I spotted the band as I settled the horse’s prancing. Their brass instruments were mottled. Impressive at a glance, their shakos and silver facings faded under a stare. They stood ranked in a crescent, beside the station. Their master’s arms waved handsomely in time, as if he were leading a concert in a park. He kept his back turned to the wounded men.
The band played “Dixie’s Land.”
SIX
IF COLOGNE WATER WON BATTLES, GENERAL PIERRE Gustave Toutant Beauregard would have won the war by himself. Hoarse as if from illness, his voice had a Frenchy taint. I am told his accent derives from New Orleans, a Sodom with infernal weather. His tongue slithered between a mustache pomaded to water-rat slickness and a little goaty beard.
The soft gray uniform he wore, collared and cuffed in braid, with two brilliant lines of buttons down the chest, was cut for a royal court, not a campaign. Grander than McClellan himself he was, with a sash trailing at his side and hair swept back with macassar. His face was that of an elegant rodent, though he moved like a cat got up to mischief. And Frenchy bred he might have been, but his eyes put me in mind of a cockney cheat.
All whispers of Welsh blood in him are groundless, or I’m the slaughtering Sultan of all the Turks. From the first instant, I found him the very summation of unpleasantness and suspected the fellow of improper habits. But it is not our lot to judge others, so I will not prejudice your opinion of him.
He met me in the parlor of a house and grimaced.
I was past the shame of being dirty. Twas the Rebels themselves who were at fault, so let the devils smell it and make faces. When you have been kept ten days in a cage, you either break to nothing or rear up. I was on my hind legs now, although those parts lacked a certain physical steadiness, thanks to my hours in the saddle and the lack of a cane. But I will tell you: Abel Jones was not the fellow for Frenchy nonsense that day. No, I was not. I was not arrogant or rude, you understand, for bad manners are unChristian. But I would not have nonsense, even from a high general. I kept my peace, though seething.
Beauregard puffed up his chest like a pigeon’s and cocked back his head.
“You appear,” he told me, rasping, “to have been incommoded. My apologies, sir.” He glanced at Wylie, who still held me on an invisible tether, then returned his sniffy look to me. “My men are valiant, sir, valiant! But they are not always fully cognizant of war’s courtesies. Rough men, sir, rough! But valiant sans pareil! We must allow for the conditions of the field, for the exigencies of campaign life. C’est la vie militaire, monsieur, comprenez-vous?”
“I was locked up for ten days,” I said mildly. “In a dog pen or the like. Although I had my papers proper from General Grant.”
At the mention of Grant’s name, his fancy-man’s face muddled up. Worse than it did at his first sight of me. But the fellow soon mastered himself. He stepped over to a small linen-decked table that bore a decanter and an array of tiny glasses. A silver utensil waited beside a cake and a stack of painted plates. Shining forks lay spread in a fan, sized to the fingers of maidens. I wondered if our interview had interrupted a gathering of ladies, for this did seem the finest house in the town and society will not pause for a war.
“A cordial, Major?” The general’s eyes swept the room as he cleared his throat. Oh, grand he was. His aides, gussied up fine, eased their shoulders against the walls and door frames. Beauregard looked toward them, but did not really seem to see the fellows. They were but mirrors to reflect his glory.
I recalled the wounded in the sun, their burned lips, and the boy dying of a fit.
“I do believe we have reached the hour sufficient,” Beauregard said, “for a small indulgence. Have we not, gentlemen? Have we not, mes frères?” Turning back to me with a sashay, he repeated, “A cordial, then?”
“And that would be a drink of an alcoholic nature, sir?”
He chuckled. “One hopes.”
“I have taken the Pledge, sir. Thank you.”
A new look come over his snout. As if an exotic creature had escaped from a menagerie and stood before him in all its unbelievable extravagance.
“The . . . Temperance Pledge, sir? You speak of the Temperance pledge?” He looked bewildered. I might have been the king of the Hottentots, I struck him so queer.
He smoothed his feathers and tilted toward his audience of subordinates. “Regardez, mes amis! Voilà! L’homme du nord! En parfait! You see, gentlemen . . . our Northern . . . our Northern filials, let us say . . . are temperate fellows. Yes, gentlemen, they are temperate men in character. They lack our Southron heat, our fire. Our passion. They are creatures of sobriety, of desires restrained. But do not mock, gentlemen. No, do not mock! For they are steady. Steady fellows, these Yankee traders. Traders of diligence and competence, if . . . if unenlivened, if lacking a certain vivacity, joie de vivre . . .”
