High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

  She hated funerals. Her mind went back to Jimmy’s funeral. The services for the burial of a child are exquisitely painful. She could hear Very Reverend Manlius intone, “O Merciful Father, whose face the angels of thy little ones do always behold in heaven; Grant us steadfastly to believe that this thy child hath been taken into the safekeeping of thine eternal love; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  A wail from Tincia brought her back to Alafin’s funeral.

  The Very Reverend Manlius finished. “Suffer us not at our last hour for any pains of death to fall from thee.”

  Peter placed a restraining hand on Tincia’s heaving shoulders. He had no sympathy for her grief. He was glad Alafin was dead. He wanted Tincia all to himself.

  Frederica handed her infant over the open grave to Boyd, who was standing on the other side. The five other small babies of Chatfield were likewise passed over the coffin. The servants believed that if this ritual was not performed, the soul of the dead would snatch the babes and force them to accompany him on his journey to the afterlife.

  Following the service, Lutie and the Very Reverend Manlius walked back to the big house. Sin-Sin and Di-Peachy followed at a discreet distance.

  “Thank you for officiating, Father Manlius.”

  “A duty, no matter how sad, that brings me to your beautiful home and your bracing company.”

  “Thank you, Father. I, too, look forward to your company. I’m hoping we can discuss the scriptures over lunch.”

  “Indeed. This is the twenty-ninth, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Lutie replied.

  “This is the day Noah was believed to have quit his ark.”

  “I expect the poor man ate so much seafood his stomach rose and fell with the tide.”

  MAY 9, 1861

  Ascension Day may have gotten Christ off the earth, but Geneva was stuck right here. The smoke confused her. She didn’t mind the whine of cannon overhead, but she didn’t reckon with the huge clouds of smoke that artillery fire creates. Coughing and sputtering, she kept the reins in her left hand and held her empty pistol in her right. Her squad trotted through the noise of war games organized by Mars Vickers. Clods of earth were shot into the air on her left, just far enough away to give her a margin of safety.

  “Tighter, boys!” Captain Brown shouted, rallying his group. They trotted on only to see Benserade’s men come riding toward them at a hard gallop. The earth rumbled underneath Geneva. Even though she knew another large cavalry force was coming, she wasn’t ready for the tremendous vibration or the shock of horse slamming into horse. She didn’t generate equivalent force. A horse at a trot is no match for a horse at a gallop. Dancer squealed. A forearm caught her on the chest, but she stayed mounted.

  “Hard right!” Brown bellowed.

  She heeled and moved through the throng at a diagonal. They’d never get out of this without getting the shit beat out of them. To her surprise, Captain Brown’s diagonal movement worked, and she was clear of the melee. The entire operation took only four minutes, but it seemed much longer.

  “Assemble on the parade grounds,” Brown ordered.

  The men, still on horseback, lined up by company on the parade ground. Mars, sweating, faced them on a roan he had picked up from a West Virginia farmer a couple of weeks ago.

  “Brown, you did the right thing. You wheeled in time to make the blow a glancing one. If you’d met Benserade’s men head-on, there wouldn’t be one of you sitting on a horse. Now I know some of you boys want to draw sabers and charge. Let the Yankees do that. They don’t know jack shit about cavalry warfare anyway.” Some men laughed. Mars wiped his arm across his forehead. “This time I want Brown’s men to reconnoiter Area Red. Okay, boys, ride on.”

  As Geneva, Nash, and Banjo slowly rode off, they strained to catch word of their opponents’ war game orders. Today they bore the brunt of the action. Tomorrow it would be their turn to be the hunter.

  Major Vickers displayed his genius by simulating every conceivable battle condition, short of live ammunition and death. He infuriated his men by insisting they no longer turn over their mounts to their servants. Each man had to rub down his own horse and inspect his own tack. Mars said repeatedly, “Your life depends on the condition of your body, the condition of your horse, and the condition of your tack. You can have the best horse in the company, but what good is it if your girth breaks while you’re under fire?”

