High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

  Mercer Hackett grabbed his wrist. “Don’t burn those gloves up. Richmond is full of weddings these days. Every officer wants white gloves to wear. If you save them, you can ask your own price.”

  Banjo picked up a pair. “Here. My present. You’ll get married some day.”

  “I hope to.” Mercer blushed, the glow shining through his soot-smeared face.

  “Want my advice?”

  Mercer stiffened. “Go on.”

  “Marry her the next time you’re in Richmond. Who knows what will happen? You cart that girl right down to the altar.”

  Relief spread over Mercer’s handsome features. “I will surely try and make her see things my way.” He paused. “I don’t think many of the fellows would come. Considering.”

  “I’ll be there.” Banjo returned to fishing out items from the chaos.

  * * *

  In the small cottage near the landing, Mars was proving to be a handful.

  “Stop hovering over me like a blowfly! I’m all right.”

  “Stop acting like a flaming idiot. You’re running a fever, and Fitz Lee says you’re to stay put until it comes down.”

  General Stuart knocked on the door and entered. “Jimmy, thank you for saving this varmint’s carcass. You stay put for the night, Mars. If the fever’s down, you can catch up with us tomorrow.”

  “I can ride now.”

  “I just gave you an order, sir. Jimmy, don’t let him out of your sight.”

  The door slammed.

  “Why don’t I read the lesson for the day?” said Geneva. She found the Old Testament page, Genesis, chapter 9. “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man. And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.… I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.” She finished the chapter. “That’s one of my favorites.”

  She turned to the New Testament and Acts, chapter 3. Geneva read of Peter and John going to the temple called Beautiful at nine o’clock to pray. A man, lame from birth and known to all, sat every day at the gate to the temple begging for alms. Peter stopped and said, “Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rise up and walk.” Not only did the man walk, he leapt with joy, rushing into the temple to proclaim his happiness with God.

  “It’s so simple in the Bible,” Mars said. “One has only to have faith and miracles follow.”

  “Mother says that every day is a miracle.” A sudden pang shot through Geneva. She thought of her mother, now a widow, at Mars’s house, which must be filling up with wounded.

  “Maybe it is, but I lost my faith years ago. The last Christian died on the cross.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “How can I not? The human race seems bent on a filthy cycle of destruction, and every advance means we kill one another more efficiently. Napoleon’s troops could fire with accuracy up to one hundred yards. We can fire up to five hundred yards, and those big siege guns can loft a shell into the heavens for a mile or more. Then it crashes on soft flesh. Those artillery boys never see who they’re killing.”

  Holding her Bible tightly, she said, “That captain who saved us, I don’t want to kill him. I could have shot him at another time. He’d be a dot in blue.”

  His clear, light hazel eyes searched hers. “You’re a strange duck, Jimmy.”

  “I never expected you to have such thoughts—being Old Army.”

  “A soldier should have these thoughts. Old men make the wars, and young men fight them. I’m not a soldier because I like war. I inherited the profession, and in some odd way I am suited for it.” He lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what comes over me during a fight. Do you?”

  “No. It’s like a jumped-up foxhunt.”

  “Some kind of animal rage, some kind of lust. Why do we get that excited at the prospect of killing another man?” He blew out a blue tail of smoke. “Some events, some principles are so great that we are willing to violate the commandment and kill for them, and we’re willing to lay down our own life. We’re no different than a woman in childbed. She risks death to bring forth life; we risk death to bring forth a nation.” He looked at Geneva. “You’ll have it both ways.”

  “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

  “We agreed that I wouldn’t tell.” He crossed his legs under him. “I’ve been through two names with you. Now tell me, just what in hell is your real name?”

  “Geneva Chalfonte Chatfield Hart.”

  He laughed. “I’ll still call you Jimmy. And how old are you? Tell the truth.”

  “I turned nineteen last December. The day after Sumner was killed.”

  “So you did tell the truth about that. When I think about it, it was in front of me. I didn’t see.”

