Cawber meant well, though, and had been a great help to me in my duties, despite my insult to his person upon our first acquaintance. He was a great robust fellow, in flesh and spirit. And a good man, as I later learned with unforgettable clarity. In the meantime, he was headed for a rending sorrow. But that is another story. So let that bide.
I HAD JUST BEGUN to read dear Mrs. Schutzengel’s letter when a shadow fell over me. I thought it was Mick come back from his smoke, so I only muttered and bent closer to the paper.
My visitor cleared his throat. In that exaggerated way that says, “Look here.”
I looked there.
Good Lord.
He was not an especially tall man, but in width he beat the band. Now when you think of a fat fellow, you think of the sagging sort. He was none such. His belly protruded straight ahead, or even rose, as if an enormous cannonball was set to burst from his waistcoat. This was a gut of pride, defying even Mr. Newton’s gravity. Oh, my visitor’s beef rode high.
Just the oddest thing he looked. Above dainty, well-shod feet he wore old-fashioned buff trousers, tight at the ankles and grippy everywhere else. They expanded as they rose, until the vasty circumference of the fellow, tormenting inadequate cloth, made him look as though he might topple over. Yet, he stood erectly, back straight as a soldier’s.
Up my eyes climbed and he narrowed again. His chest, though not insignificant, was smaller than his waist. His shoulders were narrower still. Shaped like a spinning top he was, of a size for a giant’s plaything.
His head looked borrowed from another body. For his face was as long as a landlord’s list of lies. His brows spiked bayonets of hair, but his pate shone like the moon. A wreath of chestnut hair wrapped round his skull, but it was the pink flesh up on top a fellow fixed on. It come near to a point, while the rest of his face broadened out to a shovel chin. His nose was a red, bristling exuberance and long mustachios dropped from it like the tusks of a walrus. If he didn’t look queer, I’m the lost son of Lord Raglan.
He held a stack of folded clothes before him, supported by one hand, while the other paw held his derby hat at his side. With a slight bow, he said:
“Major Abel Jones, I does presume?”
English the fellow was. And from the lows of London by his accent.
I rose. “The very same, sir.”
He extended the clothing. “Your garments, sir. Apologies for the delay. Small sizes in short supply, sir. Like most things these days. The best times are behind us, as me governor always said. You’ll be wanting a hat, too, I expects.” He leaned back the better to gauge me. “Just let us have a look and we’ll fit you proper.”
I reached into my pocket. For the Rebels had restored my purse unsullied. Money did not seem a great concern to them, though they had rued the return of my horse and revolver.
“How much, then?” I asked. Fearing the fellow would claim a dreadful amount, with me at his mercy. Sitting there all clean in my dirty drawers.
That took him aback. “Oh, no, sir. Money ain’t wanted, thank you. All compliments of young Master Francis. You couldn’t buy a proper rig-out for love nor money these days. His name opens doors, it does, our Master Francis.”
An Englishman of low degree, he chopped the letter H away and smacked the vowel head-on, then clipped the G from the end of words to save his mouth the labor. As if the alphabet wanted a trim and he was the man to do it. Oh, why the Lord gave the English the language of Mr. Shakespeare is ever a bafflement! You might as well set beauty before the blind. Of course, it wants remembering that Stratford town is not so far from Wales. Perhaps the Bard of Avon had Welsh blood? I think it likely. That would explain his poetry, and richness, and generosity, and intelligence, and sense of justice, and the beauty of his doings, all in all.
“And who,” I asked the fellow, “is Master Francis?” For we must beware the blandishments of our enemies. Beauregard himself had ordered that I wear the clothing of a simple citizen in place of my uniform. He said it would excite less danger and that he would give me a Frenchy document called a “lazy passy” to explain it all and keep me safe. I did not like the business. And now I was being made a present of my dress. Of course, it would be all right if I were expected to give the clothing back when matters were settled. But I could not accept tokens from the Confederates.
“Master Francis, sir? You’ll be going along with him, I believes. But I’ve gone to confusing you, ain’t I, sir? Begging your pardon, then. Master Francis would be Lieutenant Raines.”
That crimped my snout. “I thought the fellow’s Christian name was Drake?”
