High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I’m so sorry.” Di-Peachy’s eyes glazed over, too. “Things will be fine when you get home, when life is normal.”

  “You’re smarter than that, and now, so am I.” Geneva shook her head. “I don’t want to spoil your love, but, Peaches, marriage isn’t what you think it is!”

  “I know. I see it all around me, and it scares me.”

  “Plus, Mercer is white. That adds one more burden to it.”

  “I know that, too. Does it bother you?”

  “Some.” Geneva hastily added, “But I’ll get used to it. I’m getting used to a lot of things.”

  “Me, too. Geneva, everything is happening so fast. I used to have a dream for the future. I kept it to myself. I didn’t even tell you or Sin-Sin. I used to dream that I’d be free, and I would go to college. Then I would come home and teach my people. Living in ignorance is as bad as being a slave!”

  This sentiment didn’t offend Geneva. Di-Peachy never pretended to like her status for Geneva’s sake. “It might come true.”

  “It might, but from the things I see and hear in Richmond, it seems to me that whether you win this war or whether you lose it, the fate of my people, of me, is going to be one thunderstorm after another. I don’t see any rainbows.”

  Geneva very quietly said, “Your fate is with Chatfield. We’re sisters; we rise or we fall together!”

  “God, I wish I believed that.” Di-Peachy squeezed Geneva’s hand, and they cried anew. They cried for their new knowledge, for their lost childhoods, for their fear of loss and of death. They were women now, and they knew that not every story had a happy ending.

  JUNE 12, 1862

  “Gentlemen, in ten minutes every man must be in his saddle.” Geneva sprang to her feet, along with the other twelve hundred men under Stuart’s command, for a mission as yet undisclosed. After making that announcement, the twenty-nine-year-old brigadier general left them to their hasty preparations.

  Mars Vickers, leaving most of his men with Benserade, now a major, came along because J.E.B. valued him and because companies of the Fourth Virginia, augmenting the First Virginia and the Ninth Virginia, were without a regimental officer. Colonel Fitz Lee, a nephew of Robert E. Lee, commanded the rear guard, mostly made up of the First Virginia. Rooney Lee, the general’s son, commanded the advance guard. Rooney was described as too big to be a man, but too small to be a horse. Lt. Colonel William Martin commanded the Jeff Davis Legion with the South Carolina Boykin Rangers, and Lieutenant Jim Breathed had two units of Stuart’s Horse Artillery.

  Geneva and Banjo, on being selected by Mars, cooked up three days’ rations and were issued sixty rounds of ammunition. They assembled at Kilby’s Station on the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac Railroad line outside of Richmond.

  Mars handpicked twenty of his own men to come along. Nash was not chosen. This precipitated a small crisis when Geneva hotly contested that Nash was an excellent trooper. Mars said that he was aware of Nash’s skills, but he didn’t think Nash was suitable for a mission which might prove extremely punishing. One needed a touch of Murat or madness was how Mars put it. When she asked why he wanted her, he replied, “Because you weren’t born. You were foaled.”

  Nash took the news surprisingly well. While he didn’t shirk responsibility, he didn’t seek it either. He assumed, as did Geneva, that the cavalry was going to reinforce Jackson in the Shenandoah Valley. She said that three days’ rations seemed thin gruel to get over to the Shenandoah Valley. Nash replied that there was nothing to prevent Stuart from foraging after three days’ time or, once far enough away from Richmond, to putting everyone on trains. So she left him without tears. As she bedded down for the night near Mordecai’s by Kilby’s Station, she felt strangely relieved that she was on this mission without Nash. They didn’t argue much, but sometimes the tension between them crackled. She felt protective of him and tried to keep her eye on him. He felt the same way toward her, but the task was more difficult for Nash because he lacked Geneva’s reckless daring. Once he accused her of liking to kill people. She said that she’d rather kill the Yankees than have the Yankees kill her.

  One thing did trouble her, however. When she rode over fields dotted with enemy dead, she wanted to laugh. She was glad they were dead. They had no business marching into Virginia. Even more, she was glad she was alive. Was it so wrong to be happy to be alive? To be happy in a victory of arms? If it was wrong, then everybody would go home, wouldn’t they? She didn’t understand Nash.

