by Max Hennessy
He glanced at her, amused. She was only about five feet two in her stockinged feet and was built like a sprite, but there was a stout-heartedness about her that suggested she was in terror of being overlooked and was determined not to be.
Stuart was all smiles and full of gallantry, calming nerves, pretending that nothing was amiss, quietly speaking to the Burtle girls when their expression slipped. The dance started as the storm drifted away among the hills, beginning with charades and a tableau in which the officers took part. As the orchestra struck up the tune, ‘Hail, The Conquering Hero Comes’, Stuart stepped forward in full uniform, grey tunic, plumed hat, long thigh boots, scarlet-lined cloak, yellow sash and heavy sabre. With a hiss, the long blade was unsheathed. Stuart clearly enjoyed the acting and his eyes were alight as he moved forward and stood with folded arms, his head down, his eyes on the floor in a posture of humility and defiance, while a voice offstage intoned a verse:
‘To arms, to arms, ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheath!
March on, march on, all hearts resolved
On Victory or Death!’
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Shouts interspersed the clapping and Augusta was radiant with enthusiasm.
‘No wonder the General’s called “Beauty”,’ she said excitedly. ‘He is beautiful.’ She looked at Colby and realised that his face had unexpected sharp planes and angles that excited her. It was a fine face, she realised, a sensitive, strong face, clean and narrow as the blade of a new axe, the gentleness and strength hidden beneath a frosty British exterior. ‘You are beautiful, too, Mr Goff,’ she went on in a sudden rush of confidence. ‘There are beautiful women, among whom I never number myself, and there are beautiful men. The General is one. And so are you.’
Colby was startled at the enthusiasm. ‘I’ve shaved,’ he smiled. ‘That’s why. When there’s anything requiring valour, whether it’s fighting, courting or dancing, I always shave. Young women like it that way and all men are hounds at heart.’
She gave him a bright-eyed glance and grinned. ‘It’s their most excitin’ quality, Mr Goff.’
He grinned back at her. There was something enormously appealing about her forthrightness. She was warm-hearted and generous, had little time for sentiment and, with a strong streak of practicality, believed in standing up for herself, so that he imagined the whole structure of her family rested on her small shoulders. As the music started, he held out his arm.
‘May I have this dance, Miss Gussie?’
She smiled and placed her hand on his wrist. ‘You bet,’ she said.
She was as light as a feather. She danced well and managed to avoid getting her feet trodden on.
‘I’m no dancer,’ Colby said.
‘So I notice.’
‘But it’s easier with you.’
‘That’s because I’m clever, Mr Goff. With two brothers, I learned to keep from under the feet of a man. There are moves in the North, I’m told, by women who feel that females should be more emancipated. Land’s sakes, any girl with a bit of intelligence can wind a man round her little finger!’
‘Can you?’
‘Not just yet. But I’m practisin’ a lot. I shall always remain myself, though, and people who don’t like it can go to hell and pump thunder. Don’t you prefer honesty?’
He had to admit he did.
She stared up at him, her eyes shining. ‘I think I’m in love with you, Mr Goff.’
‘Already?’
‘It need not take long.’
He held her a little more tightly round the waist and she seemed to enjoy it. Then she looked up and grinned in that straightforward honest way of hers so that he decided there was more to her than met the eye. There seemed no point in beating about the bush any longer.
‘Shall we take a walk?’ he suggested.
There was a conservatory at the back of the house, filled with plants, and he manoeuvred her among them.
‘Are you goin’ to kiss me, Mr Goff?’ she asked.
Dammit, he thought, she was two lengths ahead of him already. ‘That was my intention,’ he said.
‘Then you’d better get on with it, before someone comes.’
There was no coyness and no false modesty, and she was as aware as he was that she possessed some quality that other girls didn’t have.
As she held up her small face, he had to stoop. As he kissed her, she sighed and he put his arms round her. This time the kiss was more than mere admiration and she returned it with interest. Then, as his arms tightened, she gave him a little push.