“Not exactly, sir, not exactly like. ‘Francis Drake Raines’ says his baptismals, sir, and all high church and proper they are, and a great deal more proper than some. There’s them as calls him Drake, you see, but at home he’s always been our Master Francis.”
“And you, sir, are his commercial agent?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m his gentleman’s gentleman, as they puts it. Although I was in trade, sir. In olden times. In New Orleans that was. Before the yellow jack took the wife and the little ones and left me with embarrassments right and left. Funny you should mark it, sir. Most of ’em don’t. But I sees as you’re an observant one. Begging your pardon, sir, I always has found a Welshman sharp of eye.”
I accepted the clothing and began to dress.
“Might you . . . turn around, sir?” I had to swap my undergarments, see.
“Oh, certainly, sir. Do things proper, I always says.”
“And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“Name’s Barnaby, sir. And Barnaby it’s always been. Ain’t never been changed on account of illegalities or such like. I’m born Barnaby and I’ll die Barnaby, as sure as the Queen’s in England.”
I drew on the loveliest, softest cotton stockings in mankind’s history. Or so they seemed to me. For they were clean.
“Well, Mr. Barnaby—or is that your Christian name, sir?”
“Oh, all’s one, sir, all’s one. It’s Barnaby first and Barnaby last. Barnaby front and Barnaby back. I’m Barnaby Barnaby, sir. Like me governor before me.”
Viewed from the rear, he blocked still more of the light. Twas evening and I fumbled through amber air.
“Well, Mr. Barnaby . . . if you will pardon me, sir . . . it’s a curious thing to see you.”
“Oh, I has a certain bulk, sir. There’s a goodly prosperity to me. If that’s your meaning, sir.”
“No, no,” I said, alarmed that he judged me the sort who would comment meanly on another’s person. “I only meant that you’re an Englishman. A white man, sir. I did not know the Southrons kept servants of their own race.”
He turned his head without turning his body and I glimpsed his nose in profile. “Oh, they does and they don’t, sir. Though mostly they don’t. Young Master Francis, he’s a more civilized sort, he is. Won’t keep a Negro servant himself. Though his governor’s dripping with ’em. Begging your pardon, sir.”
The garments fit acceptably. Though their boldness would not have done for chapel. My trousers were a checkered brown, the waistcoat green and yellow. Only the frock was a decent black and fit for prayer and sobriety. The tie they gave me was but a long green ribbon and would not make the modest bow I liked.
“Mr. Barnaby? Please turn about again, sir. I have a question.”
“About your dinner would that be, sir? Being’s you’re a Welshie, you’ll want a proper dinner, I expects. I could see to that for you, sir. Indeed, I could, sir. There’s still victuals to be had, sir, for him what knows where to look. And Barnaby knows where to look for his victuals, sir.” He positively jiggled at the prospect.
“Thank you, no, Mr. Barnaby. It’s this ribbon affair. This necktie. In the North, I’m afraid . . .”
“Oh, that’s all right, sir. Not to worry. The gentlemen all wears ’em down here, sir. Not just your gamblers and such. If you ties it in a great bow, sir, in a very great bow, and lets the ends go all droppy li
ke, that’s how they does it. It cuts a dash, sir.”
I am not one to “cut a dash.” But let that bide.
Twas then old Mick returned from his smoke. He squeezed past Mr. Barnaby, with a look of professional wonder at the fellow’s girth. They were two fine ones, side by side. Mick as lean as a famine year, and Barnaby bursting with bounty. The latter made the John Bull in the weeklies look like a fasting Hindoo.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” Mick told the fellow. That was how he spoke in good society. And how he wrote, though his talk was plain to me. He did not recognize Barnaby as a serving fellow any more than I did.
“Barnaby, sir. At your service.”
“Mick Tyrone.” He thrust out his hand.
Barnaby backed away. With a bow. For serving fellows must not grip their betters.
“Mr. Barnaby,” I explained, “is in service to a gentleman.”
At that Mick reared up. “Too good to shake my hand, are you, sir?”
Barnaby straightened. Startled by the outburst. His thick brows climbed, his broad chin dropped, his grand nose swelled, and his belly thrust itself against the world.