Cocking an eyebrow, he called, “Sharl?” A Negro sprang in from the corridor. “Charles,” Beauregard continued, “I will have a cordial.”
The general watched the amber liquid dribble. A single drop spotted the linen.
Accepting the glass, Beauregard sighed. “There is . . . a certain roughness in our ranks, Major. A devil-may-care boldness. ‘L’audace,’ en Français. But it is all genuineness, monsieur. Southrons are sincere, sir, sincere! Avec une sincérité infini! C’est vrai, c’est vrai. Authentic fellows, authentique, the stuff of heroes.”
He waved the glass and gave the air his perfume. He smelled, I fear, like a woman of unfortunate profession. “Ours is not la vie manqué, the life of hollow hypocrisy common in . . . in colder climes, let us say. I fear . . . that your letter . . . your letter, sir . . . as delivered by Captain Wylie . . . delivered promptly, sir, promptly, by this homespun cavalier . . . was misplaced by my staff until yesterday. We are fighters, sir, not clerks. Misplaced, you see. Under conditions of war. C’est la guerre, monsieur. Would you like a piece of cake?”
“SENT TO ME,” he said, forking the yellow sweetness into his mouth, “by the incomparable ladies of Charleston. By rail, sir, they sent it by rail! I fear they admire me too much, the noble ladies of our Confederacy. Their accolades are too generous. Although I hear strangely little from the belles of Virginia . . . given my presence on the field of Manassas, one would think . . . but perhaps the mails have been interrupted. Interrupted mails would explain their neglect. Will you not, sir, join me in sampling this extravagant creation of the tender baker’s art?”
I looked at the cake with longing, for I like a sweet. And I was hungry, too. But I would have starved before I went gobbling in front of that particular bunch of Rebels. Now, you will say, “His refusal was impolite. And if a fellow is hungry, he should swallow his pride and eat.” But I will tell you: Ten days in a cage will make you sour. And I do not apologize for it.
“I thank you, sir. I am not hungry.”
“No, no. Of course not. Northern abstemiousness. I understand it, sir. Respect it. Wary of . . . of corrupting pleasures, let us say. The Puritan heritage. La vie puritaine. ‘Lead us not into temptation . . .’”
“I am sent upon a task, sir. And time has been lost. With respect, sir, should we not discuss the matter?”
All the staff fellows had been served and they went at their portions with vigor. Forgotten, Captain Wylie moved toward the remaining sliver of cake. But the general slid between him and the table.
“Ah, Wylie. Our rustic cavalier.” The general cleared his throat again. “Indeed, indeed. Soon you’ll be back with Bedford Forrest, no doubt. When he rises from his bed of honor. As rise he shall! For now, sir, you may go. Yes, go, sir, with my thanks. Merci, merci. Well done, mon chevalier! Off you go, sir! We will detain you no longer.”
Wylie went, trailing bile. For even lions like to have a treat.
“Sir,” I tried again, “should we not discuss the matter of the Negroes? These wicked murders, sir? There is concern—”
“C’est terrible, n’est-ce pas?” the general cried. “Une perversité! A
dreadful affair, dreadful! I understand General Grant’s concern—is he steady these days, sir? Is he steady? A man afflicted by misfortune, sir, by misfortune, let us say. But his concern is only natural. The fault is his, of course. He was in command. We had withdrawn. Withdrawn, sir, in a strategic calculation. Grant’s troops must bear the responsibility, sir. The scene of this bestiality . . . this monstrous behavior . . . lay within their jurisdiction. Thusly, they are responsible for good order, no matter the identity of the villains. This crime lies at the feet of the Federal authorities! The Federal authorities who have intruded themselves into our homeland, sir!”
“I understand, sir, that this matter occurred at a location between the armies. Between the lines. I do not see how it follows that General Grant is responsible.”
“His forces were in the advance! We had withdrawn. It is a recognized rule of civilized warfare, monsieur, and I may cite de Saxe and Jomini, that the army in the advance must assume responsibility for good order upon its arrival.”
“But the Union army had not arrived, sir. And the Negroes were murdered in the interval. Look you. Some days elapsed before the Africans were discovered by our scouts, judging by the condition of the bodies. The logic of the situation, to say nothing of the prejudice, points toward Southron guilt. Begging your pardon, sir.”