‘I ought to warn you, Mr Goff. I’m only fifteen.’
He released her as if she’d been red-hot. ‘Fifteen!’
‘Does it surprise you?’
‘Yes, by God, it does!’ he said. ‘I thought you were eighteen, at least.’
For a while they stood staring at each other, Colby confused, Augusta clearly enjoying his discomfiture, then he seized her arm disgustedly and yanked her round in the direction of the dancing.
‘There’s no need to pull my arm out, Mr Goff! And there’s no need to go so fast. I can’t keep up with you.’
As they reached the dancing, someone on the stoop shouted and they heard the thud of hooves over the music. The notes died away at once in a vague ripple of disquietude. It was hard to put a finger on it, but a shiver of fear and mingled dread seemed to move behind the patriotic bravado everybody showed, as if they suspected the shadows were drawing nearer.
‘There’s goin’ to be fightin’,’ Augusta said bluntly, in a way that made her seem gauche and unfeeling. She seemed aware of it and hastened to put it right.
‘I know what’s comin’ after tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve seen it before. And I’ve seen the tears and I know what’s happenin’. Micah told me when I last went upstairs.’
She shuddered uncontrollably in a spasm of shivering that was part shock, part fear and part pride. There was a heavy weight of anxiety in her breast but she made an effort not to show it. ‘We’ve lived with it a long time now, Mr Goff,’ she said staunchly. She glanced at the young colonel with the wooden leg who had appeared with Hannah-May Burtle. ‘Soon the whole of the South will be full of men without arms and legs. Are you intendin’ to go on fightin’ for us?’
Colby frowned. He was becoming too involved with this damned chit of a girl. ‘No,’ he snapped.
‘Our country would be grateful, sir.’
He turned to face her. ‘Would you come to the help of my country?’
She ignored the question. ‘I would be grateful, too,’ she said quietly. ‘It might help us salvage a little honour. We haven’t much else left. Will you ride with the cavalry tomorrow?’
‘I expect so – in some capacity.’
She pulled him to one side and spoke softly. ‘I’d like to give you a present, Mr Goff. Somethin’ to take with you. Nothin’ much. Just a keepsake. Will you accept it?’
He was beginning to grow worried. This persistent child was harrying him when he didn’t wish to be harried. He’d come to America to dodge one ardent female and had no wish to be involved with another, especially at an age when she’d barely given up bibs and tuckers.
Standing in the cold air, their breath heavy on the frosty night, they saw Stuart talking earnestly with a young officer who had just arrived. His horse stood by the steps, its head down, trembling and smeared with lather.
‘Sheridan’s on the move,’ Colby heard.
There was a quiet discussion then Stuart turned to his staff. ‘Get the men mounted and the wagons and guns on their way,’ he said as he strode into the house.
As Colby watched, the area in front of the house began to boil with men. Officers ran down the steps, buckling on their belts and weapons without stopping to look back, the girls, still in their finery, standing under the tall pillars, their eyes moist, waving and trying to catch their attention.
Colby saw Ackroyd approaching. Augusta had disappeared, and it seemed a good idea to bolt while
he could.
‘Get the nags, Tyas,’ he said. ‘There’s something brewing and I think we ought to be there to see it.’
As Ackroyd vanished, he turned and headed for the stairs. Augusta was by the dining-room door comforting one of the Burtle girls, who was in tears, and she flashed Colby a glance as he passed that encouraged him to move faster.
Two spots of feverish pink in his cheeks, Love was lying back in bed while his orderly moved about the room packing his belongings. ‘Hello, old man,’ he said as Colby appeared. ‘They’re movin’ me to Neese Ford. This place could well be behind the enemy lines in a week’s time, so I might as well move while I can do it without hurryin’.’ He paused and looked gravely at Colby. ‘Go with my boys, Coll,’ he said. ‘Ed Farley’s a good soldier but he’s a bit headlong and needs the reins at times. He’ll not let you down and I guess he thinks a lot of you. He said so. You don’t have to do any fightin’. You can write all you want. Just advise him some when he needs it.’
