Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Read what it says, daughter.”

  “All right:

  “Mary Tippee is one of those ladies who is serving as a sutler, or as the French have it, a vivandiere. Miss Tippee serves in the one hundred and fourteenth Pennsylvania regiment otherwise known as Collis’s Zouaves. Miss Tippee follows the troops as they cover the ground headed toward a battle and passes out tracts and small copies of the Gospel. She also carries canteens and a supply of water so that she can supply the troops when they are thirsty.”

  “There…you see?” Jacob cried. “That’s what you are. I’m a sutler, and you are a vivandiere.”

  “Pretty French word,” Chantel said. “I like her clothes. Much more than these boring skirts and blouses I’ve been wearing.” True to her word, Bethany Tremayne had taken her to a dressmaker’s, and Jacob had encouraged her to buy five skirts and five blouses. Chantel had chosen two black skirts and three gray skirts, and plain white blouses. She still wanted to stay in the background, not to be noticed, but she was young, and she secretly yearned for pretty clothes sometimes.

  “We will go to the dressmaker’s,” Jacob decided. “You will have bonnie blue skirts, a shiny white blouse, and a red sash around your waist. And your jackets, we will tell her to make them of Confederate gray, with the black stripes for facings, like General Stuart’s men wear. And I know that Clay Tremayne will help us find you a campaign cap. You will look lovely, dear daughter, and when the men see you they will know you are their vivandiere.”

  “But, Grandpere, there are hardly any sutlers in the South. They know they can’t run the blockades to get supplies. We can’t get them here—that is what I was going to tell you. Everything that comes in goes to the army. Even the merchants aren’t getting their regular shipments,” Chantel said worriedly. “How will we get supplies? How will we have anything to sell to the men?”

  “God will provide, oh yes, Chantel,” Jacob said happily. “Now that He has finally let me know what I am to do, He has also shown me how to do it. And you and I, we will carry the Gospel to these young men before they go out to risk their lives in battle. And when they return, we will give them comfort and hope in the Lord Jesus.”

  The excitement of a battle to come was in the air. As Chantel and Jacob made their way to General Thomas Jackson’s headquarters, many of the men, on catching sight of Chantel, stopped and stared blatantly. She was self-conscious in her new demi-uniform, her vivandiere clothes. But, she told herself sturdily, it was no worse than when she was wearing her trousers or even her modest skirts and blouses. Chantel was the type of woman whom men stared at. She looked straight ahead.

  Jacob stopped a short rotund lieutenant with rosy cheeks and mild blue eyes. “Lieutenant, could you direct me to the tent of General Jackson, the commanding officer?”

  “I certainly can, sir. You head on right as you are going, and within a hundred yards you will see a tent with a flag in front of it. That will be General Jackson’s. Shall I take you there?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. We can find our way. Thank you very much.”

  Jacob moved steadily, and Chantel followed him.

  Some of the men were singing, and others were cleaning their equipment. None of them seemed at all concerned that very soon they might very well be lying dead on a battlefield.

  “Why aren’t they afraid, Grandpere?”

  “They’ve never seen a battle. They have ideas about what war is like, glorious and noble. I’m afraid they’ll soon find out that it’s nothing like that.”

  General Jackson’s tent was indeed marked by a flag. A tall, skinny corporal stood outside at attention. He studied Jacob and Chantel and then asked evenly, “Can I help you?”

  “We would like to see General Jackson, if that’s possible, young man,” Jacob said pleasantly.

  “Sir, General Jackson is very busy at the moment with military matters. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Please, sir. Could you at least ask him? It’s very important to us.” Jacob’s sincerity was so obvious, the corporal relented.

  “All right, sir. I’ll ask if he might have a moment.” The soldier turned and went into the tent. He was so tall he had to duck his head. Almost at once he returned and said with some surprise, “Come in, sir, ma’am. The general will see you.”

  Chantel stepped inside followed by Jacob.

