by E. L. Ripley
“What is that you’re drinking?” the man in gray asked.
This time Carpenter didn’t look up. And the other man didn’t wait for an invitation; he just took his seat on the other side of the chessboard. The businessmen from Charleston were maintaining a distance that probably had nothing to do with manners. It wasn’t lost on any of them that Carpenter had stood there for half an hour, frozen, before this man had entered the stable to nudge him into doing what he had to.
They all probably thought he wasn’t right. That didn’t particularly offend him. Dr. Ambrose had been thoughtful, or perhaps just wise, to wait him out. Or had he sent this young man in? It didn’t matter.
The dog drew back, looking at Carpenter expectantly. He let out his breath and looked at the glass.
“I don’t rightly know,” he said at last, taking a sniff.
The man leaned forward, holding out a hand. Carpenter gave up the glass readily, and the man in gray took a brave drink. He wrinkled his nose, but stopped short of making a face.
“Interesting,” he said, giving the glass back. Carpenter put it down. “No shame in taking a drink on a day like today.”
“No shame in taking one any day,” Carpenter replied, watching the staghound, who stared straight back at him, tongue out. He reached out and rubbed her head again.
The other man nodded, then glanced at the board. “Would you like to finish?”
“You’ve got me licked.”
“You didn’t see this?” He pointed, and Carpenter looked. There was an opening there.
“I didn’t.” Carpenter went ahead and knocked his king over.
“Neither did I. Can’t call that a won battle, can you? One you win through sheer luck.” The other man knocked his over as well. “I’m sorry about your mare.”
“Thank you.”
“I heard the doctor call you Carpenter. What do you do, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Besides walk?” At another time, the self-pity might not have come so easily. It wasn’t just today, though. It wasn’t just Oceana, and walking would be his primary occupation for the next few days.
“I’ve only seen you sit. My name is Rafael Silva. I know it’s not a good day, Mr. Carpenter.”
“It’s almost over, though.” He picked up the glass, held it up, and took just a sip. It was like drinking fire, but it wasn’t the first time.
Silva took the glass from him and sipped as well, this time prepared for the distinctive flavor, if that was the word for it.
“I know you’re stranded,” he said, setting the glass down.
No sense denying it. Carpenter nodded. “Least of my troubles,” he replied, gazing at the glass.
“I do have whiskey,” Silva noted. He lowered his voice, glancing at the owner, who was in the kitchen. “What isn’t clear to me is why he doesn’t.”
“I’m sure someone like me came along and drank it all.”
“To be sure. Mr. Carpenter, if you’re making west, you’re welcome to ride with me.” Silva put his hand out to his right, and the staghound automatically moved to position her head for easy scratching. “And Maria.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Mr. Silva. But thank you. You show a lot of kindness to a stranger.”
He shrugged and scratched Maria fondly. The staghound flopped over, and he leaned to scratch her belly.
“It costs me nothing,” he said. “Good night.”
Carpenter said nothing in reply. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. He watched Silva go, and there was a temptation not to move. To stay put in the armchair and let the firewater do all the work.
But he’d regret it tomorrow.
Resignedly, he dragged himself to his feet, and up the stairs, and to his room. It was hard to know exactly what the night would hold for him; the only safe bet was that he wouldn’t much care for it. Getting his boots off was always a chore, but doubly so tonight. It didn’t matter if it was age or self-pity that was slowing him down, because either one was sure to get worse before it got better.
A reasonable man might have expected to be visited by the memory of his faithful horse, but Carpenter had a feeling he wasn’t that lucky. He settled down on his bed, a luxury not to be taken for granted with a long walk ahead of him. There had been a time when he’d felt something like fear when sleep came, but that was far behind him. The years had taken what had once been an ordeal and turned it into what could only be called business as usual.
He closed his eyes, and as though the years had never gone by, he saw the night of April 16, 1862.
There was no moon that night to shine on the eighty men on the march, though “march” wasn’t the right word for what they were doing. Rumor of a couple detachments that got cut loose after the scrap at Allegheny had reached them just the day prior, and Bill didn’t care for that. The news had come from irregular cavalrymen just passing by, not from a courier, not with a seal, not with any attached orders. It was a rumor that there might be a few bands of Yankees about, hoping to do some damage.
Evidently that unverified intelligence was sufficient grounds to stow the march and move quietly under cover, if this was what passed for quietly. Sure enough, strolling along was a good deal quieter than a rigid march, but it also put a stake through the heart of anything resembling discipline, and the chatter more than made up the difference in noise. This gaggle was about as stealthy as a sack of bricks falling down the stairs.
The captain didn’t seem concerned, cantering along at the head of the formation. It wasn’t lost on Bill what he was doing; he didn’t believe for a minute that they were in danger from roaming Yankees, but the store was low, and hungry men would rather stroll than march, and here was an excuse that would probably hold under scrutiny.
Although there wouldn’t be any scrutiny. McClellan was coming for Richmond with forty thousand men, and nothing else was likely to matter after that dust settled, if it ever did.
The captain wasn’t wrong.
