“I don’t believe it,” sang out a voice from the ranks of the visiting white battalion, “niggers on horseback.”
“Maybe they’re really minstrels,” called out another, but their sergeants quickly scowled them into silence.
At the end of the display, Colonel Surridge’s officers saluted him, then returned to their units. Surridge was surprised that neither Caleb nor Corporal Whitmore were among the NCOs. He made a mental note to find out why.
“My congratulations, Surridge,” said the divisional commander. “For only eight weeks’ training, your mounted rifles ride remarkably well. I’m impressed. It generally takes two years to fully train a cavalryman.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Surridge. “They’re hardly fully trained cavalrymen, but my officers and NCOs worked very hard to get results. I’m proud of them.”
“Ah, now comes the most interesting part of the program, sir,” said the infantry colonel confidently. At a signal, his bugler sounded “Assemble,” and the white infantry battalion, banners flying but without their weapons, began to march in formation toward the mound in the middle of the field. Shouting sergeants formed them into a square around the mound, and twenty of the largest trainees climbed to the top of the mound as a last line of defense should Surridge’s blacks breach the square.
Then, as the bugles blared again, the infantry ranks parted in the middle of the square to admit a squad led by a sergeant carrying the infantry battalion’s colors. The color sergeant scrambled up the slope of the mound with as much dignity as possible, and both the host squadron and their guests saluted as he stood on the shoulders of a tall recruit and fixed the colors high up on the flagpole.
As the color sergeant jumped down, Surridge signaled, and the boom of a cannon announced the beginning of the war game.
“Now we’ll see something,” said the infantry colonel.
“We certainly shall,” agreed Surridge.
The two colonels consulted their watches to ensure that they showed the same time, and at Surridge’s cue, his squadrons began to move. At first their maneuvers looked much like the display they had just completed. With as much precision as they could muster, the black troopers rode two by two at a trot around the periphery of the infantry square as if looking for a weakness, an opportunity to attack. They trotted their horses as close to the front rank of foot soldiers as possible. Instinctively, the infantry recruits squeezed together and backed away from the horses as their NCOs shouted, “Hold the line! Hold the line!” The infantry trainees stood shoulder to shoulder, five deep around the mound in a seemingly impenetrable phalanx. The infantrymen shouted ribald remarks and catcalls, but the mounted soldiers rode in total silence, their NCOs maintaining tight discipline.
Then, at a signal from the adjutant, the mounted rifles broke off their circling maneuver and formed a mass of four troops—eight horses wide and thirty horses deep—in front of a wide gate at the right perimeter of the field facing the mound. The mounted blacks straightened their lines and then sat looking directly ahead at the foe. Their faces were expressionless.
“That’s five minutes,” said the infantry colonel to Surridge. “What the hell are your people doing?” A murmur of impatience went up from the other officers on the reviewing stand. “That’s a good question,” said Surridge. He was wondering the same thing.
But then the bugles sounded again. To the measured beat of drums, the mass of horsemen began moving slowly toward the mound. Their movement was so measured, so nearly funereal, that spectators on the reviewing stand broke out in laughter. The waiting infantrymen began to lean forward in anticipation, but the advancing cavalry did not alter its pace.
The divisional commander turned to Surridge and whispered, “I’ve never seen this before, Colonel. What’s it called?”
“Damned if I know, sir,” said Surridge.
“Are they giving up, Surridge?” whispered the infantry colonel.
“I don’t think so.”
“Ten minutes,” the infantry colonel said to Surridge, but his words were nearly drowned out as the mounted rifles’ bugles suddenly blared, and the black troopers spurred their horses to a trot, then a canter, then a full gallop, aiming dead straight at the infantry square. As they rode, their guidons snapping in the breeze, they began shouting, screaming, and howling, producing a cacophony of noise. As the racing horses grew nearer to the infantry square, the noise turned to an uproar. It looked as though they were going to ride right into the infantry ranks.
“Jesus Christ!” said the infantry colonel, and all three general officers looked at Surridge with wonder. Surridge kept his eyes straight ahead, although he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
The howling horsemen thundered closer and closer until, fifty yards from the nervous square, they broke off in fours to the left and the right, finally revealing the very last rank of horses, which, the observers noted with astonishment, seemed to be riderless. This final rank continued full tilt toward the infantry square, and as it grew closer, the middle of the rank surged forward until it formed a sharp inverted V, at which point the riders swung up from the sides of their horses where they had been clinging.
A collective gasp went up from the spectators. The riders were naked to the waist, and their faces and bodies were painted with red, white, and blue symbols. Sitting behind the large rider of the leading horse was what seemed to be a black child, who was also stripped to the waist and painted with bright patterns. In their right hands the bizarre horsemen brandished short staffs streaming with yellow ribbons. As the eight horsemen closed in on the infantry recruits, their formation grew ever sharper.
The divisional commander leaned over to Surridge and remarked, “This is better than a circus, Colonel, even if it doesn’t work.”