  From behind a camp desk a tall soldier with a full dark beard stood to his feet at once. He was not a handsome man, but he had penetrating light blue eyes. He was dressed in a shabby old army coat with major’s stripes, faded and peeling, still visible on the collar. He bowed slightly to his visitors saying, “I’m General Thomas Jackson, at your service.”

  “My name is Jacob Steiner, General, and this is my granddaughter, Chantel Fortier. We thank you for seeing us.”

  “How can I help you, Mr. Steiner?” He was not rude, but he was businesslike.

  “We want a permit to follow the troops. I am a sutler, sir, but I have no permit. I’ve been told that’s necessary. Miss Fortier is a vivandiere.”

  “I don’t believe I know that term.”

  “It really means a female sutler, General. We’ll be taking our wares to the troops so that they can buy foodstuffs and supplies of all kinds, except alcohol.”

  “You don’t serve alcohol, Mr. Steiner? I would have thought that sutlers would, in an army camp.”

  “No sir, I do not. I have seen too many lives wrecked and ruined by alcohol to have any part in that vicious trade.”

  “I congratulate you.” Jackson’s eyes then lit up warmly, and he smiled, giving his stern face a more welcome look. He waved to two backless canvas stools in front of his desk. “Please, sit down, Mr. Steiner, Miss Fortier.”

  Jacob continued, “We also intend to pass out Gospel tracts and small pamphlets containing the Gospel of John. I’m hopeful that we will be able to witness to the men about the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Jackson looked curiously at Jacob. “I see, sir. So you are a Christian?”

  Chantel saw that Jacob was smiling. “Ah, you see that I am Jewish, General Jackson. But I am a born-again believer. I like to call myself a completed Jew. I’m an old man now and can do little for the war effort, but I can bear witness to the glory of God in the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”

  “Excellent! Excellent!” Jackson said. “I am happy to hear it. I wish we had five hundred more just like you, Mr. Steiner. But I am afraid sutlers in the South are going to be few and far between.”

  “You will give us the permit then, sir?”

  “Certainly I will. Here. I will make it out now.” Jackson moved around to his desk, sat down, took a sheet of paper, scribbled on it, and then said, “You will be given a formal permit, a printed one, but this will do if anyone challenges you.” He turned to Chantel. “Miss Fortier, I would hope that most of the Southern men in the army are gentlemen. Sadly, that is not always true. It is possible that you might hear things that would offend you.”

  Chantel smiled. “General Jackson, these men don’t bother me, no. I am happy to be with ma grandpere and to help in this way.”

  “Well, if any of them become troublesome, you come to me, and I will see that they are taught better manners,” he said, and there was no doubt that this intense man meant exactly what he said. “I’m glad that you will be here for my men, Mr. Steiner, Miss Fortier. Men always need God, but in war, they need Him more than ever, for His strength, His courage, and His comfort.”

  “So true, General,” Jacob said, folding the paper up and sticking it in his inner pocket. “And the Lord has shown me that that is exactly why Chantel and I have been called to serve Him in this way. To minister to your men.”

  “Good. If I may be of any help to you, let me know.”

  Jacob bowed slightly and said, “Thank you, sir,”

  As they left and walked back toward their wagon, Chantel said, “He is a stern man, him. But not so much when he talks about the good God.”

  “I
had heard that Thomas Jackson was a Christian man,” Jacob said. “And he will need God for the heavy burdens he must bear.”

  The morning air was clear, and the men were fresh, as were their mounts as they galloped along the road. Jeb led them, and Clay rode alongside him. He saw that Jeb’s face was aglow, and he called out, “Sir, you don’t expect we’re going to have any action, do you?” It was just a routine patrol, three days north of Richmond. They had heard that the Yankees sometimes sent small troops, just probing really, to test the lines on the south side of the Potomac.

  “You never can tell, Lieutenant,” Jeb said airily. “We might get lucky.”

  No sooner had Jeb spoken than he stood up in his stirrups and said, “Speak of the devil; there’s some bluebellies.”

  Clay looked down the road and saw a troop of Union soldiers. They had come to a halt, having spotted the cavalry.