  “Hard to think the unthinkable. It’s so easy, Colonel. All I have to do is keep my clothes on and keep fighting. Blond John Pelham has a sweeter girl’s face than I do. Men see what they want to see.”

  “Yeah, that’s the truth.” He tugged at his bandage.

  “Let that alone.”

  “Shut up! I hate it when you nag at me. I’m a grown man, and I can take care of myself. I’m sorry. I’m so damned irritable I don’t even like myself.”

  “I like you.”

  He felt shy but didn’t know why. He’d fought and ridden with this woman for more than a year. “You’ve got me over a barrel, you know. I should chuck you out, even though you are the best soldier I’ve got. But you’ve saved my life twice and I gave you my word. But answer me one more question and then I’ll let it lie: Do you love Nash Hart that much?”

  “Yes.” She fumbled. “It’s different now than in the beginning. He’s good to me. But he doesn’t look at me like he used to. I never was pretty, but when I trussed up in a dress he looked at me, you know, that way. He doesn’t anymore. He says after the war, when I go back to being normal, that everything will be all right. I hope so.”

  “When I look at you, Jimmy, I know what a failure I am. No woman has ever loved me enough to risk her life for me or even walk around the corner for me. Somehow that’s my fault.”

  “No—”

  Vehemently he interrupted her. “It is my fault. I see it every day, Jimmy. I see love every day, and I have no part in it. I have seen slaves love one another with all their heart and soul. I’ve seen ignorant white men and women pull together as if God put a golden yoke around their necks. I see Maud Windsor smile when Jeffrey walks in the room. He doesn’t have to say anything. He just walks in the room, and she’s happy and he’s happy. Don’t try and make me feel better. I’m missing something. Maybe I don’t give enough or—I don’t know! I could ignore it before. I knew in a vague way that I was slipping away, missing something, but it isn’t vague anymore. I am a human failure.”

  “You are not!” Her eyes blazed.

  “You’re not my wife.”

  JUNE 30, 1862

  Stuart pushed forward like the nervous antennae of a large insect. He kept feeling, feeling but the Federals were not where he thought they would be.

  A courier informed him there had been a fierce battle yesterday while he was at White House Landing. It was inconclusive, although Lee continued trying to grasp the elusive McClellan in his pincers.

  Geneva and Mars rode some fifteen miles behind Stuart.

  “This could have been our Cannae,” Mars said. “In 216 B.c., Hannibal destroyed the Roman army there. We had a like opportunity, but Hannibal was fighting with an instrument he’d forged over the years. We’re too mixed up for coordinated action, too green.”

  “We hurt them though.”

  “That we did, but McClellan’s like a rabbit that got its foot caught in a steel trap. He chewed off his foot and is crawling to safety.”

  JULY 1, 1862

  At three-thirty in the morning, General Stuart received an order from Lee
to cross the Chickahominy. As they moved into the dawn, Nash wasn’t worried that Geneva hadn’t overtaken them.

  “The colonel’s fever stayed up, I’ll bet,” Banjo said. They reached Bottoms Bridge as Jackson’s division was crossing over it in an orderly fashion.

  Orders were called down the line, and they turned their horses back from the bridge. The roads, curving and tortuous in many places, kept them wide awake. They crossed the river downstream at Ford’s Bridge.

  Cobb’s Legion from Georgia was left to guard White House Landing in case McClellan doubled back.

  In the early afternoon, as they heard the massed artillery belching from Malvern Hill, Nash said, “Maybe Mars and Jimmy stayed back at White House.”

  “Would you want to sit in the hot sun with a mess of Georgians?” Banjo shook his head. “They’re somewhere behind us. We’ve kept up a stiff pace, and the colonel’s probably feeling weak.”

  Forty-two miles from dawn, the troopers bivouacked in oat fields east of Turkey Creek. They were aiming for Haxall’s Landing on the James. If a Federal column hoped to get off the Peninsula at that spot, the cavalry would harass them until infantry came up to finish the job. A heavy rain began to fall. The horses were oblivious to it because they munched on the sweet oats. The cavalry had received no further word from either Jackson or Lee.