When the horsemen had almost reached the infantry square, their leader thought he detected a slight wavering in the infantry ranks and rode straight for it, his painted face grim with determination. At the last moment, the infantrymen at the point of the attack broke formation and scattered. The two horsemen in the lead broke through the infantry ranks and, with only a slight hesitation as they hit the slope of the mound, burst to the top, dispersing the inner guard. The lead horseman rode straight toward the flagpole. Suddenly the small figure behind him was standing on the saddle with his hands on the rider’s shoulders. Then, just as it seemed that the horse would collide with the pole, the little man vaulted to the shoulders of the rider and then to the flagpole, scrambling upward toward the infantry’s colors.
As the small man climbed, the lead rider wheeled his mount tightly around the base of the flagpole, and the second horseman rode in a larger circle around the edge of the mound to discourage defenders who might try to regain the summit. Quickly, the small soldier reached the colors, yanked them free, and, with a shrill whistle, slid down the pole, landing once again behind the lead rider. The two horsemen rode a celebratory circuit around the edge of the mound, plunged back into the infantry ranks, burst free, and rejoined their squadron. The cavalrymen had regrouped and were riding in a wide circle around the mound, whooping and shouting. As they rode, the cannon boomed, announcing that the colors had been captured and the war game was over.
The black mounted rifles formed a long column of twos and slowly and decorously rode toward the reviewing stand. At the front of the column were the eight shirtless, painted riders. Caleb and Whitmore, chevrons painted on their arms, rode in front, holding aloft between them the infantry regiment’s colors. Behind Caleb rode Eldon “Monkey” Higgins, the smallest trooper in the squadron, formerly a racetrack exercise boy. When they got to within a few yards of the reviewing stand, Caleb and Whitmore dismounted, folded the infantry colors into a neat triangle, and handed them to Higgins. Advancing to the stand, Higgins saluted smartly and presented the colors to Colonel Surridge while the rest of the spectators gaped. Then the three men remounted and led their squadron in a
lap of honor around the field, where the disorganized infantry recruits were milling about.
Colonel Surridge turned to salute the two-star divisional commander, who returned his salute and said, “Highly unorthodox tactics, Colonel, but they worked.”
52
Orders for the Eleventh Volunteer Mounted Rifles (Colored) came the following week. The Union had suffered a serious defeat in the Battle of Bull Run in northeastern Virginia the summer before, and General Pope needed all of the men he could muster for what looked like a repeat engagement.
After meeting with his officers, Surridge had an extra word with Lieutenant Padgett.
“Do you think your boys are ready?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said Padgett, “but they’ll do their best. I’ve never seen such rapid improvement in a group of recruits.”
“What about Jardine?” the colonel asked. “I’d really like to keep him here to help train the next intake of recruits.”
“In an ideal world, sir, I’d agree,” Padgett said, “but without him, I wouldn’t take any bets on D Troop. Jardine is the glue that holds them together. Without him, they’re half-trained, undisciplined, black rabble.”
“I know,” said Surridge. “I suppose the only question that remains now is who will shoot Jardine first—our side or the rebs.”
It was a sultry, rainy day when the squadron rode through the streets to the railway yard to entrain for Virginia, and their guidons hung limp. The small, sullen crowd that had turned out to see them off looked on with wonder. A loud voice called, “Good riddance to black rubbish!” A few stones and dirt clods flew out of the crowd and ricocheted off the men and horses
When the ranks of D Troop began to waver, Caleb called out, “Steady! Eyes front! Steady the troop!” A small stone struck his shoulder, but he ignored it.
At the freight yard, Caleb and the men loaded their horses into several boxcars and settled themselves in another. Then they settled in—saddles for pillows, horse blankets for covers—for a long ride.
“Do you suppose,” Monkey Higgins called out, “there’s a dining car on this train?”
They arrived at Gainesville, the nearest railhead to Bull Run, in an early morning mist. As Lieutenant Padgett was supervising the unloading of the horses, a weary transportation major approached him wonderingly. “What the hell are those?” he demanded, staring at the black cavalrymen.
“Eleventh Mounted Rifles,” Padgett responded, saluting as smartly as he could, considering the hour.
“But they’re black!”
“Yes, sir,” said Padgett.
“But I thought blacks were afraid of horses.”
“These aren’t, sir.”
Because no one knew quite when the next battle would begin or what to do with the black squadron, they were stuck away in the corner of a fenced pasture on the outskirts of Stone Bridge to await orders. This suited both the men, who were not keen to get shot at, and their officers, who knew how badly they needed more training in the field. Once the tents were set up, latrines dug, and a cookhouse established, Caleb and the other NCOs began a furious training program of skirmishing tactics, rifle practice from horseback, and group discipline.
Troops from white units in the area with nothing better to do began to line a long fence on one side of the pasture, enjoying the novelty of watching armed blacks in uniform. Some of them had seen black soldiers before, but none carrying anything more deadly than a broom. Soon the white soldiers began to bring their rations along with them, and a carnival atmosphere sprang up. As they watched the black horsemen train, white soldiers cheered, whooped, and called out witticisms.
“Hey, darkie,” called one to a trumpet corporal, “where’s your banjo?”
Another shouted, “Does that shoe polish come off?”