  “Let’s get ’em, boys!” Jeb yelled. “Draw sabers! Charge!”

  Following orders, Clay drew his saber and spurred Lightning.

  The entire troop rode their horses at full speed in a charge, yelling like wild men.

  Clay saw at once that the Federals had no hope. They were unseasoned troops, and the sight of the cavalry rushing with sabers flashing was too much for them. Most of them threw their weapons down and ran. Clay thought that they would pursue them and take prisoners, but Stuart ordered, “Don’t let them escape! Cut them down!”

  They rode, hard and fast, catching up quickly with the fleeing soldiers, and Clay saw the men in blue cut down easily, too easily. He took no pleasure in the action, for it was a slaughter.

  The entire action took less than five minutes. The bodies were scattered about half a mile along the small back road, mostly men in Union blue. But Clay saw also that three of their own troops were lying on the ground.

  He quickly guided Lightning to them and saw that two of them were obviously dead, but one man was alive. He stepped out of the saddle quickly and knelt beside the soldier who was on his face. When he rolled him over, he saw that it was Sam Benton, a young man in his company who always had a ready smile, an expert fisherman who often caught fish for his company when they were out in the deep woods. He could coax fish out of the smallest and most unlikely stream, and he always shared with as many men as his catch allowed. Now Clay saw that there was a terrible wound in Sam’s chest, and there was no hope for him.

  As he knelt over the dying soldier, Clay remembered how Sam had told them a couple of nights ago that he was engaged to marry a girl named Johanna Redmond. The young man had been very excited and was hoping that he could persuade her to marry him soon, before the army had to move out, as they surely would. Now the blood bubbled up from his lips, and he whispered something. Clay put his ear down close to his face.

  “Guess…they got me good, Lieutenant Tremayne.” He shuddered for breath and said, “Sir, when you get back to Richmond, would you…go to Johanna?”

  “I remember Miss Johanna Redmond,” Clay said, picking up his hand and squeezing it. It was already dead-cold. “I’ll find her.”

  “Tell…Johanna not to grieve long. Tell her I want her to find a good man, have his children—be—be—happy. You tell her that, sir, and that I loved…her…dearly.”

  Those were his last words. A compassion that he had not known he was capable of suddenly welled up inside Clay, and he felt as if his heart was bruised. In Sam Benton’s death something precious was lost, and he knew that this was a symbol of the thousands of young men who would redden the soil with their blood before the war was over.

  Chantel stepped out of the wagon, blinking in the early morning sunlight. She and Jacob had been taking inventory, listing all of the supplies—and there were many—that they needed to restock. She was carrying a big box of buttons. The box was cleverly slotted for each type of button to be sorted—black, blue, and white bone, brass and copper—but somehow they had gotten all mixed up, and she was going to sit down, have a second cup of coffee, and sort them again.

  To her surprise, she saw Clay riding slowly across the fairgrounds toward the wagon. His uniform was soiled, and his back was bent wearily. He dismounted and said, “Hello, Chantel. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

  “Hello, Clay. Yes, I believe it’s been nine or ten days since we’ve seen you. You don’t look well, you.”

  He nodded grimly. “I’ve been better.” Rousing a little, he asked, “What’s that uniform? You look very pretty.”

  “We’re sutlers. We’re staying with the army,” she said proudly. “And this”—she held out her skirt—“is my uniform. I’m a vivandiere now, me.”

  Clay frowned darkly. “So Mr. Steiner has decided to stay? Here, with the South?”

  “Yes, the good God has told him this. What’s wrong, Clay?”

  He pulled off his hat, pulled two chairs off of the rack on the wagon, and courteously held one for Chantel before seating himself. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and stared off into the distance. “Don’t stay here, Chantel. You and Mr. Steiner should leave. You should go far away from here, someplace safe.”