Mick knew his doings, see. He grabbed the fellow’s paw and gave it a shake. For he was a Socialist, and such do not hold with classifications among men. As soon as the gesture was done, he let go of the poor fellow’s hand and turned to me.
Behind old Mick, Barnaby stared at his palm. As if inspecting for damage. “Most irregular,” he muttered. “Something horrible irregular.”
“Well, get your shoes on, Abel,” Mick said. “A fellow can’t even enjoy his pipe around these people. Some ass insists Beauregard wants to see the two of us. I think we’re expected to feed with his lordship the general.”
“Oh, ain’t a good dinner a loveliness?” Barnaby cried, as if the words burst forth against his will.
“And didn’t he make a great fuss about how we were to come at once?” Mick went on. “Not a moment to be lost, the fellow tells me. But didn’t he have time enough to lead me into a shed and ask me to look over the damage the ladies of Memphis had recently done to his sword?” He shook his head at mankind, which he did with some frequency. “I suppose we’d best go along.”
“Chops, gentlemen!” Barnaby declared joyously, with that same effect of helpless, blasting speech. “When Master Francis went in to report, I seen great chops, I did. Beautiful chops you’ll be having, if Barnaby’s fit to judge.”
Yet, there was sorrow in that tantalized voice. For such as he, a serving man, might not join us at dinner. It is a curious world, see. Even in America. North or South, whose table makes room for all?
I TUCKED AWAY Mrs. Schutzengel’s unread missive, saving its joy for a gentler hour, and we went, old Mick and I, to the house where General Beauregard had received me. The general had changed into an evening uniform, adorned with braid enough for the king of France. Beside him, young Lieutenant Raines, the horse-race fellow, stood in a sort of glow, distinct from the other officers who had gathered to cram their bellies. Nor was his radiance a trick of the gaslamps, for Corinth had not one. Oh, Raines was not handsome. Not the way we commonly think of handsome. But shining he was, a very flame of youth.
It pleased me that we would work together, and didn’t I find that odd? For I am all suspicion of the high-born.
The lady of the house made a gracious hostess, with her husband smiling mildly at her side. Got up in a satin gown she was, though with the pleasant look of a settled wife. She even wore an emerald at her throat, suspended on a ribbon of black velvet. Oh, she seemed delighted at the hours before her, for candlelight brings back a woman’s youth and company buoys her. Merry it was at her end of the table. But the husband wore a look of quiet concern. Women embrace the evening, see, but men think of the morning. The master of the house knew as well as I did that the Rebels would leave the town in the days to come, whether they put up a fight or just moved on. And then a hostile army would arrive.
Only the husband and I proved meager talkers. All the rest embraced a spiteless gaiety. Including Mick, for he is not all dour. They talked French, see, even young Raines, and that was how old Mick fell into the thick of it, for he liked to jabber in heathen tongues about things high and knowledgeable. Between our grand devourings, Beauregard and Mick volleyed talk across the plates and platters, filling the room with city names I recognized from books and newspapers. They conjured Europe to that country table, and our hostess gleamed like the emerald pendant she fingered.
You might have thought our country was at peace.
SEVEN
I DREAMED OF A RED-HAIRED GIRL IN A FIELD OF SNOW. She had her health again and smiled kindly. My heart soared.
A noise woke me. When you are an old soldier, whose life has depended on hearing the scuff of a pebble a second before the blade dropped for your neck, you do not think. You act.
Colt in hand, I started to roll off the cot. But strong fingers closed over mine, contesting the pistol, while a damp palm clasped my mouth. A man’s weight pinned me down.
I smelled horse sweat and leather.
“Friend, friend,” a peculiar voice whispered.
Moonlight soaked my eyes, for I had left the flaps of the tent open for the freshness. Pale ribbons dangled from the intruder’s hair.
Twas Broke Stick. Micah Lott’s Red Indian. He lifted his frame from my person and took his hand from my mouth. But he kept his grip on my Colt a while longer.
“Quiet,” he said. “No trouble.”
“What the devil . . . what do you want?”
“No trouble. Reverend Lott, he watch. Every day. Pray for you. Satan all over. You look out.”
