by John Jakes
During the fall, Charles had found just one period of two days when he was free to visit Spotsylvania County. After a fast, exhausting ride, he had located Barclay’s Farm easily, only to find the owner absent. The older of her two freedmen, Washington, said she had gone to Richmond with the younger one, Boz, to sell the last of her corn crop and a few pumpkins, eggs, and cheeses. Charles rode back to the lines in a bitter mood, made no better by hours of drenching rain.
The legion had hutted for the winter near Dumfries. Tonight, Christmas Eve, Charles was alone in the log-and-daub cottage he and Ambrose had put together with axes, sweat, and no Negro labor. Except for a few holdouts such as Custom Cramm III, most of the troopers had sent their slaves home rather than see them run away.
Tattoo had been sounded half an hour ago, and the final call for quiet would be skipped because of tomorrow’s holiday. Ambrose had drawn patrol duty, riding out before dark in the direction of Fairfax Courthouse to conduct a routine surveillance of the Union lines. His detachment included Private Nelson Gervais, for whom Charles’s epistolary skills had won a promise of the hand of Miss Sally Mills; the couple planned a wedding when Gervais got his first leave.
A small fire burned in the hut fireplace, constructed of bricks foraged in the finest cavalry tradition by First Sergeant Reynolds. The bricks ran to a height level with the top of the door; above, the chimney was mud and sticks. On the mantel, a plank resting on pegs, sat a cased ambrotype of Ambrose’s parents and a photograph of Ambrose and Charles with ferns, columns, and the Confederate national flag in the background; such properties were a standard part of the kit of photographers who worked the camps.
The hut measured twelve feet on each side and included a pair of built-in bunks at opposite ends of the room, a rack for sabers and shotguns, and comfortable handmade furniture: a table of thick boards nailed to a keg; two chairs with curved backs created from flour barrels. Ambrose was a fine woodworker, though he complained that it was slave’s work. He had carved the sign hanging outside above the door and insisted that doing so gave him the right to name the hut. But Charles had vetoed Millwood Mansion as too obvious an attempt to flatter Hampton. Ambrose settled on Gentlemen’s Rest. Charles would have preferred something less sententious; he rather liked the name of the eight-man hut where Gervais lived, Phunny Phellows.
Though the fire made the hut cozy, Charles’s mood was not the best. The evening had started badly when the salt horse served at supper proved inedible. Despite pickling, it was purplish and slimy. They had made do with teeth-dullers and whippoorwill peas.
Turkey, sweet potatoes, and fresh corn bread were promised for Christmas. He would believe a feast when he saw it. Charles’s men hated the Commissary Department. They cursed its head man, Northrop, as floridly as they cursed Old Abe—sometimes more. The beef was getting so tough, Colonel Hampton had remarked last week, he was thinking of requisitioning some files for sharpening teeth.
Parcels from home helped to offset the recent and noticeable decline in the quality of rations. Charles had one such package, or the remains of it, on the table in front of him. It had arrived from Richmond this afternoon, preceded by a letter from Orry, who reported that he was now a lieutenant colonel in the War Department and stuck in a job he disliked.
As a precaution, Orry had written out a list of the contents of the package and sent it with the letter: two oranges—all he could locate; they had arrived squashed but edible. Two copies of the Southern Illustrated News; one featured a lengthy article about the victory at Ball’s Bluff. The list showed four paper-covered novels, but these had been stolen from the badly torn parcel.
The damage probably accounted for the green mold forming on the two dozen baking-powder biscuits. With his knife, Charles scraped off some of the mold and ate a biscuit. They would do. He wiped the knife blade on his sleeve, which, like the rest of his uniform, had acquired a dirty cast no amount of washing would remove.