Stanford Yates ambled along at Bill’s side, not showing any nerves to speak of, but at least he was keeping his mouth shut. It didn’t matter if there were Yankees about; making this much noise on the move was bad business no matter where you were. It was a grievance he’d voiced to the captain more than once, but the captain was more interested in morale than tactics, and Bill drew the line at telling him that morale was small comfort to a man with a bullet in his head.
“There it is,” Yates muttered, jerking his chin at the sky. Bill had seen it too: the slightest hint of the moon up there glancing out shyly from behind the clouds. It needed to come on out; it was a terrible road, and in the dark, the artillery was taking more abuse than it needed.
He heard a wheel crash into a hole, and the swearing that followed, and stopped in his tracks. Bill couldn’t take any more.
“Go and get him,” he said, clapping Yates on the shoulder and turning back, lifting his hand. “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, raising his voice to be heard, but short of really calling out.
Yates jogged up to the captain, and in a moment the column began the awkward process of coming to a halt. Had they been marching, that would’ve taken place much more gracefully. It wasn’t that Bill wanted to march, because he didn’t. It was just that if you were going to do something, you might as well go about it as though you had some sense. That wasn’t so unreasonable, was it?
Joe Fisher came up out of the dark. “What’s the matter, Bill?”
“We lose an axle here, we won’t just be late for Johnston. We’ll slow down our own reinforcements,” Bill replied, pointing. It wasn’t completely true, but he didn’t fancy being the one trying to repair or fashion new wheels for these guns if the carts all broke from hustling along blind in the dark.
It was a nice hole, right there in the middle of the road. And this was about the center of the column, so close on forty men had obviously walk
ed around this hole as their lamps showed it to them, and Dan Cantrell had just driven right into it. Was he asleep?
The cart and the gun were canted over at a bad angle.
“Wait, wait,” Bill said, pulling a boy back. “Get out of there.” The others were tying ropes, getting ready to haul the thing clear, and these young strategists wanted to get in the hole and push. If one of those lines broke with a man down there, Bill would be making a new wheel and a coffin. “Tie it on,” he added. “Run on to the rear and get O’Doul and Fred.” Along with Bill himself, they were the biggest, strongest men, but also the slowest walkers. “Are the horses all right?”
“I’m more worried about my guns,” the captain said from the back of his own mare, trotting up. Bill might’ve told him that his guns wouldn’t do him much good if he lacked the means to move them, but the captain hadn’t meant anything by what he said. That was just his way, trying to lighten the mood.
This wasn’t the time for that, though.
“Let me do it.” Bill nudged a soldier aside and took his place to tie a knot that made sense, and stepped back.
“Hold them,” the captain warned the man with the horses. One of the two mares was calm enough to stand still during a battle. The other would occasionally try to bolt if someone sneezed, and right now even the chirping crickets were enough to agitate her.
“Captain?”
“Go on, Bill. You’re in charge.” The captain smiled down at him. As always, Bill had to tell himself that the captain wasn’t smiling because he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation; he was smiling because he wanted people to be at ease.
Bill wasn’t going to be at ease. Not tonight. He put his hand up, squinting in the weak light of their lamps at the gun, the cart, the hole, the lines, the knots, and the men ready to pull it out.
“Do it,” he said, bringing his hand down and setting his jaw, but that did nothing to help his nausea. One way or another, that cart was coming out of the hole. But would it be in one piece?
The wood creaked and wailed, and everyone who wasn’t a part of the effort was just gathered around to watch. Joe twisted his hat between his hands, and Yates trimmed a stray string from the cuff of his uniform with his whittling knife. What were they even doing out here? Marching in the dark because of Yankee spies? News that one more artillery company was on the move to reinforce General Johnston’s offensive against the federals wasn’t exactly an intelligence coup, was it? Why not march in daylight?
It didn’t matter.
Groaning all the way, the cart inched up over the lip of the hole and came onto the surface of what passed for this road. The men pulled it another foot yet and let go of the lines to get their breath.
It appeared to be intact.
“I prefer a happy ending,” the captain muttered, lighting a smoke as though this outcome had been a foregone conclusion. Isaiah was the one with the horses, and Bill put his hand out to stop him before he could even think of hitching them all up again.
“Take the powder off the cart,” Bill told the men who were untying the ropes.
“I didn’t order an inspection, Bill,” the captain noted dryly.
“Captain, would you like to order an inspection?” Bill asked, turning on him.
“Do you think it best, Bill?”
“I do.”
“Do what Bill says, boys. Go on and wipe it down. Wouldn’t want him to singe his eyebrows.”
They did it, using damp cloths to make sure most of the powder residue was gone. Bill was going to have to get down there under the cart with a lamp, and an explosion or a fire would halt this gun the same as a broken wheel would.
Byron came over to Bill, offering his lamp, which he took.
The wheel itself was sound, but it was harder to tell with the axle. Bill squinted and probed, but they’d have to take it apart to really test it. He couldn’t see a problem with it.
“Oh, dear.”
“What is it?”