  Chantel shook her head stubbornly. “The good God doesn’t talk to me like he does Grandpere. He doesn’t tell me this, to stay here with the army. But He told Grandpere, and so we will stay. I’m not afraid, me.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be, would you?” Clay said, turning back to her. “You have great courage, Chantel. I know you’re not afraid. It’s just that it’s war. It’s not just the danger. It’s the horrible things you see, the terrible things that men do to each other, the great sorrow of it.”

  “What’s happened?” Chantel asked softly.

  Clay sighed, a deep, grieved sound. “We’ve just had an action where some of our fellows didn’t make it. One of them has a sweetheart here. Her name is Johanna Redmond. He died with her name on his lips, and he asked me to go to her and tell her. The bad thing about it is I didn’t really know him that well. That’s what’s so bad about it, in a way. That he died with only me there to comfort him. But I promised, and I must find her and tell her.”

  “Yes, if you promised, then you must do it,” Chantel said. “But you see, Clay, that when the time comes for some of these soldiers, we will be there. Grandpere and I will be there, and Grandpere will tell them of the Lord Jesus, and He will comfort them.”

  “I wish you and Mr. Steiner had been there to be with Sam. I know he was a Christian, but I—I didn’t know what to say to him. And I don’t know how I’m going to comfort his sweetheart, either.”

  An impulse came to Chantel, and she said, “I will go with you, Clay. I will help you.”

  Clay said with surprise, “You will? You would do that for me?”

  “I will do it for the dead soldier and for his lady,” Chantel answered. Seeing Clay’s crestfallen look, she softly added, “And to help you, Clay. Wait just a moment; I will tell Grandpere.”

  She went to the wagon, where Jacob was still listing supplies, and spoke to him.

  She returned to Clay, who was tying Lightning to the wagon. “The Redmond house is just off the town square. We can walk.”

  They began walking. She waited for him to tell about the action, but he said nothing. Finally she asked, “Were there many men killed?”

  “Only three of ours, but quite a few of theirs. I really don’t want to talk about it, if you’ll pardon me.” Bitterness tinged his tone, and his head was bowed as they walked along the street.

  One of the other young men in Clay’s company knew Sam Benton and the Redmond family, and he had told Clay where the Redmonds’ home was.

  The two of them mounted the steps and knocked on the door, and after a few moments a young woman timidly cracked the door.

  “Miss Johanna Redmond?” Clay asked, quickly removing his hat. “I’m Lieutenant Clay Tremayne, of the Richmond 2nd Horse. This is my good friend, Miss Chantel Fortier.”

  Her eyes searched his face and saw the sorrow there. With so
me sort of a plea, she looked at Chantel and saw the compassion there, on the face of a stranger. She closed her eyes for a moment then opened the door wider.

  “Please, come in.” She led them into a small parlor and sat down on the sofa. “It’s Sam, isn’t it?” she said, the fear making her voice hoarse.

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Redmond,” Clay said with difficulty. “There was an action, two days ago, and—and—”

  “Is he going to be all right?” The tone was hopeful, but the look on Johanna Redmond’s face was already knowing and agonized. “He’s all right, isn’t he? He’s in the hospital?”

  Clay tried to speak, but he simply could not find the words. He looked down and fiddled with his hat.

  Chantel sat down by the woman and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Miss Redmond. Your fiancé was shot, and he died. Lieutenant Tremayne was with him.”

  Johanna Redmond stood for a moment, and her face slowly dissolved into a rictus of grief. She turned away from them, went to a wall, and leaned against it, racked with great sobs. “Oh, Sam! My Sam!” she cried out.

  Clay stood helplessly, his head down.

  Chantel went over and put an arm around the woman and comforted her in a low voice. Finally Johanna allowed Chantel to lead her back to the sofa, and she sat down, her head buried in her hands.

  Clay swallowed hard and said, “Miss Redmond? I was there, with Sam, when he—I was there, and he asked me to give you a message. I think I know it word for word. He said, ‘Tell Johanna not to grieve long. Tell her I want her to find a good man, have his children, and be happy. Tell her that I loved her dearly.’ He died with your name on his lips, and he was a good man. A fine soldier.” Clay could not think of another word to say.