He had forked up a last bit of cake and a crumb stuck to his mustache. His eyes widened and his chewing ceased. He lowered the plate. And stiffened his posture.
“No Southron gentleman would soil his hands with such a deed.”
“Perhaps the killers were not gentlemen, then.”
“And it is proven—proven, sir!—that the care with which the Negro is treated by his benevolent masters defies criticism! The Negro, sir, is a child, and is treated as such. Why, he is a member of his owner’s family! Guided by firm but merciful parents! By parents concerned only with his welfare! He is indulged, sir! Why, the little monkey is petted! The notion that . . . the very hint that Southrons . . . certainly, that Southron soldiers . . . would . . . would . . . it is ne pas possible, monsieur!”
I thought he would blow his cap then, for he was red as a Ranee’s ruby. His voice scraped. The crumb dropped from his mustache and fell on the Brussels carpet.
“Well,” I said, “I do not know who killed them, and you do not know who killed them, there is true. And speculation is an idle business, sir. But think of the danger to your cause, were the matter to go unresolved and the devils who did it unpunished. The outcry in the Northern press would not be contained, see. Doubtless, it would excite European sentiment. What would the great newspapers of London say? The English could not well support a cause that slaughtered innocents. For they will have cotton, but not at too great a cost to their self-regard. No, sir, they could not well support your Richmond then, if you were viewed as murdering innocent Africans right and left. Could they now? Not even the Frenchies would do that, if anyone had an eye on them and they knew it. Begging your pardon, sir.”
I looked at him all man-to-man and set our ranks aside. Although my language remained impeccable in its respect for his position.
“I understand,” I continued, “that your government means to have London’s favor. But you will not have it if you are suspected of slaughtering slaves by the dozen.”
The ruby face was gone, replaced by a sickbed paleness.
“Of course,” I pushed on, amid the wary silence of that room, where every fork and glass had been set down, “if the truth come out and showed how it was renegades behind the deed, such might be punished and no damage done to honor and reputation. But what would the world think, if the Confederate commander right there by the doings refused to explore the matter? Oh, guilty he would look, sir. Even if he were not.”
“I . . . you . . . I never said . . . never said we would not inquire . . .”
“And wouldn’t the newspaper fellows make a great fibbing and fable of it?” I asked him. “Worse than the truth, they’d scribble it. Oh, I’d pity the man who turned up his nose at the business. A gentleman’s name might be sullied forever, sir. Dirtied beyond all scrubbing.”
“Of course, we shall look into things, Major! Of course! As General Grant has suggested! Certainement!” He posed again, most heroically. “Indeed, I had planned a thorough campaign of investigation myself and required no advice or encouragement from General Grant. Although you are welcome here, sir, welcome. Cooperation between foes is not without precedent. Indeed, it is not. Entre nous, I welcome it, sir. In the spirit of chivalry. And we have not been idle in the matter! No, it is only the vicissitudes of war, the demands of the day, that have restrained my hand. Were it not for our strategic maneuvering in the wake of the check inflicted upon your army at Pittsburg Landing, sir, the villains would already have been discovered and hanged. Hanged, sir, hanged!”
“Well,” I said, with my bad leg a bother from riding all day and then standing, “that is good to hear, sir. For even in war, the murder of innocents must not be tolerated.” I shifted my weight and caught a nose full of my own stink. I could have made good use of soap and water, I will tell you. Although I do not mean that perfumed soap of Beauregard’s, for I would not be thought a fancy man. “I may begin my investigation, then? With your support, sir?”
Beauregard wheeled on a drooping cavalier.
“Is the Raines boy still in town? The senator’s son? Young Drake? Is he still here? Lieutenant Raines?”
The staff man looked mutely at one of his companions, who stared at another fellow in turn.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said to the general, “but I believe the fellow is here all proper. He was engaged in a horse race this afternoon.”
I SHOULD NOT HAVE TOLD HIM THAT. It peeved him that I seemed to know more about his army than did his staff officers. The general looked at me first in surprise, then in calculation. That cockney, quick-fingered look it was. I could feel his mood decline, although his voice remained unchanged.