Orry had also sent three small crocks of jam for the biscuits; all arrived broken, the contents oozing around pieces of the containers. Charles had thrown the whole mess away. Finally, the package included a dark chocolate cake which looked as if a cannonball had dropped on it. That could be salvaged, crumbs and all. Charles knifed out a large wedge and gobbled it.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past eight. He had duties tonight, some official, some not; he supposed he might as well start. He scratched his beard, which he was permitting to grow because it kept his face warm. It was already more than an inch long, thus a convenient home for graybacks, but so far he had managed to avoid a serious infestation. Unlike many of his troopers, he washed as often as possible. He hated feeling dirty, and beyond that, if he were ever lucky enough to be alone with Gus Barclay, and if she were receptive to an advance, he damn well didn’t want any crab lice in residence around his privates. That would scotch romance forever.
Her face came into his thoughts often these days. It had a special vividness tonight. He felt lonely and wished he were at Barclay’s Farm, perhaps listening to her read Pope over cups of heated wine.
He shook his head. Mustn’t let anyone else see his state; others in his care surely felt the same way or worse, and were less experienced at dealing with it. It was his duty to look after them.
He rose and plopped his hat on his head as a nearby tenor voice began “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” He liked the melody and hummed along as he strapped on his revolver and took his gauntlets from their peg. He saw his breath as he ducked out the door; a light snowfall had begun. Ambrose planned to return by midnight, after which they were going to open a bottle of busthead bought from the sutler. Maybe they should organize a snowball fight first; the men were growing quarrelsome from inactivity.
Three messmates from down near the Savannah River came out of their winterized tent to gaze in wonder at the white flakes falling between great dark trees. Charles approached. “First you’ve ever seen, boys?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better look sharp, Captain Main,” said another. “A snowball just might pop that hat off your head ’fore you know it.”
Charles laughed and walked on down the row of winterized tents; the lower walls were palisaded logs, the roofs canvas, flat or peaked. The unseen tenor began “Away in a Manger.” Two deeper voices joined. A burst of laughter from a card game briefly drowned out the carol. Charles kept walking, his boots crunching snow. It already covered the ground.
From a narrow lane between tents came a familiar sputtering sound. Angry, he turned into the lane. Sure enough, there was the malefactor with his pants and drawers down around his calves and his rear jutting over a soiled patch of snow.
“Goddamn you, Pickens, I’ve told you before—use the sinks. It’s men like you who spread sickness in this camp.”
The frightened boy said, “I know what you said, Cap’n, but I got a ter’ble case of the quickstep.”
“The sinks,” Charles said without pity. “Get going.”
The trooper clumsily tugged up his clothing and limped away with a kind of sideways crab step. Charles returned to the street and walked toward the camp entrance, two elaborate pillars and an arch, fashioned of peeled saplings woven together. Quite a work of art, that gate. It would stand till spring, when they would surely take the field to fight McClellan.
Charles passed men standing guard and returned each salute without really seeing it or the man who gave it. Gus Barclay’s face filled his thoughts. Outside a hut twice the size of his own, he said to the corporal on duty, “How’s the prisoner?”
“He cussed a blue streak for ’bout a half hour, Captain. When I dint pay no attention, he shut up.”
“Let’s go in and release him. No one should stand punishment on Christmas Eve.”
The corporal nodded, brushed snowflakes from his eyebrows and the bill of his kepi, and ducked into the hut. Charles followed. A certain reluctance mingled with his kinder impulse; the man put here just before supper call was the perennially rebe
llious Private Cramm. First Sergeant Reynolds had issued another order Cramm didn’t like, and as the sergeant was moving away, Cramm hawked and spat loudly. Charles ordered him bucked and gagged for the night. Sometimes he wished Cramm were a Yankee, so he could shoot him.
Cramm sat on the dirt floor of the guardhouse, a single bare room feebly lit by a lamp. Above the stick tied in his mouth, sullen eyes watched Charles. Cramm’s wrists were roped together behind his drawnup knees; a thick length of pine pole had been slipped between knees and forearms.
“You don’t deserve it, Cramm, but I’m going to release you because it’s Christmas Eve.” While Charles said this, the guard knelt and unfastened the gag. “Escort him to his tent, Corporal. Stay there until reveille, Cramm. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Cramm made a great show of grimacing and twisting his head as if badly hurt. No gratitude was visible on his face; just his eternal contempt. Feeling his temper start to rise, Charles quickly left.
