Libbie

by Judy Alter

  He shook his head in agreement. "You're right. I'm tempted to tell her, just to hear her screech."

  And screech she did. Autie strode jauntily into the pantry, while I hid just the other side of the door in the dining room, where I could hear the fireworks. "Eliza," I heard him say, "you and Miss Libbie will go by boat to New Orleans and Texas, rather than with the troops."

  Loud wails and angry squawks were punctuated by such questions as "Who you think gonna cook for you?" and "Who gonna comfort Miss Libbie when she need you?" The sound of pots and pans being slammed around echoed in the dining room, and in a flash Autie came bursting through the door, hand covering his mouth so that he wouldn't collapse in laughter. Behind him came Eliza, eyes flashing, the skillet in her hands looking like a dangerous weapon.

  "Miss Libbie! Did he tell you? I ain't goin' by no boat! Been on enough of them to last me a lifetime!" She sputtered and carried on until at last I could stand it no longer.

  "He's not really going to send us by boat, Eliza. He thought it was best... but he's seen the error of his ways."

  As I said that, I glanced sideways at Autie, who looked pained to say the least.

  "You mean he was funnin' with me?" Instead of lessening her anger, the idea that Autie had played a joke on her infuriated Eliza, and she began to swing the skillet.

  Autie beat a hasty retreat, and I could hear the library door slam behind him. Once he was out of earshot, Eliza put down the skillet and gave me a broad smile.

  "We know how to handle him, don't we, Miss Libbie?"

  * * *

  Autie endured much whispered criticism during the preparations for the march, especially when he ordered an ambulance outfitted as a traveling wagon for me. The seats were arranged so that the leather backs could be unstrapped at the sides and laid down to form a bed—I could rest, even while we were on the move. There was a pocket for my needlework and book, and straps to hold my shawl and traveling bag.

  It wasn't that the soldiers resented this work, but that they genuinely felt the trip would be too hard and were concerned about my safety. One whose name I don't know yet, in a touching gesture, covered a canteen with leather and used yellow silk—from the saddler—to embroider on the cover the words "Lady Custer." The soldier advised me to fill the canteen each morning, cover it with a wet blanket, and hang it, with the cork left out, near the roof of the wagon so that it might catch any air that was stirring. This technique assured me of palatable water—well, almost palatable—during the whole trip, but the wet blanket faded the letters out so that by the time we reached Texas, "Lady Custer" was no longer visible.

  But, then, I looked far from a lady at the end of that journey. The thought that Autie might have been right to send me by boat flitted through my mind a thousand times, but I never voiced it, even to Eliza, and I never complained.

  When the column marched away from Glen Ellen, I rode proudly at the front on Custis Lee, between Autie and Tom. Behind us streamed several thousand men, marching two by two, and a wagon train of supplies. It took hours for the entire train to pass any given point.

  Lane stood in the shadows of the trees, watching as we passed, and because Autie was beside me, I gave no notice that I saw him. I wished I could tell him, once more, how important he had been to me. But I suspect that Lane knew, and knew, too, why I bade him no farewell.

  Shortly after we left the plantations of the Red River Valley with their fragrant blooms and thick growth, we entered a dense pine forest. The land here was not nearly as rich, so few people lived in the forest. Those that did inhabited small log huts, built low to the ground, with two rooms—one on each side of a floored breezeway. Autie told me these cabins were called "dogtrots" because the dogs—ten of them to one cabin sometimes!—congregated in those open spaces. We saw untidy children and pale-faced, lethargic adults lounging amid the dogs while skin-and-bones pigs rooted near the cabins seeking something, anything, to eat.

  "I think we'll not ask accommodations along the way for a while," Autie said. "We'll camp."

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  But camping was hard on me. Autie showed me how to roll his overcoat for a pillow, explaining that soldiers slept like a top on such a pillow. But for me the thick, unwieldy material of Uncle Sam's coats made a rocky resting place that forced my neck to assume a steep incline from head to shoulder. I awoke less patriotic than I had retired. But I did not complain, and Autie praised my veteranlike behavior, though I think his praise was an effort to encourage me. At last Eliza provided moss to make a much softer pillow. But the moss had a damp vegetable odor and often held tiny horned toads or lizards that Texans call swifts—neither was dangerous, but they were not my idea of sleeping companions, and it seemed impossible to dislodge them. Eliza tried hay next for my pillow. The hay was soft, clean, and sweet smelling. I closed my eyes in gratitude.