Cautioned by their officers and NCOs, the black soldiers ignored the raillery until finally, after nearly a week, it began to interfere with training. Ordering the men to take a break, the squadron’s officers and sergeants gathered in a corner of the pasture.
“Does anyone besides me think this is becoming more than a joke?” the adjutant asked.
A loud chorus of assent broke out.
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” the adjutant asked. “I tried talking to their commander, but he thinks we’re just as big a joke as his troops do.”
“We could open fire on them,” suggested Corporal Whitmore.
“A tempting solution, Whitmore,” said Lieutenant Padgett, “but perhaps a bit drastic. Any other suggestions?”
“I have an idea, sir,” said Sergeant O’Neill.
A little later, the black cavalrymen were ordered to mount up. Leading their troops to the far side of the pasture, the officers and NCOs ordered them to form a single long line opposite the jeering white soldiers. The black cavalrymen sat silently in their saddles, staring at their tormenters. On either end of the line, color sergeants unfurled their guidons.
“Oh, goody,” called a white sergeant, “they’re going to parade. I love a parade!” The onlookers laughed.
Then the officers and the NCOs of the Eleventh rode out and spaced themselves in front of their troops. Turning back in his saddle, the adjutant unsheathed his saber and held it high in the direction of the white troops.
“Squadron!” he called out. “Atten—shun! Present sabers!” Two hundred and fifty blades flashed in the morning sunshine, accompanied by the creaking of leather and clanking of metal as the horses strained against the reins. “Buglers, sound the charge!” the adjutant ordered. Then, as the bugles blared, he turned and leveled his saber toward the far fence and bellowed, “Charge!”
As one, the long line of black cavalrymen surged forward, gathering speed as they rode.
At first, laughter went up from the watching white soldiers, but as the thundering line of horses came closer and gathered speed, a nervous tremor went up and down the rail fence. Several soldiers dropped their food, and one called out, “I don’t think they’re kidding!” At that, a soldier bolted, and others joined him. The retreat from the fence became a rout as the soldiers ran for their lives. The smart ones stayed where they were, cowering beneath the rails of the fence.
First the officers cleared the fence, then the NCOs, followed by a long rippling line of black cavalrymen whose momentum carried them among the fleeing white troops, knocking down several. Some did not get up.
Reassembling his mounted troops in a long line facing the pasture, with many of the white troops still trapped between them and the fence, the adjutant once again raised his sword and called out, “Present sabers!” Again a flash of steel ran along the line. “Buglers,” began the adjutant, “sound the—” But at this, the remaining white troops began to hurriedly pick up their equipment and wounded. Within minutes, the area along the fence was clear of all but the debris that had been dropped in the rout.
Looking along the fence with satisfaction, the adjutant lowered his sword and shouted, “Sheathe your sabers! Right wheel, forward!” The black cavalrymen slowly rode double file back into the pasture to continue training.
When the commander of the white unit complained about the injuries to several of his troops, Colonel Snaith, the Eleventh’s new CO, suggested that if the white soldiers trained more and gawked less, they’d be better prepared to fight the rebels.
One day while the mounted rifles were still awaiting deployment, Caleb was passing corps headquarters when his eye caught on a diagram on a notice board. It showed the names and locations of the units gathered for the coming battle. Running his finger down the list, he saw the name Seventh Boston Rifles. Determining that their bivouac was not far away, Caleb rode in that direction. As he rode he ignored the curious glances of white soldiers and the hurried salutes returned by officers.
When Caleb got to the Seventh’s area, he approached a private standing guard next to the gate
.
“Excuse me,” Caleb began. The soldier jumped as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What the hell are you pretending to be?” he demanded.
“I’m not pretending to be anything,” Caleb said fiercely. “I am a sergeant in the US cavalry, Private, and I’m addressing a question to you. Do you have any doubts about that?”
“I suppose not,” said the guard, equally bemused and intimidated.
“Well,” Caleb continued, “what I want to know is whether you have an officer called Brent Staunton in the Seventh.”
Now the guard looked even more confused. “Well,” he said. “We’ve got a Brent Staunton.” He waved his arm in the direction of the biggest tent in the compound. “Just ask over there,” he said. He added “Sergeant” as an afterthought.
Caleb rode over to the big, round tent and tied his horse to a post. As he was walking over to the tent, two privates wearing white aprons came out carrying a large cooking pot between them.
“Excuse me,” said Caleb. “I’m looking for Staunton. Brent Staunton.”
The two men gaped at Caleb and then put down the big pot. One of them called into the tent, “Staunton! A gentleman to see you!” Then he dashed back to the pot, and he and the other soldier disappeared, giggling, with their load.
Caleb waited patiently until a few minutes later a soldier in a work uniform with his sleeves rolled up over his elbows came out into the bright summer sunshine, blinking after the dim interior of the tent. He was thin, slightly bent, and badly needed a shave. Despite his youth, there was something worn and weary in his attitude. He, too, was wearing a cook’s apron. He looked at Caleb, but did not really take him in.
“Yes?” he said. “I’m Staunton. Are you looking for me?”
“Hello, Brent,” said Caleb, holding out his hand. “How are you doing?”
Caleb Page 26