The snow fell like pillow down. The most important call of the night was yet to be paid. He would go right now. The thought relieved the anger Cramm always caused.
Passing the winterized tents again, he stopped. Inside a tent whose sign announced it was the home of The Fighting Cocks, a name chosen in honor of Sumter, the hero of the Revolution, Charles heard a young voice: “Lord God. Oh, Lord God. Oh, oh.”
He recognized the speaker; it was Reuven Sapp, nineteen-year-old nephew of the doctor who had drugged Madeline LaMotte with laudanum for so long. The boy had the makings of a good cavalryman if he could get over letting his louder but less competent comrades intimidate him.
“Oh, Lord—oh.” Charles tapped on the door and pulled it open without waiting for permission. Seated on one of the four bunks, the straw-haired boy jerked his head up. A letter dropped from his lap. “Captain! I didn’t know anyone was close by—”
“I wouldn’t have come in, but I heard a voice that sounded pretty low.” Charles removed his hat, shook snow from it, walked down three plank steps to the dirt floor, which was excavated to a depth of three feet below ground level for added warmth. The hearth was dark, the tent freezing. “Where are your messmates?”
“Went out to see if they could club some rabbits.” Sapp struggled to sound normal, but his eyes betrayed him. “That was pretty scrummy food tonight.”
“Rotten. May I sit down?”
“Oh, certainly, Captain. I’m sorry—” He jumped up as Charles took a chair. He waved Sapp back to the bunk and waited, suspecting the boy would eventually tell him why he felt bad. He was right. Sapp picked up the letter. He spoke haltingly.
“Last August, I worked up the nerve to write a girl I like real well. I asked her whether she could ever look favorably on me as a suitor. She sent me a Christmas greeting.” He indicated the fallen letter. “Said she’s sorry but I can’t be a suitor because I’m not respectable. I don’t go to church.”
“That makes two of us who aren’t respectable then. It’s a damn shame you got the news at Christmas. I wish there was something I could—”
Bursting tears interrupted him. “Oh, Captain, I’m so homesick. I’m ashamed of feeling so bad, but I can’t help it. I hate this damn war.” He bent forward from the waist, hiding his face in his hands, down near his knees. Charles twisted his hat brim, drew a breath, walked to the bunk, and squeezed the shoulder of the crying boy.
“Listen, I feel the same way myself, and often. You’re no different from any other soldier in that respect, Reuven. So don’t get after yourself so hard.” The boy raised his wet red face, gulping. “I suggest we forget this and forget the rules about enlisted men drinking with officers, too. Stop by my hut after a while, and I’ll pour you something to brace you up.”
“I don’t touch spirits, but—thank you anyway, sir. Thank you.”
Charles nodded and left, hoping he had done some good.
He resumed his walk toward the shelters, built with sloping roofs and walls on one side to protect the horses from the worst of the weather. He heard the animals before he saw them. They were upset. His belly tightened as he spied someone crouching next to Sport, where he didn’t belong. The man reached for something.
Three long strides, and Charles was on him. He caught the man by the collar, recognizing him; he was an aide to Calbraith Butler.
“That’s my property you’re trying to steal, Sergeant. I foraged those boards so my horse wouldn’t stand on wet ground all winter. Go find some firewood for Major Butler somewhere else—and thank your stars I don’t report you to him.”
Taking a two-handed grip on the collar, Charles flung the thief away from the nervous horses, then booted him in the butt for good measure. The noncom fled through the falling snow without a backward look.
Sport recognized him. Charles peeled off his gauntlets, straightened the heavy gray blanket, and knelt in the mud to be sure the gelding’s feet were squarely on the boards. He stepped to the trough holding the evening fodder. Almost all of it was gone. No surprise there; a cavalry horse would eat another horse’s tail if he was hungry enough.