  One night during a hard rain and without warning, Mars ordered them to mount up. The men staggered out of their tents, saddled up, and rode in the driving rain for two hours. Vickers’s men were gaining a reputation as the toughest unit in the cavalry. They swaggered before the infantry and artillery. The sight of another cavalry command produced instant challenges, Mars finally had to forbid betting on racing or jumping against other cavalry units. He let it be known unofficially that he didn’t want to embarrass the other officers and men. This endeared him further to his troops.

  Mars kept counsel. Any man in his command could walk in and present an idea or grievance. No need was too small for his attention. He walked the lines at night; he questioned the servants as to the health and condition of their masters. Moreover, he never asked a man to do what he himself wouldn’t do.

  Area Red, thick with woods and hedgerow, was a cavalryman’s nightmare. Brown told the men to break formation and string out over the terrain. They were to search for any sign of the enemy. A low road cut through the woods. Geneva moved away from the others and headed toward the edge of the road. A rifle cracked over her head.

  “You’re dead.” An infantryman spat tobacco on the ground. “Tie the red bandanna around your cap.”

  Furious and somewhat frightened, Geneva shouted, “What makes you think you’d be that good a shot!”

  “Like a demonstration, precious darling?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. He put his rifle to his shoulder and aimed it straight up. “Throw your cap in the air, snot nose.”

  Geneva tossed her yellow cap up as high as she could.

  The rifleman bagged it. Triumphantly, he retrieved the cap. “Tie a red bandanna around it!”

  She did and trotted back to Captain Brown.

  “Dead?”

  The rules were that she couldn’t say how she had been killed. If the others didn’t see the death, then they would have to draw their own conclusions.

  “You shouldn’t have strayed so far,” Nash chided.

  As they emerged from the woods, three supply wagons rested on a road cutting through a meadow. A slight rise on the far side of the meadow could conceal troops.

  Brown peered through his binoculars. “Could be a trap. Sam, take Nash and Banjo and investigate.”

  Banjo and Sam led the way; Nash lagged behind.

  No signs of life greeted them. Sam waved his hat, and the other men in the company joined them.

  “Grab everything you can out of the wagons. Fast!”

  Mars had told them never to try and move a wagon, but rather to sling grain and other supplies over the front of their saddles and ride off. Any papers or maps were often of the utmost importance and should be placed inside the saddlebags. Money or other valuables would be shared equally among the troops.

  In the middle of pillaging their booty, Nash saw a movement in the woods. He called softly to Brown. “Ten degrees off your right, Captain.”

  Brown looked through his binoculars. He saw infantrymen moving from tree to tree in the woods he and his men had just ridden through, but they were too far away to be a problem.

  Suddenly Banjo shouted, “Here they come!”

  A small detachment of cavalry appeared on the meadow’s rise. Brown’s unit couldn’t flee back into the woods. They’d have to make a run for it over open fields.

  “Back to the camp!” Brown ordered.

  Forty men and forty horses burnt the wind getting back to camp. They discarded much of their fake booty in the process. Their pursuers caught up with them in fifteen minutes’ time.

 
Mars, leading the pursuers, dismounted and clapped his hand on Brown’s back. “What’d you learn today, Captain?”

  “To post a lookout. My eyes were bigger than my belly.”

  Mars caught sight of Geneva. “Who killed you?”

  “An infantryman hidden in the brush by the low road.”

  “What were you doing that far from the others? That’s the edge of Area Red, Chatfield.”

  “I didn’t hear anything, and I didn’t see the harm in extending the line a little.”

  “Well, now you know, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And take that ridiculous bandanna off your cap. I don’t like to think of you dead.”

  MAY 10, 1861

  Last night at Kate Vickers’s home, Henley sparkled. He charmed the ladies while maintaining strict propriety. He felt young again. He adored Kate Vickers.