  Forming up in columns of fours—Mars immediately up ahead, Banjo on one side of Geneva and Sam Wells on the other, Private Parker outside of Sam—the regiment trotted out in the dazzling moonlight onto the empty Brooke Turnpike. As they pulled out, an old army friend of Stuart’s called out, “When will you be back, Beauty?”

  “It may be four years and it may be forever,” he replied, a piano-wide grin in his bushy beard.

  Riding north they sang “Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, the horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.” The music swept from the head of the column to the rear. At Turner Tavern, five miles later, the column, which at close ranks stretched out half a mile, cut left. Geneva was certain they were heading north to the Louisa County Courthouse where they were going to relieve Jackson, who was contending with three separate Federal armies. She reckoned he could use a little help.

  Before noon the heat rose up off the meadows of undulating grass in little waves. Good-bye spring. Hello summer. Geneva thought how pleasant the summers were at Chatfield. Here in the Peninsula, shot through with three strong rivers and countless creeks, streams, and swamps, summer was a steambath made even more uncomfortable by the great variety and ferocity of winged irritants that inhabited the place. The mosquitoes flew, fat as yellow hornets. If she never saw a Peninsula mosquito again, she would count herself lucky.

  By late afternoon the force crossed the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac Railroad, west of Ashland Station.

  The column veered right. At first Geneva paid little attention, assuming the road was better and they’d soon turn back north.

  After an hour of this rightward direction, she said, “Banjo, we’re heading east.”

  “Maybe the bold general is lost,” Banjo replied.

  “With Mars in the line? You know he can be a real maiden aunt about roads. If a pissant walked over a meadow, he’ll declare it a shortcut.”

  “I heard that,” Mars called over his shoulder from up ahead.

  “I thought officers had better things to do than eavesdrop onus lowlies,” Geneva said to tease him.

  “I eavesdrop on you all the time, Jimmy.”

  “Is that a fact? I had no idea my conversation was so fascinating to you.”

  “It isn’t. I’m waiting for your voice to crack.” At this, titters rippled through the ranks.

  “You know, Colonel, I have an Auntie Sin-Sin. She says if you take a strand of a person’s hair and nail it to a tree, it will run that person crazy. When you’re asleep tonight, I’m gonna snatch a piece of your curly hair and do just that.”

  “Don’t bother. You’re already driving me crazy.”

  The good-natured banter went on until the men stopped for the night. They were on Winston Farm near Taylorsville, twenty-two miles from Richmond. No fires. No bugles. As Banjo rolled up in his blanket, he said to Geneva, “We aren’t going to the valley.”

  “Maybe we’re going to the dogs,” Mars said, rolled up behind Banjo.

  Geneva stealthily crept around Banjo and yanked a hair right out of Mars’s head.

  “You little shit.” He grabbed her wrist. “Gimme that.”

  Banjo propped himself up to enjoy their horseplay.

  “Let me go.”

  “Give me that hair.”

  “Why, think you’ll need it? Afraid you’ll go bald?”

  “You’re the one going to be bald in a minute.”

  “Bully.” She tossed the hair on the ground.

  Mars let her go. �
��I’m no bully; I just don’t want you to nail my hair to a tree. I wouldn’t mess with Sin-Sin’s potions and spells.”

  JUNE 13, 1862

  An hour before sunrise, Geneva was awake. She drank cold tea from her canteen and pulled out her Bible. The lesson for the day was 1 Kings 20:1-22 and Acts 18. The travails of St. Paul made good reading. In yesterday’s lesson, Acts 17, St. Paul told the Greeks at Athens that their altar with the inscription TO THE UNKNOWN GOD was to worship the only God. He was proclaiming that God was the true God. St. Paul was a clever man. Many of the Greeks had a tough time believing the resurrection. Geneva sometimes did, too. Why did it apply to only one of us? Although right now she was rather glad the dead stayed dead. Imagine if those rotting soldiers rose out of their mass graves to turn on one another anew, or worse, to turn on her?

  She noticed that Mars’s bedroll was made up. Banjo stirred. Mars spoke to the other officers, then they all scattered to their units.

  Mars strode up to Geneva. “We are going behind McClellan’s right! General Lee wants us to gather as much information as we can about entrenchments and disposition of troops. Then he’s going to attack.” Mars was jubilant. “There’s nothing between us and one hundred thousand Yankees! Can you beat that?” His eyes sparkled. The sheer impudence of their venture outweighed the danger for him.

