North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  After Charles ordered scouts out, a trooper offered him a swig of lightning whiskey. Charles didn’t say a word about the impropriety of that or inquire about the source of the stuff. He drank gratefully, then poured some of the raw spirits on his gashed shoulder. With Mrs. Lantzman’s help he bound the wound with a kerchief. Through all of this, Bent kept aloof.

  Soon Charles felt considerably better. He was tired but in possession of his faculties again. He re-formed the column, and they covered the next two miles at a walk. This brought them to an ideal campsite in a ravine whose open end was easily guarded.

  Bedrolls were broken out for the first time since they had left Camp Cooper. Mesquite wood gathered by foragers was lit to keep off insects and the night’s chill. Charles squatted by one of several small fires, gnawing on a square of hardtack. He had seldom tasted anything as delicious.

  A misshapen shadow stretched across the fire suddenly. He glanced up, drew in a sharp breath. Bent’s expression was controlled, masklike. He had again assumed command, which Charles did not contest. He had no desire to embarrass the captain any further. He had said nothing to the men about Bent’s near hysteria inside the farmhouse and in fact had taken pains to create the impression that it was the captain who had placed him in charge of the escape effort.

  “I want to commend you on your behavior during the escape, Lieutenant. You displayed exceptional courage.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Charles wondered about the reason for the unexpected compliment. He could find none until he noticed five troopers relaxing at the next fire. A moment ago they had been discussing the action at Lantzman’s. Now they were quiet, listening. Bent had been speaking so that they would be sure to hear.

  The captain glanced at the listeners and began walking in the other direction. He motioned Charles to his side. Reluctantly, Charles followed.

  “At the farm,” Bent resumed, “perhaps both of us were undone by anger. When danger threatens, no man can be expected to think clearly at all times.”

  I would say that you could expect that of a good leader, Charles thought, but remained silent. There was no point in provoking Bent just now; in his clumsy way, he seemed to be trying to establish a truce.

  They left the perimeter of the firelight, walking in silence. For the first time Charles smelled whiskey. That Bent carried a secret supply didn’t surprise him.

  When they were safely away from the five listeners, Bent stopped and faced him.

  “Of course, the success of the action doesn’t expunge your guilt. You disobeyed a direct order.”

  Charles felt his bile rise. Now he understood the captain’s scheme. Bent wanted some of the men to hear him compliment his subordinate, as a normal commander would. That dispensed with, he was now delivering his real message in private. Bent’s voice hardened.

  “Charges must and will be filed against you.”

  Charles sensed, then clearly grasped, what Bent had earlier realized. The angry exchange with the captain and his near breakdown had been witnessed only by the Lantzmans. They would not be called to testify at a court-martial unless Charles insisted on it; and if they were called, the prosecutor could easily demolish their qualifications as witnesses, noting first that they were civilians, with no comprehension of military matters. He could then point out that grief over the loss of two loved ones made their judgment and their statements even more suspect.

  Charles saw the trap closing. He would have no support for what he had done, no one to state that temporarily relieving Bent had been imperative. Dismally, he realized he himself had helped set the trap. Trying to spare his superior, he had said nothing to any of the men about the captain’s behavior. Bent could exaggerate and color his testimony any way he chose. Finally there was the matter of rank. A court would tend to believe the word of an experienced captain over that of a brevet second lieutenant.

  Firelight brushed Bent’s profile as he turned away. He allowed himself a little smile.

  “I think you, not I, will be the chief casualty of this expedition. Good evening, Lieutenant.”

  Sleepless and tense, Charles lay with his head on his saddle. The fire had gone out. The cold of the night stiffened his bones. His bandaged shoulder throbbed.

  How stupid of him to think even for a moment that Bent wanted to make peace. Charles was the target of an unfounded hate so deep and so venomous it defied explanation, except in one way. Bent was a madman. He had suspected it before, but the harrowing events involving the Lantzmans had placed the matter beyond all doubt.