  Banjo, sopping, passed by Mercer Hackett, who had a fresh mount. “Where are you going?”

  “Toward the guns. We’ve got to find out what happened.”

  “Got any more fresh horses?”

  “In the rear. Those Yankees sure are generous with their supplies.”

  Banjo ran back, picked up his tack, and asked Nash to join him. They cut out two rough but sturdy animals and were beside Mercer within fifteen minutes.

  The rain pelted them mercilessly.

  “Black as Erebus this night,” Nash grumbled.

  “Who’s Airybus?” Banjo, ever curious, asked.

  “He’s primeval darkness, fathered by Chaos out of Night, who was his sister.”

  “ ’Zat what they teach you in college? Fooling around with your sister?” Banjo jibed.

  “Since it was the beginning of the world, according to the Greeks, there weren’t many people to choose from.”

  “A likely excuse.” Mercer watched the red glow.

  As they reached the battle site, the low black clouds were illuminated by tongues of orange flame. From the heights of Malvern Hill a small scarlet tornado ripped the darkness each time a cannon discharged. One after another the heavy artillery shattered the rain and what remained of life. The Yankees had been firing their superior guns throughout the day. The metal cannon glowed with heat. At 10 P.M. the firing stopped.

  The eerie silence after the relentless fountain of death gave way to the sounds of hell. The wounded dying, trapped under the muzzles of the enemy guns on the steep incline, howled, shrieked, and sobbed into the night. The medical teams could not cover the territory to retrieve the men.

  “There must be thousands of them!” Nash cried through the deluge and the horror, and he thought of all that crushed intelligence, all that pitiless waste. “How can they stand it? How can those Yankees sit up there and listen to that? Why can’t they send down their own doctors?”

  “They don’t know that they won’t be shot any more than we do.” Mercer, too, was unnerved by the massed suffering. His horse stumbled, and he peered down into the darkness to see a bearded jawbone. “Come on, we’ve got to find a senior officer.”

  They finally found a colonel, reported their position, and told him that another small detachment from Stuart was in search of Jackson.

  “Some hero.” The colonel spit.

  “Jackson?” Banjo innocently asked.

  “Jackson hasn’t done jack shit!” The colonel spit again. The exhaustion and savagery of the day wore off this officer’s protective coloration. He spoke freely and with rancor.

  Mercer thoughtfully replied, “He fought three separate armies and defeated each of them in turn in the Shenandoah Valley and then turned to march to Richmond. He’s probably tuckered out. I am.”

  “Tell that to those poor bastards up there.” The officer pointed in the direction of the slaughter.

  “How many men do you think we lost today?” Mercer asked.

  “One-fourth of our army.”

  Riding through the downpour back to camp, nobody spoke.

  JULY 2, 1862

  Without interruption, vehicles carrying the wounded rolled into Richmond night and day. Until proper shelter could be found, they were placed on the sidewalks. When the rains came, women stood over the men with umbrellas until they could be taken away. With the rain came a jolting drop in temperature. People lit fires in their fireplaces in July. There wasn’t an extra blanket to be found. Many soldiers lost or discarded their tunics and jackets in the ferocious heat only to now spasmodically shake with cold.

  Lutie worked with snatches of sleep, an hour here and an hour there. Through her fatigue Henley’s funeral seemed like years ago.

  The United States government declared medical supplies contraband. The Confederacy’s depleting reserves worried Lutie and everyone else fighting to save the wounded. It seemed a particularly barbaric act.

  A courier, not more than thirteen years old, delivered two letters, one addressed to her and one to Kate.

  “Kate! It’s a letter from Mars!” She recognized the colonel’s heavy handwriting with its slight rightward slant.

  How odd this is, Kate thought to herself as she opened the letter. I’m preparing to divorce the man when the time is right, yet I fear for him.