Colby was just about to turn away without committing himself when Love called him to the bed. Turning back the coverlet, he indicated a sabre which lay alongside him in its scabbard. It was a handsome weapon with a yellow sword knot.
‘You’ll need a sword,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Sign of authority. All good officers carry a sword, even if they don’t know how to use it. It’s the one they presented to me after Chancellorsville. I’d be honoured if you’d wear it.’
Farley was waiting on the veranda when Colby appeared. He was strapped and buckled in all his accoutrements. ‘Micah said you’d be comin’ with us, Captain,’ he said.
Colby said nothing and he went on earnestly. ‘I don’t read and write so good and I ain’t no soldier really.’
‘I think you’re a pretty able one,’ Colby pointed out.
Farley managed almost to blush under his grizzled beard. ‘Not me Captain. I’m just a farmer who can ride a hoss. I’ve learned a bit since ’Sixty-one, of course – who ain’t? – but I’m still an amachoor. It was Micah looked after things. I just did what he telled me. When he said “Go”, I went; when he said “Git”, I got. I could do with some help.’
Colby slapped his shoulder. The dust rose in a cloud. ‘I’ll be right behind you, Ed.’
Horsemen were thudding off between the trees in ones, twos and groups to the road where wagons and guns were on the move. A column of infantry went past, marching in a different way from the Northern troops, not even in step, in huge strides, carrying long rifles, their faces lean under their shabby-brimmed hats. Their expressions were grave, as if they knew that final defeat could not be far away, and he wondered what was going through their minds.
The music had started again but this time it was the sentimental ‘I’m Leaving Thee In Sorrow, Annie’ and the women stood in disconsolate groups, some in shawls, some still only in their evening dresses waving and weeping. It reminded Colby once again of his father’s description of Brussels on the eve of Waterloo. The coming battle might not be quite such a holocaust but the agony could go on longer as the South sagged to defeat.
He hitched at his belt and clipped on the sabre Love had given him. Ackroyd handed him the great LeMatt which he stuffed into his saddle holster, and the Colt revolver which he pushed into his belt.
An unexpected feeling of irritation caused him to heave his horse’s girth so tight the animal snorted in protest, and he was just about to mount when he saw Augusta hurrying towards him through the crowding animals and men. She was using her small shoulders to push her way through and he saw her slap heartily at a horse’s rump and skip neatly out of its way as it let go with a cow kick. She fetched up in front of him, shivering in the night air, the yellow silk scarf in her hand, her small face peaked and thin with worry. Her very smallness softened the annoyance he felt.
‘You’ll catch your death of cold,’ he said gently.
She gave him a quick, twisted smile that told him volumes about her agonies of apprehension. ‘The cold doesn’t worry me, Mr Goff,’ she said. ‘When you’re young, you can stand anythin’.’ The smile widened, shaky and game, to mock him. ‘It’s when you’re growin’ old, like you, it begins to worry.’
She paused and went on quietly. ‘We shall be leavin’ with Micah,’ she said. ‘Ma insists we refugee south.’ She stared at him unblinkingly, feeling bereft. For the first time in her life she’d been treated like an adult; she found it tremendously moving and couldn’t bear the thought of parting.
Abruptly, awkwardly, with the gracelessness of youth, she thrust the yellow scarf at him. ‘I’d like you to wear this, Mr Goff. Every soldier needs a sash.’
She looked so young he hadn’t the heart to say no. Silently, he unfastened his belt and allowed her to tie it round his waist and arrange the ends so that they hung by his left thigh. Then he solemnly buckled the belt over it.
She stepped back and admired the effect, then, as she reached up to her hair, he realised she had stuck a feather into the neatly brushed strands. ‘It isn’t exactly a plume,’ she said. ‘Matter of fact, it’s out of our old gobbler’s tail. Wear it for me.’
Still without speaking, he took it from her and, working it under the leather throng round the crown of his hat, jammed it in place. Putting the hat back on his head, he watched her studying it.