“Young Raines shall escort you, Major. He understands Yankee ways. Understands you people. Went north to school. Against his father’s wishes, as I recall. Ah, l’esprit du temps . . . the youth of today have a will of their own. He attended one of your quaint little colleges. Harvard, I believe. Doesn’t seem to have harmed him—why, for that matter, I understand Colonel Lee sent his own boy to the institution. General Lee, I beg your pardon. One forgets. Poor old Lee! Best of families, excellent bloodlines . . . but the gallant fellow’s aged, sir, past his prime. Lacking in la vitesse, let us say. Fine service in Mexico, in the old Army, but one hears from Richmond that Lee has . . . that he has slipped, sir, that he dotes! Why, I’m told the soldiers have graced him with the appellation, ‘the King of Spades!’” Beauregard fit a look of determined fairness over his face. “Still, he may well do us service as a quartermaster. Not everyone can share in battle’s glory. We must look upon one another not as rivals, but as brothers in arms!”
He purposed a good-natured laugh that had no goodness in its nature, and his paladins attempted to laugh in turn. But the mood had been spoiled, as if the cake had been found mouldy in the mouth. “Then you know young Raines, Major? Am I to presume you are acquainted? From his Northern sojourn, perhaps?”
“No, sir. I only saw the horse race, see. But he is a great friend of Captain Wylie’s.”
Beauregard appeared confused for a moment. Then he nodded to himself and said, “Ah, yes. Yes, I see. Wylie. Wylie and Raines. Noblesse oblige, of course. That would explain it. Won the race, I suppose. Reputation, reputation. Le chevalier parfait! Perfect man to assist you, ideal. All doors will open to you, Major.”
I thought of the willowy lad in the sweat-drenched shirt. With his voice all soft, but not puling and Frenchy like the general’s. Our fates are strange, and surprise is our lot. I wondered what the lad would think of helping me. My horse had interested him more than I had myself. Still, he was an educated fellow and would be courteous, for manners are the very soul of learning. And I wou
ld do my part to get along. I wondered at the pairing, though, and if he would prove arrogant or mean.
And I wondered how these fellows ran an army. Sprawled about a parlor, with a war to be fought. And leaving those wounded men in the station yard. This seemed more a gentleman’s club to me than a headquarters.
Suddenly, as if he had just awakened, a captain said, “General Beauregard, sir? What about that other Yankee fella, that Dr. Tyrone? You want him fetched?”
That startled me. I fair tumbled into speech. “Dr. Tyrone? Michael Tyrone?”
“A friend of yours, I am led to believe?” Beauregard said. “Yes, yes. Stroke of good fortune. Might not have found that letter of yours, had he not appeared with his demands. With demands, sir! As if he were the general! A brusque fellow, let us say . . . indiscret . . .”
“But what’s Mick Tyrone doing here? I mean Dr. Tyrone. Begging your pardon, sir.”
“You might have hanged, sir! Through no fault of ours, of course. We were ignorant of your existence, entirely ignorant. We would have borne no blame. But you must be thankful, sir, thankful! General Grant took an interest in you, a personal interest. As did far greater figures, I am led to believe. General Halleck himself sent the doctor along.” Beauregard tilted his head and a strand of waxed hair broke from behind his ear. “Oh, at first, I failed to recognize him as a gentlemen. The Irish are so . . . so misleading at times. Not precisely . . . distingué, let us say. And he raged, sir! Raged! At me, sir! Demanding to know what we had done with you. When you yourself realize, monsieur, that we had done nothing with you at all. Nothing at all! I could not lay claim to the least knowledge of your existence. Our rustic cavalier . . . the letter . . . why attach importance . . .”
“Has he been sent to help me, then?” My heart soared at the prospect.
“Help you?” The general began to choke, but coughed his throat into order. “Help you, sir? Why that shall be the province of Lieutenant Raines! Has someone gone for Raines? No, Major. He was sent to find you. Why, he hardly seemed a gentleman. With his . . . his graceless demands, let us say. Insisted I produce you that instant. I hear he tore a rifle from a sentry’s hands when he reached our lines. Lucky he wasn’t shot, the rogue. Difficult people, the Irish, so difficult. Then, when he insisted on aiding our surgeons . . . on succoring our poor soldiers while awaiting your appearance . . . then, of course, one recognized a gentleman, however Northern and untutored his manners. A mortifying combination, the Yankee and the Irishman.” He turned on one heel. “Has someone gone for Dr. Tyrone? Why can I excite no alacrity, gentlemen? Where’s this Tyrone fellow?”
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