I cocked up on my elbow. Ordering my thoughts. The Colt was mine again. “Well, if he’s watching me, why did I sit in a pen for ten days? Waiting to hang? And why did he tell Sherman I was dead?”
“Big vengeance coming, brother.” I saw the black gleam of his eyes in the moonlight. “You rise up from the dead. Like the Hoodoo man. Now you better pray. Every man better pray. Angel coming with the sword. Break the seal. Big vengeance coming.”
“I didn’t rise up from the dead. See here. What’s Lott up to?”
He moved his head and the ribbons shimmered. “Reverend say beware that Anti-Christ. Big Reckon almost here. Earth run blood. You look out.”
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN ANOTHER DREAM, no more. The Indian left no sign. And I gleaned no sense from his ravings. Why would Lott send the fellow to me, through Confederate lines, to say what he had said? Had Broke Stick got the message muddled up? Or was he mad and acting on his own? And was Lott truly a wife-murderer? Or was that a Rebel lie, to ruin a goodly man opposed to slavery? Such defamations could not be put past a folk whose generals spoke French. Oh, it was all gone to slops in my brain by morning. There was no sense to it, see. A mystery is one thing, but lunacy another.
A shame it is I did not listen better. Many a life might have been spared. But we are as the deaf, until the Lord opens our ears.
I told no one of the Indian’s coming. I did not say a word until the dying began, and the burning. But I must not go too swiftly, so let that bide.
I had other matters on my mind, see. For I was reading when Mick come into my tent. With the sun behind him and bugles brassing the day.
Twas Sunday morning.
Mick stopped short. “Don’t you look a state, bucko? Is it the camp trots you’ve got, then? I warned you not to drink their filthy water.”
I held out the letter. Not the one I had written for him to take back and send to my wife, but the one from dear Mrs. Schutzengel. I had read it by the light of a stinking candle before wrapping myself in my blanket. The news had so disturbed me that I nearly ran to find Mick in the darkness. I had paused, though, at the thought that a sentry might shoot me. And naught could be done until morning, anyway. But I had lain long awake, thinking on the matter. I had barely got to my sleep and my lovely dreaming when the Indian appeared to addle me worse.
Mic
k drew the camp chair to the front of the tent where the light was stronger. He nodded as he read. “Oh, that’s good,” he said. “Good for her. I hope she goes.” He lifted his eyes to me, with the light on the side of his face. “Is that what you’re so glum about? That your landlady’s pondering a journey to London to visit Herr Marx? I think this international congress sounds like an interesting idea, if she can move him to it. And don’t worry. Marx’s philosophy isn’t really dangerous. It’s cold soup. Fourier’s the man. Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“No, Mick. It is not that. Read lower.”
He scanned the lines. Suddenly, he stopped. As I knew he would. But instead of appearing aghast, he shot his solitary crack of a laugh at the morning. Officers washing at a trough turned round to stare at him.
“Oh, that’s grand! That’s wonderful news! It’ll be the making of the fellow.” He turned his face to me again. This time, the morning sun glanced off his hair. “But where’s the bad news, Abel?” He ruffled the letter. “Have I missed a page?”
“You have read it. Think you, Mick. He’ll ruin the girl, sure as the English will come for the rents.”
“Oh, nonsense! I’ve no doubt Molloy will make her a fine husband.” He curled a smile. “See to that, she will.”
I slipped my thumbs behind the straps of my braces and took my position. “A fine husband, is it? There is foolish. He’ll be the ruin of poor Annie Fitzgerald. Why . . . why, I know him to be the slave of a thousand vices. Of a thousand and more. Mick, I don’t suppose there’s any way you could go to Washington? Just long enough to talk sense to the girl?”
Mick laughed again. Twas more than a lone syllable this time. The fellow sounded absolutely jovial. “Well, you know I can’t. And do you think I would if I could?” He shook his head in lengthening amusement. “You’re too hard on Molloy, Abel. And that girl knows which end of the goose is which, I’ll tell you that much.” He gave me the fierce of those eyes of his. “And who are you to get up on a high horse, your lordship? When did a Welshman last walk on the water? Didn’t you tell me your wife was the making of you?”
Call Each River Jordan Page 14