  He also made some progress with other commissary officers yesterday. Everyone agreed that the state should be divided into districts of supply. Henley argued that certain wealthy businessmen and tradesmen should be made commissioners, civilian counterparts to the military officers. He thought that by using the businessmen as commissioners, the thieves would police the thieves.

  Northrupp, head of Commissary listened but old Jacob Barnhart from Williamsburg nearly expired upon hearing this suggestion. Southern gentlemen profiteer from the war? Never! Every man would willingly give his grain, his cattle, his sons, and himself to the cause. Henley bit his tongue while the old man spun his illusions. Jacob Barnhart had never dealt with a tradesman in his life. He had no appreciation for the mercantile instinct which seeks profit in all things, even death. Henley, because of his horse breeding business, understood it only too well. The eight other officers in the stuffy room, most of them considerably younger than Barnhart, winked at Henley. Jacob was born right after the Revolutionary War. The others were modern men, most of whom had spent time in the North. They would consider Henley’s proposal for civilian commissioners.

  What stuck in Henley’s craw was the fact that the important ordinance officers were those assigned to weaponry. They’d set up offices out at Tredegar Iron Works. No one said they were that important, but the buzzing in and out of Lee’s offices in Mechanics Hall proved the point. Lee had assumed the Virginia command that Governor Letcher had offered. As each state was raising troops and putting a favored son in charge, it was confusing. Beauregard and Johnston appeared the most likely candidates for an overall command if the Confederacy could get organized.

  Henley felt he deserved better than the Commissary Department. The lavish compliments on feeding the troops sounded sour in his ears. To hell with it, he wanted to fight. After all, he’d read and absorbed Henri Jomini’s Summary of the Art of War. He knew his military history. On this day in 1796 Napoleon had defeated the Austrians at Lodi. Henley left his card at Mechanics Hall. The new commanding officer would get to it in time. Henley fully intended to ask an already tired Robert E. Lee for a field commission.

  The sun rolled over the horizon like the red rim of a wagon wheel. Henley reached into the small desk made from cherry wood and took out his Bible and the pamphlet of lessons. Lutie would be doing the same and so would Sumner and Geneva, wherever they were. It was curiously satisfying to know this.

  The Old Testament lesson was 1 Samuel 15. God told Saul to kill the Amalekites, to massacre them, men, women, and children. God even told Saul to extend his heavenly wrath to the oxen, sheep, camels, and asses. Saul murdered the people, but he and his men saved the best of the stock. This didn’t go down with the Lord, and Saul was bounced from being king of the Israelites.

  Before Henley could ponder the significance of the lesson, a light rap on the door saved him.

  “Colonel Chatfield.” A bright boy held out a silver tray with three letters on it.

  “Thank you,” Henley said, handing him a coin.

  The first letter, on plain white stationery, was from Colonel Charles Venable, aide-de-camp to General Lee. The general would be happy to see him on Thursday next.

  The second letter was written on pale blue stationery. The initials KLV were centered in dark blue block letters at the top of the page. Henley liked that. Most women wallowed around in script.

  Dear Colonel Chatfield:

  You did so enliven us by your presence.

  Might I prevail upon your good nature to ask you to accompany me, when duty permits, to inspect a gelding offered me for hunting? If you haven’t time I do understand, and I hope you will forgive me for making so bold as to ask.

  Yours, Sincerely,

  Mrs. Mars Vickers

  Whistling, Henley folded the letter back into the envelope and placed it inside his breast pocket.

  The third letter was from Geneva. She had written on Chatfield stationery, a creamy bond with the name of the estate in forest green. She was in London with the Bennetts and hoped he was well. The Wells and Ryders, also in England and old friends of the family, were fine. She received many invitations for visits to country estates. Right now she was enjoying the city. She missed Nash so much she could die, but she would be home by fall.

  The salutations were most affectionate and the handwriting far prettier than he remembered, but when was the last time he had seen her hand? She had even sealed the letter with dark green wax. Henley couldn’t recall Geneva being that careful. Assuming Geneva was homesick, Henley wrote her a long letter full of Richmond gossip and posted it before breakfast.