  I had begged off sleeping in a tent because there were so many poisonous insects in the forest, so every night Autie had the wagon parked in front of the tent, and he lifted me in and out of this high sleeping room, where I felt safe from scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes.

  One night I was awakened by a munching and crunching in my ear—wisps of hay hanging over the edge of the wagon had proved a temptation to a stray mule, which was busily eating the pillow from beneath my head. Fortunately, we were off to one side, away from the troops, and no one heard my shrieks of indignation, or worse, Autie's peals of laughter. The angrier I got, the harder he laughed, until I was forced to join him.

  Finally Eliza traded blankets for a pillow at one of those dogtrot cabins. It was a poor excuse for a pillow—so tiny as near to be lost in your ear—but I welcomed it gratefully.

  Each morning, before dawn, Autie lifted me from the wagon and deposited me in our tent—this special treatment kept my feet dry in spite of the drenching dews in the forest. The fear of holding up an entire army taught me to bathe and dress in seven minutes—Autie timed it one morning, to my great discomfort. I combed my hair straight back, as it was too dark that time of the morning to part it, even by candlelight. Nonetheless, I lived in terror that some day thousands of men might be kept waiting because a woman had lost her hairpins—the commanding officers would order the trumpeter to delay sounding "Boots and Saddles," the call to march, and would remind me, again, that "it is easier to command a whole division of cavalry than one woman."

  Nothing smothers the air like a pine forest—the fringed top of those trees may have swayed in the breeze, but not a breath descended to us below. When we stopped to rest, we would carefully position ourselves in the strip of shadow made by a tree, only to be forced to move within minutes as the sun followed its path and moved our shadow.

  Reveille sounded at two in the morning—causing Autie once to remark that we ought to eat breakfast the night before so as to save time in the morning. It was necessary to move before dawn, because the moment the sun rose, the heat became suffocating. We camped off the road, and it was difficult to find the road in the pitch-darkness, so Autie set me on Custis Lee and commanded me to follow as close as possible while we picked our way over logs and through ditches or underbrush. Custis Lee usually put his hoof exactly in the footprint just left by Jack Rucker, Autie's new horse, and we were safe. Out of the dark we'd hear Autie's cheerful "Are you all right?"

  "Give Lee his head "or" That old plug of yours will bring you through fine." The latter inevitably inspired some retort on my part in defense of my beautiful Custis Lee—and by this Autie knew that I was safely following behind.

  Our guide, a Texan named Sillman, was a talker—there is no other word for it. His mule, named Betty, walked so fast that no one could keep up with her—save her master's tongue, which ran incessantly. During much of the day I rode at the head of the column with Autie, and when we felt we could no longer bear the sun beating down on our heads, we'd call out, "In heaven's name, Sillman, how much longer?" by which we really meant, "How soon shall we find a creek by which to camp?"r />
  "Oh, three miles or so, you're sure to find a bold-flowin' stream," Sillman would reply confidently. Sure enough, the grass began to grow greener, moss hung from the trees, cypress appeared among the dry pines, and hope sprang in our hearts. Our mouths began to taste cool, clean water—and then we'd find ourselves in a dry creek bed, with nothing but pools of muddy water and a coating of green mold. For years, if we ever came to a puny, crawling driblet of water, we said, "Must be one of Sillman's bold-flowing streams." I do not remember one good drink of water on that march—what we had generally tasted of tree roots—and I was grateful for the bottle of claret that Lane Murphy had pressed on me, assuring me over my protests that I would welcome it.