“Byron, have a look at this.”
Byron knelt, then crawled under the cart to join him. Bill, lying on his back, pointed.
“What do you make of that?” he asked, and a bit of grit from the underside of the cart fell in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, and all he could see of the men around the cart was the glow of their smokes.
“Could’ve been a rock,” Byron replied, frowning. He leaned over and peered at the hole. “When it slipped.”
“That,” Bill said, chewing his lip. “Or someone took a hatchet to it.”
Byron let his breath out slowly, and for a moment they stared at each other. “Could be,” he admitted after a second.
“Captain,” they said in unison. There was a theatrical sigh, and the sound of the captain’s riding boots hitting the ground. A bit grumpily, he joined them.
“What is it?” he asked around his cigarette, which Byron took away from him and flung out from under the cart. There were still traces of powder all over it.
The captain scowled at him. “You’re my brother, Byron. Not my pa.”
Byron gave him a jab with his elbow. “I know. Pa would’ve used his belt.”
The captain just grunted, peering at the damage. “What do you think done it, Bill?”
“Can’t be sure,” Bill replied honestly.
“Well,” the captain began, as though he meant to go on, but he didn’t. For a moment, he just looked at the hole, thinking.
“Well?” Byron pressed.
“Well,” the captain said, annoyed, “I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.” He glanced over at Bill. “Bill’s right. If this ain’t accidental, could mean someone has designs on us.” Just like that, he went from lazy and smiling to crisp and in command. He rolled out from under the cart and got to his feet, brushing himself off. “All right, boys! Let’s form it up!”
He swung into the saddle as Bill and Byron scrambled out from under the cart.
And that was it. That was when the shot went up, and there hadn’t been any need for the unseen adversary to cause a distraction, because the company had distracted themselves.
The captain’s horse reared up, as startled as the rest of them, and as the captain was thrown from his saddle, Bill wondered if tonight was going to be his last. It wouldn’t be, but he’d never leave it behind. Before it was all over, he’d have come back to it enough times in his dreams that a part of him would wish it had all ended there.
It would’ve been easier that way.
CHAPTER THREE
Good night” was what Silva had said, but Carpenter had known better. He was accustomed to it, and he liked to think there wasn’t much left behind his own eyelids that could take him by surprise. This couldn’t be blamed on Oceana, or even on Penelope. In his dreams he didn’t see his mare, and he didn’t see his wife. He didn’t dream about colic or tuberculosis, and he didn’t even dream of Seven Pines. Just the weeks and months that had led up to it had been enough. By the time McClellan and the battle came, there hadn’t been much left to take from him, and what he’d kept he could live without: thudding hooves, booming shots, thundering cannons.
Those were familiar, certainly. But the captain falling from his horse that night in April, all those years ago—that was when things really started to change.
Carpenter could stand over his horse, watching her suffer, and she would go. He could sit by his wife’s bed, watching her drown on dry land, and she would go.
People liked to talk about ghosts coming back to get you, but he didn’t hold with that. He’d never seen a ghost, but there were memories that wouldn’t die.
One day, maybe soon, they’d be nailing his cold body inside a coffin, and on each blow of that hammer, he’d only hear the muskets and smell the powder. If someone sang a hymn, he’d hear a bugle. He’d still see sabers catching the light and Byron breathing his last in the mud.<
br />
There wouldn’t be another dawn for Byron, but for Carpenter—for him, that sun just kept coming.
The only surprise was that each day he made it out of bed.
There was barely a hint of dawn yet, and even if the lodge didn’t have any real whiskey, at least they had eggs. After that, Carpenter went outside to go through his saddlebags, wondering what was worth carrying. On this terrain he might do fifteen miles in a day if all went well. He’d want a walking stick by the end of it, but he thought it might be nice to trim one up along the way, rather than try to buy something here.
He carried his saddlebags out of the stable and knelt to see what he could live without. He had to bring the weight down; it couldn’t all come along.
Even in the dim, hazy light, the birds were starting to sing.
The letters from Penelope would come. And his hat. And his bedroll. His shotgun? That, he’d just as soon leave behind. It was heavy, and he didn’t plan on killing any birds between here and Antelope Valley. Unless antelope were birds, but he was fairly sure they weren’t.
He came up with the sifting pan he’d packed at the last minute, just before leaving Richmond for good. He’d thought he might give it a try when he got here. He shook his head, wondering if a horse had kicked him in the head and he just hadn’t noticed. He didn’t need the money; he’d just thought it might be interesting to try.
Something to do.
Maria was there, watching him. He returned the staghound’s gaze, and Silva emerged from the lodge in his shirtsleeves with his hat and a tin cup. The morning chill didn’t seem to bother him. He stood on the porch a moment, looking a good deal more sensible without that silly gun on his hip.
He put his hat on his head and descended the steps, peering out at the dawn breaking behind the trees. Maria went to his side and sat, tongue hanging out, not a care in the world.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning,” Carpenter replied, watching the curtains fall back into place at the window at the corner of the house where someone had been watching until just a moment ago. “You know that fellow?”