  Geneva picked up Gallant’s feet after Mars left her. Shod a week ago, the shoes fit him perfectly. Good, she thought. The last thing I need on an assignment like this is a horse that throws a shoe. Gallant nuzzled her behind as she held his foreleg between her knees.

  Banjo joined her and inspected his own sturdy roan, which had a touch of Connemarra in him. “Ever ball a horse for worms?”

  “Sure.” Geneva moved to the left foreleg.

  “I’d hold the ball between my first three fingers and pull his tongue out with my left hand. Then I’d shove that ball down there as far as I could and zip my hand out! Stand there until I could see it go down his gullet. Course, if I were to be nervous, oh, what a mess!”

  “Ever use a big peashooter to shoot the pill down?”

  “Tried that once. Horse blew back first.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t have worms that season.”

  “Mount up.” The call came down the line.

  As the sun edged over the rolling horizon, Stuart’s men rode toward the Hanover Courthouse five miles east. When roads narrowed, they passed in twos. The rest of the time they stayed four abreast.

  Sam Wells remarked on the enemy. “Fitz-John Porter is at Mechanicsville, or so we’ve heard.”

  Private Parker, who lived in these parts and was therefore very valuable to the expedition, replied, “If he is, then his outposts will be along the Virginia Central Railroad toward the north. I mean, if he has any sense, that’s where his outposts will be.”

  “Bluebirds!” Banjo shouted, pointing to the crest of a hill. They hovered on the rim, wheeled, and disappeared. Hanover Courthouse was within sight.

  At the crest of a wooded knoll, Stuart halted his column. He called Colonel Fitz Lee forward and instructed him to take his rear guard and swing right to flank the Federals, cutting them off further down Courthouse Road. Satisfied that would do it, the rest of the men turned south a mile past Hanover Courthouse, riding past Taliaferro’s Mill and Erron Church to Hawes’ Shop near Totopotomy Creek, bloated with the recent rains.

  “This road gets right evil.” Banjo squinted ahead.

  Geneva noticed that the road dwindled into a narrow ravine, the sides studded with pine and laurel. If infantry was in there, they’d be blown to bits in a matter of minutes.

  A disappointed Fitz Lee soon rejoined the column. He’d bogged down in swampland and hadn’t cut off the small force of Federal cavalry.

  Mars turned in the saddle. “You know, those boys—”

  A shout interrupted him.

  “Sabers!”

  Geneva drew her saber, the rattle tinkling in her ears. No one uttered a word.

  Lieutenant Robins called to his advance guard. “Prepare to meet an attack!”

  Mars’s moustache twitched upward on the left. “Goddammit, I hate it when I can’t see.”

  He did see Rooney Lee quickly send out flanking parties on both sides, but in this terrain they were useless.

  The lead squadron, under Captain S.A. Swann, cantered forward. The column behind them moved up. “Close ranks!” an officer in the front shouted. The men kept their rows as though a center axle ran underneath each team of four. If the lead squadron broke, then the next row would take the attack, and so on down the line until the rear guard was called into action.

  Shouts, pistol reports, and the wild neighing of horses made Geneva’s heart race like an engine. The Yankees retreated without a fight.

  “Dammit to hell!” Mars cursed. “Those boys broke. No dance for us.”

  Captain Swann chased the fleeing Yankees one mile down the road and then sounded recall. The road was too narrow ahead; maybe that easy victory was bait to reel them in.

  The column rode forward to Old Church two miles away. They knew there’d be trouble there because the Federals ran in that direction.

  “Nobody’s here.” Banjo held his hands, palms upward, as he scanned the river crossing. Totopotomy Creek, a natural defensive barrier, surged on its way, no rifle pits, redoubts, or abatis on its banks.

  “They’re up in the air.” Mars wiped his lips with his sleeve. “I think McClellan’s putting his marbles in the center and paying little attention to his right. Let’s find out how far his line extends.” He rode down his line. “Dress up, dress up there. No reason to get raggedy.”

  The Confederates trotted toward Old Church. So far, so good. Geneva’s senses were razor-sharp.

  “Battle form!” Again the call came down the line.

  “I knew they’d be back.” Banjo nonchalantly lit a cigar. “No reason to let a few Yankees get in the way of a good smoke.”