  He shuddered, then plopped his hat over his eyes to block out the starlight. It didn’t help. He lay awake for hours, hearing the captain’s voice, seeing the captain’s face.

  48

  BENT PLANNED TO COVER the distance to Camp Cooper in a single day’s ride, but around three in the afternoon the younger Lantzman boy came down with acute stomach cramps. His mother pleaded with the captain to stop for a while so that the boy could rest. A few minutes became an hour. By then a thunderstorm was muttering in the north. Bent ordered a lean-to built for the civilians, deciding that, since no danger threatened, they would camp for the night and go the rest of the way tomorrow. The men grumbled about the decision. Bent paid no attention; he was sore from riding, and he welcomed the chance to reassert his authority.

  Wind whipped the grass, and dust and debris blew through the air for half an hour. But no rain fell. The storm passed by, leaving the troopers more disgruntled than ever. They could have pushed on, been in their bunks before taps.

  Camp had been pitched in a level area beside a dry creek bed. A few cottonwoods lined the bank, and among these Bent had put down his blanket and built his fire. Normally any other officers would have shared the fire, but Charles knew better than to approach.

  The lean-to stood on open ground about twenty feet from the cottonwood grove where Bent sat drinking, hidden by shadows as the night deepened. After two long drinks from his flask, he felt more relaxed. He savored the smell of firewood, the sounds of insects and of the men conversing softly. He drank again. His mind drifted into colorful visions of Alexander, the Mongol Khans, Bonaparte.

  He had already excused his own behavior at the farm, placing the blame on other factors: A shortage of men. The unfortunate killing of the troopers sent for reinforcements. The hostility of his lieutenants.

  Well, he’d eliminated one of the traitorous officers, and he’d soon get rid of the other. He imagined the effect on Orry Main when he heard that his relative had been cashiered.

  Chuckling, Bent again raised the flask. The sound of voices at the Lantzman lean-to attracted his attention. He remained motionless in the concealment of the trees, watching.

  “Why do I have to lie there when I can’t sleep, Mama? Let me walk a little while.”

  Carrying the long Augustin musket, Mrs. Lantzman followed her daughter out of the lean-to. “All right, but don’t go far. And take this.”

  “I don’t need it,” Martha retorted. “There’s no more danger. The Delaware scout said so.”

  Cross-legged beside the dying fire, her older brother laughed and flung his arms wide. “With all these soldiers around, Martha wants to be defenseless.”

  “Take it back!” She fisted her hand.

  “Walk if you must, but let’s have no more of that kind of talk,” Mrs. Lantzman said, unsmiling. She planted the stock of the musket on the ground and watched her full-bosomed daughter walk through the rustling grass. She let Martha go three steps before she softly called:

  “Not that way. You’ll disturb the captain.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

  The girl changed direction, moving toward the perimeter of the cottonwoods rather than straight into them. She was grateful for her mother’s warning. She didn’t like the captain, with his coarse, fat face and his small eyes that watched her so closely. She knew the reason he watched her. She was old enough to be vaguely titillated by it, yet still young enough to be fright
ened.

  Her new course took her past another small fire. There, the lieutenant—dashing, good-looking—sat with his shirt off. He was struggling to tie a clean bandage around a nasty cut in his shoulder. Martha paused to help him with the knot. He thanked her in that courtly Southern way of his. Thrilled, she went on.

  Charles reclined on his elbows and kept track of her, almost like a watchful parent, until she faded into the darkness.

  Elkanah Bent lay with his hand between his thighs, surprised at his sudden strong reaction. The Lantzman girl, whom he had been watching from the concealment of the cottonwoods, was a mere child.

  Ah, but not above the waist, he thought, licking his lips.

  It had been a long while since he had slept with a woman or even touched one. Naturally no officer dared lay a hand on one so young. But he still had an urge to speak to her. With luck, maybe he could even contrive to touch her.

  The mere existence of that impulse proved things were once again moving in his favor. He lifted the flask, shook it, then drank until it was empty. Still quite timid, he lurched to his feet and slipped through the grove, away from the light of the campfires.