  Dear Kate:

  I have been wounded in the left arm but escaped serious injury. One bullet passed clean through the flesh, and the other lodged next to my bone. Jimmy Chatfield saved my life. Tell the gallant Mrs. Chatfield that courage is commonplace in that family. When we are together, I will tell you in detail how Jimmy saved me and, strangely, how a Federal captain saved us both.

  Forgive my brevity. I didn’t want you to worry. We are leaving White House Landing Station to rejoin the regiment, my fever having subsided.

  Love,

  Mars

  P.S. They destroyed Rooney Lee’s house.

  “He’s alive,” Kate said with relief.

  Lutie opened her letter. “It’s from Jimmy. I want to read this to Sin-Sin and Di-Peachy, too.” She found them in the parlor and motioned for them to come out.

  Dear Mother:

  I heard about Daddy’s death. I don’t think it will sink in, really, until I return to Chatfield. Forgive me for not being there to comfort you. I know you understand.

  The Colonel endured a nasty wound but he’s a tough bird. I jumped a six-foot fence to fetch the Colonel from some Yankees eager to make his acquaintance. I would have given anything for Daddy to have seen us!

  Nash says that he thinks Daddy knew he was going to die. Just before we rode around McClellan, Daddy asked Banjo to take care of you if anything happened to him.

  For the next war, I think both sides should chose doughnuts as weapons and throw them across the Potomac.

  After a little tangle with Yankee outposts yesterday, Banjo said, “God created the Yankee, but why?”

  I miss you. Di-Peachy and Sin-Sin, too.

  Love,

  Jimmy

  P.S. I almost forgot. Colonel Vickers knows everything.

  JULY 5, 1862

  “Ground must be paste down there.” Mars appraised the land below Evelington Heights, a long ride overlooking the James River. McClellan’s army huddled around smoky, sputtering campfires, built with wet wood. William Byrd’s mansion, Westover, acquired by him in 1688, was surrounded by sullen Federals. Mars hoped this piece of history wouldn’t fall to the torch.

  Yesterday’s chill made his arm ache, but his fever was nearly gone. He felt terrible, but as he’d always enjoyed a strong constitution, he forced himself back to work. He’d heard when dawn finally came to
Malvern Hill, the wounded writhed on the ground like worms in hot ashes. Until certain that the Yankees had evacuated, no one could or would retrieve them. He figured he was in better shape than those poor devils.

  The Ninth Virginia Cavalry protected their rear as the remainder of Stuart’s force dismounted, pulled out their rifles, and waited for the Yankees to come up the hill. Captain Pelham had dragged up his lone howitzer in the night. Satisfied that the Confederates were as ready as they’d ever be, he was ordered, Let ’em have it.

  The first shell spiraled and splattered below, sending teamsters and their horses scurrying. Pelham continued a steady, controlled firing.

  “Think they’ll come up?” Geneva asked Nash.

  “Once they figure out it’s just us, I don’t see why not. They may be demoralized, but they’re not stupid.”

  “Longstreet and Jackson are movin’. If they get here in time, we’ll have ’em dancin’ the Turkey Trot.” Banjo watched the running figures below.

  The gun, while an irritant, did not cause mass panic. Bobbing on the James were Federal gunboats, whose men feared no land force, confident that their shells would blow anyone to kingdom come. The U.S.S. Monitor was anchored around the river bend at Haxall’s Landing.

  Geneva, born for the saddle, exhibited no appreciation or understanding of the navy’s role in warfare. As far as she was concerned, they should steam off to the Atlantic or the Chesapeake and sail around one another, firing their big guns. They got in the way of real fighting. But by this time in her passionate embrace of cavalry, she was beginning to think that infantry got in the way of fighting, too.

  While Pelham fired his lonely gun, someone below started thinking. A Federal battery rolled up east of Herring Creek, which slogs though marshes across the south face of Evelington Heights. It was about 9 A.M.