‘Doesn’t really look much, after all,’ she said critically. ‘But there’s a lot ridin’ on it, Mr Goff.’
He bowed and was about to take her hand to say goodbye when she drew a deep breath. ‘I’ve got one more thing.’
He smiled gravely. It was too solemn a moment for her, to make a joke of it.
‘It’s a St Christopher medallion,’ she said. ‘Catholics wear ’em. I’m not a Catholic but this one’s special. It’s got a strand of my hair in a locket behind.’
She thrust the locket at him in that awkward rangy way that was strangely moving. Taking his hat off, he slipped the chain over his head and pushed the locket inside his shirt.
‘Next to my heart,’ he said.
There was an awkward silence and he was just about to mount when she laid a hand on his arm. She appeared to want to say something and he bent to listen. As he did so, she kissed his cheek.
Her lips moved as they touched his flesh, cold and soft and tremulous. He stared at her, startled, then hurriedly swung into the saddle, waved abruptly, and, pulling his horse’s head round, set off down the road between the trees. His ears were burning. Her voice had been so quiet she had seemed almost to be speaking to herself. He wasn’t even sure, in fact, that he’d been intended to hear what she’d said. But he had. Every word of it.
‘One of these days, Mr Goff,’ she had murmured, ‘I shall marry you.’
Eight
Freezing rain started before they had been long on the road, and by the time they reached Charlottesville, they found that Custer has vanished northwards again. Turning east and finding that only one of the Northern regiments had slipped past, they set pickets and settled down to wait for the rest.
The rain pelted down all night and Colby came to life in the early hours of the morning to hear shouts and shots coming from the distance. Scrambling from the muddy shelter under the bole of an overhanging tree where he had spent the night, he was stamping and beating his hands together to revive the circulation when a horseman thundered into camp, the horse’s hooves splashing him with muddy yellow water.
‘Custer’s got past,’ he was yelling. ‘Custer’s got past!’
The Northern column had found the half-starved, ill-equipped Southern pickets in a pitiable state after the freezing night and, superbly mounted, had easily brushed them aside and were now heading for their base. Clad in an oilskin cape, the water dripping off his hat, Stuart was already conferring with his staff and trying to look at a map in the drenching rain and poor light.
‘Colonel Hackett also says to tell you, General,’ the messenger was saying, ‘that he’s heard that almost four thousand Yankee horsemen crossed the Rapi
dan at Ely’s Ford and are almost at Beaver Dam Station. We saw their fires.’
‘They must be almost into Richmond,’ Stuart said. ‘Still, Wade Hampton ought to be able to contain them. Mount the men.’
There was a rush and bustle in the darkness, the whinnying of horses and the clattering of hooves as troopers, stupid with cold and sleep, began to move off. Jogging, slouch-backed, through the bitter weather, two days later they heard that the Yankee raid had been turned back with heavy losses in men, horses and equipment, but it was an indication of what the future held.
Waiting with Farley and Jenkins, sharing their discomforts and occasionally writing what he could for Ackroyd to file away until it could be sent to London, Colby watched the north with tired eyes. It was important for the South to guard Richmond, but the Northern armies seemed set now on a policy of attrition from which only they could gain. With the armies locked together, the remorseless killing could only be of advantage to them, and their policy seemed to be to force Lee to fight, draining his armies of men, animals and equipment which could never be replaced. What was worse, as they were pushed south, Lee was running out of elbow room. The intrusion of the sea on the right precluded any serious movement in that direction and, as the Northern armies moved to the west to get behind them, they were constantly pushed backwards.
Rations were short, horses were short, ammunition was short; and no more came from the South. What they needed they had to find for themselves because the South’s economy was beginning to crumble. There was no mail and no word from home. The only news that arrived came through men who had been on furlough or to find a horse, or were rejoining after being wounded. To Colby’s surprise, one of them brought a letter for him. Unable to imagine who it came from, he was surprised to find it came from Augusta Dabney. It was short, unsentimental and brisk, and was studded with capitals, underlinings and exclamation marks.
