard the rear."
Whips cracked. Great ships in a sea of soft gray mist, Stuart's headquarters wagons loomed at the edge of the camp, bound for safety at Culpeper. Damn, Charles thought. Caught napping. But it wouldn't have happened with Hampton in charge. He grabbed his shotgun and blanket, flung his saddle on his other shoulder, and ran like hell after Ab Woolner.
Charles knew Ab must have had a hard night. First he yelled at some hospital rats scurrying to the surgeons with imaginary complaints, a familiar sight whenever cannonading began. Ab cursed a blue storm when he saw two perfectly good boots lying in weeds. Unshod men, like unshod horses, couldn't fight and weren't expected to — and some fucking yellow dog, as Ab characterized him, had shed his boots to escape what looked like a very bad day.
Riding hard in thinning fog, Charles and Ab soon pulled away from the detachment of Butler's sent to screen the southern approaches to Fleetwood Hill, where Stuart's headquarters on high ground was the obvious target of enemy artillery banging away from the southeast. In a small grove of pines above Stevensburg, Charles reined in suddenly. Beyond the trees, half a dozen Union troopers were approaching on a dirt track beside a field of ripening wheat. Alarmingly, Charles saw no sign of the famous mountains of gear the Southern cavalry scornfully termed "Yankee fortifications." The enemy riders carried weapons, nothing else.
"Let's dodge around them, Ab. We'll get to Stevensburg faster."
Haggard, not to say hostile, Ab stared at him. "Let's kill us some Yanks. Then we'll get to Stevensburg for sure."
"Listen, we're only supposed to take a look and see whether —"
"What's wrong with you, Charlie? Lost your nerve 'cause of that gal?"
"You son of a bitch —"
But Ab was already galloping from the pines, double-barrel shotgun booming.
Any Southerner caught with one of those weapons was subject to hanging, the Yankees said. But the two Ab blew from their saddles would never report him. Dry-mouthed, Charles kneed Sport forward.
Bullets buzzed by. As soon as he got in range he gave the Yanks both barrels. That disposed of four. The last two wheeled right and plunged into the wheat to escape. Ab pounded toward Stevensburg without a backward glance. Charles hated his friend because he had stated the truth.
On sunny Fleetwood Hill that afternoon, Jeb Stuart's cavalry waged a new kind of war. They fought Union troopers who swung sabers and handled their mounts as expertly as any Southern boy raised to hunt and spear the hanging rings on lance point. The Yanks drove Stuart off the hill, and by the time Charles and Ab returned from Stevensburg, every available trooper was being pressed into the fight to regain it. Hampton was back from Beverly Ford, where he had been rushed for the unsuccessful attempt to stop Buford. Two more divisions of Union horse had forced Kelly's. No wonder; the untalented Robertson commanded that sector.
Stevensburg, too, had been a disaster. Near there, Frank Hampton had been sa
bered, then shot to death. Calbraith Butler held his position against the charging Yankees, but at the cost of having a flying shell fragment strike his right foot, nearly blowing it off. The fine troopers of the Fourth Virginia had been routed — a disastrous, confused, angry gallop to the rear — and Charles and Ab had been caught in that for a time.
At Fleetwood, the squadrons rallied, and Stuart shouted, "Give them the saber, boys!" and the buglers blew Trot and Gallop and finally Charge. Up the slopes they went, in sunshine that quickly dimmed behind smoke and dust.
Though Charles couldn't see him, he knew Ab was riding somewhere close by. They had exchanged no words except essential ones since the incident in the pine grove. Charles knew his friend had blurted the accusation because he was tired and tense. But that made it no less telling.
Sport galloped as he always did when riding to the sound of guns — head up, alert and eager. Charles could feel the gray's nervousness — it was his own. Horse and rider fused, centaurlike, in a way old cavalry hands took for granted after they had ridden one animal a long time. Old legion sword raised, Charles screamed the rebel yell, along with thousands around him.
Then they were onto the heights of Fleetwood. Artillery wheeling. Sabers ringing. Pistols flashing. Horses and men tangling. Formations dissolving. Charles fought with a fury he'd never had before. It was necessary to redeem himself in Ab's eyes. It was necessary because the enemy was a new kind of enemy.
Blood drops accumulated in his beard. He gave up the sword for the shotgun, the shotgun for the revolver, then went back to the weapon of last resort when he had no time to reload.
He came upon a dismounted man in gray, reached down to help him. The man struck at him with a rammer staff, nearly took his head off before Charles backed away and thrust his sword into the Yank's chest. Thick dust was graying many a blue uniform that afternoon. A man could die being a moment late to discern the color.