  I survived most of it unscathed—dealing with seed-tick and chigger bites and even once being rescued from that most deadly snake, the pine-tree rattlesnake—it had looked to me like a small, dried twig. But one morning I was mortified to find myself ill—I, who had boasted about being such a good campaigner, could not lift my head from the pillow. It was embarrassing—I could not be sent back, nor could I be left, even under guard, in the woods. The surgeon bade me lie in the wagon during the march, where I was lonely and bored—and nearly jiggled and joggled to death, for I had "breakbone fever." Not dangerous, it was nevertheless extremely painful, and each bounce of the wagon introduced me to a new bone in my body. The surgeon fed me quinine, and in a few days, light-headed and tottering, I was lifted again to the saddle, glad to be back among the shining faces who happily welcomed me.

  Both Tom and Jacob also suffered bouts of breakbone fever on the march, and, not having a wagon like mine, they were forced to endure the agony of remaining ahorseback. My insistence that they use my wagon was refused with a stern suggestion from Autie that to do so would embarrass them before their men. Neither man recovered as quickly or as thoroughly as I—Tom suffered from some form of rheumatism for more than a year, and Jacob grew gray and drawn, racked with fever until he looked far worse than he had when released from the Confederate Army's prison. Autie, of course, remained hale and hearty and declared that he had no time for illness, nor had it the nerve to attack him.

  River crossings provided even more fearful torment than had breakbone fever. Texas is a land of freshets, where the most innocent little stream can rise to a roar in no time, and the banks are high, steep, and slippery. Our train included a pontoon bridge to cross these rivers, but oh! getting down to that bridge was a trial. Often as I could, I rode Custis Lee, my hand wound into his mane, my very soul trusting his surefootedness. But there were those days when, because of heat or some such, the surgeon ordered me to the wagon to avoid a recurrence of the fever.

  Then I sat inside the wagon with trembling fear, hands clutching at the sides, head out the window to spot Autie as he directed the driver down the deep descent and, at the same time, tried to encourage me. The soil would have become wet and slippery simply from the transporting of boats and lumber for the bridge, and the brake alone was insufficient to stop the wagon—soldiers had to man the wheels. The four mules that pulled the wagon usually sat down and slid down the bank on their rumps. The driver, a strong burly man who kept the reins knotted around gigantic fists, was alternately grateful for my thanks for his care and patient with my pleadings that he go slowly. I knew that come evening, when the safe crossing was behind us, Eliza would reward him with hot biscuits and coffee, and he would think his job well done.

  One of these steep river crossings had a special boon. As soon as we were safely across, Eliza disappeared, only to return triumphant with a fish as long as her arm. We were sorely tired of corn pone and back ribs, and that platter of fish tasted like manna from the gods!

  The country improved as we came out of the forest and onto the prairie. Even the farmhouses looked better, and we were soon able to bargain for eggs and butter—ah, heavenly treat! In place of monotonous pines, we had magnolia, mulberry, pecan, persimmon, and live-oak trees. Cactus plants grew four and five feet high, with brilliant red blossoms making gorgeous spots of color in the prairie grass, and wild-flowers offered an artist's palette of colors. The air began to smell faintly of the sea and blew softly about us instead of hanging, leaden, on our shoulders.

  "Autie?"

  "You're a good campaigner, Libbie. I'll never doubt you again." And he never did.

  We arrived at Hempstead, where we were to camp, in October, nearly seven weeks after we'd left Alexandria. There we received welcome mail from Monroe and, most important of all, the news that Autie had been brevetted major, lieutenant colonel, and brigadier general in the regular army. General Sheridan came to the camp by way of Galveston, bringing with him Father Custer, whose anger at Autie knew no bounds when he heard of the hardships of our trip.

  "You should never have allowed her to make that journey, son!" he stormed, while Autie hung his head like a schoolboy caught stealing apples off a tree.

  "Father," I intercepted, "I insisted upon it. Don't be angry at Autie."

  "I don't care how you insisted," said that old man, as stubborn as his son, "he should have refused."

  Sheridan's purpose on the visit was, of course, more than just to deliver Father Custer. He congratulated Autie on his new rank, praised the discipline of the men on the long, difficult march—there had been no pillaging of farmhouses along the way—and put Autie in charge of the entire cavalry in Texas—thirteen cavalry regiments and an equal number of infantry regiments. Their job was to restore law and order to Texas—a tall order for a land in ferment, beset with jayhawkers, bandits, and bushwhackers.