  Following her mother’s instructions, Martha didn’t walk far, only to the creek bank on the other side of the cottonwoods. She was surprised at how much she could see by the light of the rising moon. She folded her arms across her breasts, tilted her head back, and sighed with contentment.

  The night breeze soothed her, stirred a pleasant rustling in the grass. Softly, she began to hum “Old Folks at Home.” Then all at once she heard a noise in the grove. She whirled.

  “Is someone there?”

  “Only Captain Bent, my dear.”

  He came lumbering from the trees, hatless and not very steady on his feet. Martha’s heart began to race. She called herself a ninny. Surely she had nothing to fear from an Army officer.

  “I thought I heard movement out here,” he continued as he approached. “I’m glad to know it’s someone friendly.”

  The false cordiality alarmed her. He smelled of whiskey mixed with sweat. With his back to the moon, he resembled a grotesque two-legged elephant. He moved closer.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, yes. I must go back—”

  “So soon? Please don’t. Not yet.”

  How kind and gentle he sounded. His voice, pitched low, was that of a trustworthy uncle. And yet she heard something else in it. Something that confused her, made her momentarily indecisive.

  He took her inaction for consent. “There, that’s better. I only want to demonstrate my high regard for you.”

  Drunk, she thought. That’s what it is. She had seen her poor dead father drunk many times and knew the signs.

  “You’re a charming girl. Exceptionally lovely for one so young.” His big round head hid the moon. He took another step toward her. “I’d like for us to be friends.”

  His hand stretched toward her hair, picked up the strands that lay gleaming on her left shoulder. All at once she was immobilized, terrified.

  He petted her hair, rubbed it between thumb and fingers. Slowly he increased the tension until he was pulling it. Pulling her. His puffy breathing sounded like the noise of a steam engine.

  “Let go of me. Please.”

  He stiffened, no longer friendly. “Keep your voice down. You mustn’t attract attention.”

  To emphasize that, he seized her forearm. She cried out softly.

  “Damn you, don’t do that,” Bent exclaimed, panicking. “Don’t, I tell you.” This time her outcry was louder, and so was his. “Stop it! Stop it, do you hear?”

  Shaking her, expostulating, he didn’t know anyone else was there until he saw the sudden look of relief in her moonlit eyes. He pivoted like a man turning to face a firing squad. He stepped back when he saw Charles Main—

  And beyond him, bursting from the trees, the older Lantzman boy followed by the mother. The moon flashed on the long barrel of the jaeger musket in her hands.

  Together, Bent’s face and that of the girl told Charles all he needed to know. Mrs. Lantzman rushed to her daughter’s side. Voices began to overlap.

  “Martha, did he hurt you?” The brother.

  “I knew it wasn’t safe for you to go walking.” The mother.

  Bent, hoarse and upset: “I did nothing to her. Nothing!”

  And the girl: “Yes, he did. He put his hands on me and started playing with my hair. He wouldn’t stop—”

  “Quiet,” Charles said. “Everyone keep quiet.”

  They obeyed. He saw a sentry hurrying toward them, several troopers not far behind. He stepped around Mrs. Lantzman, wigwagged his arm.

  “Go back to camp. Everything’s all right.”

  The sentry and the others turned and moved away again. Charles waited until they were out of sight beyond the cotton woods, then gave Bent a fierce look. The captain was perspiring heavily, weaving on his feet. He avoided Charles’s eye.

  “Martha, are you hurt?” Charles asked.

  “N-no.”

  “Take her back to your lean-to, Mrs. Lantzman. Keep her there the rest of the night.”

  Small fists clenched on the musket, the woman stood her ground. Her glance bayoneted the captain. “What kind of men do they send to serve in Texas? Men with no morals?”

  “Mrs. Lantzman, this won’t help,” Charles interrupted. “Your daughter’s all right. The incident is unfortunate, but we’ve all been under a lot of strain. I’m sure the captain regrets any accidental indiscretion—”

  “Accidental?” The girl’s brother snorted. “He’s drunk. Smell him!”