  Immediately ahead, dust swirled up in the road. The front of the Confederate column blasted into the Yankee cavalry, which was waiting for them four abreast. Geneva strained to hear.

  “Move up!” Mars ordered.

  Geneva squeezed Gallant, and he picked up his trot. Now she could see. The Federals broke and ran, but not for long. They must have had some Old Army officers with them because they wheeled about, re-formed into fours, and galloped back toward the Confederates. The Confederate squadron attacked them again. Steel clinked against steel. The combat was hand to hand and in tight quarters. There was precious little room to maneuver.

  “We’re next,” Mars called. “Move up! Move up! Steady!”

  Again the Yankees broke and ran. Geneva saw a scattering of bodies on the road. A few riderless horses plunged back into the retreating Federals, adding to their confusion. She could plainly see the sergeant’s stripes on one Yankee as he held his bleeding arm and ran off the road. The Northerners turned and re-formed one more time. She heard their captain curse them and bellow, “Cut those secessionist sons of bitches to pieces!”

  “Steady.” Mars trotted forward, his saber resting on his right shoulder. He lifted his saber and hollered, “Let’s go, boys!”

  Geneva whooped. Banjo emitted a piercing rebel yell, sending shivers down her spine. The thunder of hooves pounded in her head. She stood in her stirrups, racing forward as far as she could, saber poised at a forty-five-degree angle to her body so she could slash downward. With a terrific slam, her line hit the Yankees and was hit in return. She couldn’t see for the dust. Gallant, a dependable rock, kept his head. The Yankee coming toward her didn’t have as much success with his animal, and he pitched off under the metal hooves, more dangerous than the saber. A puff of dust blew up before her, then subsided. She saw Mars stick a Yankee between the ribs, withdraw his saber, and lash out at a ferocious man coming straight at him. Another swirl of dust obscured him.

  “Get out of here!” someone shouted in a nasal, Northern accent.

&nbs
p; Amidst the screaming and choking dust, she felt more room around her, and she pressed a lathered Gallant forward. The Yankees scooted away and were about ten yards ahead except for those on the ground.

  “Come on, get ’em!” Mars, his face streaked with dust and sweat, appeared amidst the confusion. He looked terrifying and beautiful. Banjo, on his left, shot forward, his saber level to the ground and straight out, riding for all he was worth to catch the rear of the Yankee line. Geneva overtook him, and they rode side by side, but the bluecoats pulled further and further away. Recall sounded.

  “Slow down, Jimmy boy.”

  “Shit!”

  “Don’t be ugly.” He sheathed his saber.

  “Your cigar went out,” she casually told him.

  Men were picking up discarded guidons. The few Yankees that lost their mounts and couldn’t get away surrendered.

  A lifeless body was put on a horse.

  “Who’s that?” Geneva asked Sam Wells, slightly ahead of her as they returned to form in fours once again.

  “Latane, five bullet holes in him,” the trooper answered.

  Mars rode up and down his line. Everyone was accounted for and in one piece.

  The few Yankees who surrendered were put on their horses and tucked in at the rear of the line between the artillery and the last of the rear guard.

  * * *

  After 4 P.M., the column halted at the house of Dr. Brocken-borough. General Stuart dismounted, removed his hat, and went inside. Mercer Hackett and Heroes Van Borcke, formerly of the Third Dragoon Guards of the Royal Prussian Army, dismounted also. Geneva knew who Mercer was, but as yet she had not introduced herself. She didn’t know why she hung back, but the more she pretended to Di-Peachy that it didn’t bother her that Mercer was a white man, the less she wanted to meet him.

  Heroes hypnotized Geneva. The giant wore boots like Casimer Harkaway, huge leather ones that, if unfurled, would cover the knee and a portion of the thigh. Heroes rolled the boot top over once. A heavy dragoon sword, longer than a light cavalry sword, dangled at his right side. He sported expensive gauntlets, a campaign hat with a luxurious ostrich feather, a wide red officer’s sash, and a fierce, waxed moustache that nearly reached his ears. She tried to imagine what the fighting would have been like if the Yankees were dragoons, encased in shiny breastplates and metal helmets, riding thick-boned horses. Just bumping into a heavy cavalryman like that would send an opponent flying off the road. But what they gained in weight, they lost in maneuverability. Light cavalry was exactly where she belonged.