  After the formal ceremonies, Sheridan and Autie and several others retired to our tent for a conference. Autie sent me to Eliza's tent, with apologies. "Confidential matters, Libbie, you understand, don't you?"

  I did, until I saw Tom start into the tent, bold as you please, behind Autie. Little did I know that their discussion centered on the possibility of Autie leading a campaign into Mexico to drive out Maximilian and the French, once and for all. My suspicions were raised, though, by such a secret council, and I badgered Autie to tell me what it was about.

  "Military matters, Libbie," he said sternly more than once, knowing full well the reaction I'd have had to the possibility of a campaign in Mexico, for I surely would have been left behind then.

  Our camp was on Clear Creek, which was ironically the color of ashes, and Autie and I had a large tent on the bank, with lumber from the pontoon bridge used for flooring. Eliza's cook tent was near us, but the other staff was some distance away, giving us the privacy we desired, and the entire division ranged along the stream where, at last, there was plenty of water. Beyond us fifty miles of prairie stretched out to the sea.

  The land was a far corner of the plantation owned by Leonard Groce, one of the oldest residents of Texas, a charming gentleman whose four sons had all fought under General Lee. When he saw that our furniture consisted of a bucket and two camp stools, that good man had his wife sent over chairs—with real backs, against which I sank gratefully—along with milk, vegetables, roast of mutton, jelly, and other delicacies. Gratefully, we declined the offer of a room in their house—Autie had no wish to share a house with anyone!—but I did take advantage of their hospitality to improve my appearance at a real dressing table with a mirror.

  I'd broken my mirror early in the march and since then had made my toilet by feel. My horror was absolute when I looked into the mirror and saw my face, parboiled and swollen with sunburn, while my hair hung faded and rough about it.

  "Autie," I demanded, "why didn't you tell me how awful I look?"

  He said nothing but took me in his arms. Eventually I realized that his having told me would have only made things worse, for I could do nothing about my appearance, and I got over my fit of pique.

  Groce and his neighbors introduced Autie to what was to become one of the greatest pleasures of his life—hunting with a pack of dogs. Autie was absolutely fascinated to realize that each hunter had his own pack of dogs, and each do
g responded to his own master's horn and none other. Neighboring planters gave Autie five hounds, and he immediately secured a horn and began to practice, until I thought—and nearly hoped—he'd split his cheeks in two. The dogs would sit in a semicircle around him, sympathy clearly written on their faces, and tune their voices to the same key as his practicing.

  "Autie, please give us a rest!" I covered my ears with my hands, as though that would help.

  "I have to practice," he replied. "If anyone thinks it's easy to blow a horn, I defy them to try it."

  Tom caught the fever, too, and no matter how we described their red faces and bulging eyes, their bent bodies and ludicrous struggles, we could dissuade neither Autie nor Tom from their practice. Eventually, they were ready for deer hunting, though Tom had an unfortunate accident on his first hunt. When a deer bounded toward him, he got so excited, he fired at the wrong moment—the shot went harmlessly by the buck and instantly killed one of Autie's dogs. Ever after as they set out on hunting expeditions, Autie would say, "Tom's a good shot. He's sure to hit something!"

  Father Custer went hunting with them, too, though he was the subject of so many jokes by his sons that I wondered he kept his good humor. Still, his eyes would twinkle and his face wreathe into wrinkles as he described the way one son had distracted him while the other rapped his horse smartly across the withers, causing the horse to bolt and nearly unseat the old man. Once Autie pulled the poor man's cape over his head and held it there momentarily, while Tom rapped the horse. But Father Custer was a good horseman and a good sport, for he enjoyed his sons, and when I would beg them to be easy on him, he'd say, "Now, now, Libbie, let the boys be!"

  * * *

  Nettie Humphrey Greene, my best friend from childhood, and our first Texas norther arrived together—Nettie from Galveston and the norther from the plains, she being the more welcome, but the storm surprising us more. After a day of hot, muggy air, the wind howled over the prairie toward us, shaking and rattling the tent as if driven by human fury.