Charles fingered a bit of fodder left in the trough: coarse, dry straw; poor stuff. Winter pasturage was already scarce; thousands of cavalry and artillery horses were rapidly chewing away all the grasslands of Virginia. At least there would be another review tomorrow. Calbraith Butler ordered them frequently to keep the animals fit and the men busy.
Charles rubbed Sport affectionately. Taking a lantern from a nail, he lit it and walked along slowly behind the horses. They were growing quiet now that the forager was gone. Holding the lantern high, he checked for signs of disease. He saw nothing alarming. A minor miracle.
What an assortment of nags the troop rode these days. The fine notion of color matching had broken down before the summer ended. Most of the bays in that first springtime skirmish were gone, lost to disease, poor care, and, in four cases, to enemy fire. They had been replaced by browns, roans, Charles’s gray, even a couple of conjugates, including one piebald with the ugly lines of a draft horse. But the Yanks still lived in fear of the satanic and largely nonexistent Black Horse Cavalry. Funny.
Thinking about the horses kept drawing him back to the spring, so distant and different. It might have been part of another year, another life, so rapidly had changes come. He hadn’t heard Ambrose sing “Young Lochinvar” for a month. Men no longer read Scott for lessons in chivalry, only for entertainment. The behavior of the Yankee officer who had led the search for the quinine smuggler seemed quaint and foolish. He wished Ambrose would return early so they could get to drinking.
He inspected the rest of the troop’s shelters; empty spaces here and there belonged to the men patrolling with Ambrose. The color situation was the same in every shelter, proving what was said so often lately: in Virginia a cavalry horse was good for six months.
“We’ll prove them wrong, won’t we?” he asked Sport when he went back to say good night. He stroked the gelding’s head. “By God we will. I’d throw away my fine sword and everything else I own before I’d let you go, my friend.”
A passing picket halted. “Who goes there?”
“Captain Main.” Embarrassed, Charles kept his head averted, in shadow.
“Very good, sir. Sorry.” The footsteps faded. The snow fell, silent and beautiful against the lights of camp.
Charles trudged back to his hut and set out the bottle of busthead. Eleven o’clock. Still in his clothes, he wrapped up in blankets, sure that Ambrose would bound in before long. He slid into his bunk for a short nap, and dreamed of Gus. He woke with a start, rubbed his eyes, and pulled out his watch.
Quarter past three.
“Ambrose?”
Silence.
He rolled out, stiff from the cold. He knew the other bunk was empty before he looked. The busthead stood where he had put it.
He couldn’t go back to sleep. He bundled up, finishing by wrapping a scarf round and round his neck, and made a tour of the picket posts. He found one
youngster asleep, an offense punishable by execution. But it was Christmas morning. He nudged the boy, reprimanded him, and walked on. Worry infected him like a disease.
At the sapling arch, he asked a guard if there had been any sign of Lieutenant Pell’s detachment.
“None, sir. They’re late, aren’t they?”
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon.” Some bone-deep instinct said it was a lie.
He rechecked the horse shelters, did a second tour of the picket posts. The snow had stopped while he slept and lay thickly everywhere. He waited and watched till he saw the first glimmer of icy orange daybreak. The sapling gate remained empty, the dirt lane beyond leading to pale distances, smoky with cold, where nothing moved. Ambrose wouldn’t be back. None of them would be back.
Who should he recommend for promotion before someone began electioneering for it? His junior lieutenant, Wanderly, was a nonentity; his first sergeant, well intentioned, was not smart enough. He recalled that Nelson Gervais had gone out with Ambrose. Along with the letters to the families of the men in the detachment, there was another to write, to Miss Sally Mills.
The changes were coming, steady as the seasons. Old Scott had been pushed aside. McClellan was waiting. First thing you knew, one of his troopers would go to Company Q and come back with a mule. He felt like hell.
Safe from observation in his hut, he bowed his head, swallowed several times, then straightened up. He walked to the mantel, gazed a while at the photograph of himself and his merry lieutenant, both of them looking so confident among the ferns and columns in front of the great proud flag. He turned the photograph face down.