  MAY 11, 1861

  Colonel Thomas J. Jackson’s headquarters throbbed with activity. Mars, fresh from a quick conference with the odd Jackson, walked over to his horses. Smartly uniformed men were coming and going. Every officer had brought his own batman, a personal servant who washed his clothes, ironed his shirts, polished and boned his boots, brushed his braid. Mars laughed to himself. This is the damnedest prettiest army I’ve ever seen at camp, he thought. Mars knew what it was to stay in the saddle for weeks at a time, without a bath or a change of clothes, without food. Enjoy it while you can, he thought.

  “Jimmy Chatfield, what are you doing here?” he bellowed at the long, lean boy.

  “Looking for you. The new mounts arrived, Major Vickers.”

  “Let’s go then.” Mars eased into the saddle.

  As they rode along, Mars studied Jimmy. Jimmy wore his foraging cap cocked on his head, a yellow neckerchief tied in a knot at his throat. High summer wasn’t upon him, but he was as tan as his saddle. His legs had bulked up a bit. Superb rider though he was, the extra work put more muscle on him. Still too thin in the chest, though. The other young men in the camp grew beards or moustaches. Facial hair was all the rage, though for those who didn’t like to shave in the morning, it was laziness. Jimmy cultivated no moustache or beard. And while he got along with everyone, the boy kept to himself for the most part. Jimmy Chatfield was the only man who’d proven himself a better rider than Mars, so the major had a special interest in him. There was a sweetness and straightforwardness about the young man that touched him and made him regret the sons he’d never fathered.

  The only thing Mars didn’t like about Jimmy was Nash Hart. The boy acted silly over Hart, and Mars couldn’t understand it. As far as Mars was concerned, Nash Hart was so far behind everyone else he was lonesome. Yet Jimmy seemed to worship the man. Mars hoped it wasn’t a physical relationship, but he was a worldly man. Sometimes a boy does swoon over a grown man before he becomes a man himself with a grown man’s responsibilities. But it turned his stomach to think of Hart taking advantage of this youth, if in fact he was. He didn’t want Jimmy used that way, and he thought the boy was too young to know what he was doing. On the other hand, Hart seemed jealous of the boy while simultaneously pretending to ignore him.

  “When are the Yankees going to attack, Major Vickers?”

  Mars smiled. “Why? You getting anxious?”

  “A little.” Geneva patted Dancer’s neck.

  “They’ll have to attack us, bec
ause we aren’t going to attack them. Now that the government is being moved from Montgomery, Alabama, to Richmond, they’ll probably strike for Richmond.”

  “How do you think they’ll make their approach to Richmond?”

  “Well, there are a variety of ways they can attack: by water, straight down from Washington by land; or if they’re feeling clever, they’ll send out a body of men in one direction and the main force in another. However, I don’t think they’re that clever.”

  “Are you anxious to fight, sir?”

  “Fight? It’s my profession. But I’ve seen enough to know there’s no glory in it, and I’ve seen enough to know it will never end.”

  “We’ll beat their pants off, and that will end it.” She jauntily trotted forward.

  “What I mean, Jimmy, is after this war, there will be another war, and one after that. Man is more ape than angel.”

  “But if the abolitionists had just left us alone, there wouldn’t be any war.”

  “Oh, hell, boy, that is just the excuse. This war’s been brewing since I was in the cradle. I’d a damn sight prefer it if the real reason—greed—was put forward for once and not this smarmy abolitionist hypocrisy.”

  Geneva’s forehead wrinkled. Surely Major Vickers didn’t mean that the South was greedy. We only ask to be allowed to live in peace according to our creed. He must mean the North. But Geneva remembered her Aunt Poofy and Uncle Daniel. They weren’t greedy people. They were good people. They were fighting for the North. This knowledge burdened Geneva.

  “Independence! That’s the real reason for this fight, Major Vickers. Doesn’t matter what the abolitionists say. We know why we’re fighting.”