  Bent blurted, “Damn you for an impertinent—” Charles seized the captain’s upraised arm and thrust it down. Bent gasped, opened his fist, let his arm fall to his side.

  Charles grasped Martha’s shoulder lightly and her brother’s. He turned them both toward the trees. “Stay in the lean-to and try to forget about this. I’m sure Captain Bent will offer his apology to all of you.”

  “Apology? Under no circumstances will I—”

  Again Bent stopped. He whispered, “Yes. Consider it tendered.”

  Mrs. Lantzman looked as if she wanted to shoot him. Charles spoke softly to her. “Go. Please.”

  The woman passed the musket to her son. She put her arm around Martha’s waist and led her away. Bent pressed both palms against his face, kept them there for about ten seconds, then lowered them.

  “Thank you,” he said to Charles.

  Charles didn’t reply.

  “I don’t understand why you helped me, but I am—grateful.”

  “Nothing would be accomplished if she shot you. And she’d only regret it later. If there’s to be any punishment for what just happened, it should come from the proper quarter.”

  “Punishment? What do you mean?”

  Again Charles was silent. He turned and stalked away through the wind-tossed grass.

  Five miles from Camp Cooper, Bent galloped to the head of the column where Charles was riding. They had been traveling in a drizzle since shortly after breakfast. Charles’s spirits felt as bedraggled as his men looked.

  Bent cleared his throat. Charles could predict what his superior was going to say.

  “I appreciate your actions on my behalf last night. I attempted to convey my feelings then, but you were in no mood to listen. I thought I should try again.”

  Charles gazed at Bent from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. He could barely contain his disgust. “Captain, believe me, I didn’t do it to help you personally. I did it because of the uniform you’re wearing. I did it for the sake of the regiment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, surely. I—I don’t expect you to feel kindly toward me. What I want to ask—that is—since we’ll soon be back in camp—what do you think Mrs. Lantzman will say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  How sickeningly hopeful Bent looked then. Charles leaned over the other way and s
pat.

  “She’ll say nothing. I spoke to her at breakfast. She understands that an accusation would serve no purpose. Perhaps Martha even learned a valuable lesson. Mrs. Lantzman’s point of view is simple and eminently decent. Since no real harm was done, why should she ruin you?”

  Now came the insidious part. If his method was less than admirable, his purpose could hardly be faulted. He held Bent’s eyes, continuing:

  “But I know she’d be glad to come back to Camp Cooper or even travel to Fort Mason, if I asked. She would do it if I needed her at my court-martial. To testify to my character and the character of others.”

  Bent’s brows flew up. He understood. He realized he had escaped one trap only to be forced into a more humiliating one. His face grew hostile again.

  “Your tactics are worthy of a criminal.”

  “Bullshit, Captain. While I save my career, I’m handing you a chance to save yours. To do it is easy. Just keep your mouth shut. If you don’t like that idea, however, we’ll put the entire matter in front of Major Thomas. He’s sat on plenty of courts-martial down here. I’m willing to trust his judgment.”

  “No, no—” Bent raised one of his fancy gauntlets; it was torn across the back. “I accept your terms. There will be no charges.”

  Charles couldn’t help a sudden, cold smile.

  “Thought that was what you’d decide.”

  He touched his hat brim, reined to the left, and went galloping back along the line, mud flying up behind him. A big gob struck the yellow cloth-and-gold embroidery of Bent’s left shoulder strap.

  49

  THE LANTZMANS RESTED OVERNIGHT at Camp Cooper, then left for their farm with an escort. Bent disappeared in his quarters, violently sick with dysentery again. Charles knew little about medicine, but he suspected the recent turmoil had precipitated the captain’s illness.

  In General Orders from Washington, Charles and the captain received commendations for the rescue of the Lantzman family. Lafayette O’Dell received his posthumously. His body was never found.