Love and War Read online

  “Bet you my pay for the year that Toby and that pair left together,” he said to Ambrose later.

  “Absolutely! The Belgies can pretend Toby’s their nigra and sneak him right across the Potomac into Old Abe’s lap. The colonel granted me permission to leave and try to recover my property. But he said I needed your permission, too.” His look said Charles had better not withhold it.

  Charles sank down on his bed, unbuttoning his shirt. The death, the thefts, the waiting—all of it depressed him. He didn’t believe Toby could be found—wasn’t even sure the recovery attempt should be made—but he wanted a change of scene.

  “Hell, I’ll go with you if I can.”

  “By God, Charlie, you’re a real white man.”

  I’ll speak to the colonel first thing tomorrow,” he promised, anxious to sleep and forget.

  “I don’t object to your undertaking to assist Pell,” Hampton said next morning, “provided your other subaltern and your first sergeant can handle drills.”

  “Easily, sir—though I wouldn’t want to be away if we might be called up for an engagement.”

  “I don’t know when we’ll fight, or if we will,” Hampton replied with uncharacteristic choler. “No one tells me anything. If you ride north, you’ll be closer to the Yankees than I am—perhaps you’ll see some action. Have Captain Barker write a pass and be back as soon as you can.”

  Fatigue shadows ringed Hampton’s eyes, Charles noticed as he left. Handling a regiment all day and attending Richmond levees every night took a toll.

  He and Ambrose set out at eight o’clock. Charles had donned the dress shako he seldom wore and took his shotgun, the light cavalry saber, and rations for two days. Sport frisked through the cool morning. The gelding was rested and healthy; the legion had an abundance of dry corn and plenty of pasturage near the encampment.

  Charles had never thought himself capable of loving anyone or anything deeply, but he was developing a strong and unexpected liking for the quirky little gray. He knew it when he used drinking money to buy molasses to mix with Sport’s feed; molasses gave a horse extra energy. He knew it when he spent an hour rubbing down the gray with a folded piece of the softest blanket he could find; fifteen minutes would have sufficed. He knew it when he devoted free time to currying and brushing the horse and trimming his mane. He knew it especially when a careless noncom put Sport in with the troop’s bay mares at feeding time. A fight broke out, and Charles dashed among the snorting horses to lead the gray to safety. He cursed out the noncom, then lectured him on the importance of feeding like with like, never mixing mares and geldings.

  The air today was mild and breezy, too sweet for there to be war anywhere. They inquired about the fugitives at hamlets and farms, and found the trail easy to follow. Several patrols demanded to see their passes, and Charles insisted they stop often to water the horses; an animal needed twelve gallons daily, minimum, in the summer. Charles made sure Sport stood in the shade, with hooves in water to help prevent cracking. The gray seemed nearly ready to speak when, after teasing motions toward his pocket, Charles would finally pull out the salt block and let Sport nibble and lick contentedly.

  On they rode, the Blue Ridge and the sundown on their left. When Ambrose began his monotone version of “Young Lochinvar,” Charles joined in with enthusiasm.

  Next morning they crossed into Fairfax County, drawing closer to Old Bory’s base at Manassas Junction, a small depot stop of no intrinsic value but considerable strategic significance; there, the Manassas Gap rail line came in from the Shenandoah to meet the Orange and Alexandria line. The trail had simply run out. They met no one who had seen two white men and a black answering the descriptions; there were just too many glens, woods, windy little roads, and hiding places up here near Linkumland.

  About two, Charles said, “No use going on. We’ve lost them.”

  Ambrose sighed. “Damned if I like to admit it, but I think you’re right.” He squinted into the glare. “What do you say to a stop at that farm up by the bend? My canteen’s empty.”

  “All right, but then we turn around. I thought I saw a flash of blue on that ridge a minute ago.” He didn’t know how close they were to the Yankee lines and couldn’t have marked their position if it had been given to him. Reliable maps didn’t exist.

  They rode the last quarter mile to the neat white house with a big green wood behind. Fine fields spread on the north side. Charles slowed Sport to a walk. “Look sharp, Ambrose. There’s another visitor here ahead of us.”

  He bobbed his head toward the horse and buggy tied to an elm shading the rear of the house. As they turned into the front dooryard and dismounted, Charles thought a window curtain stirred. His neck began to itch.

  He tethered Sport and carried his shotgun up to the porch, spurs clinking in the summer stillness. He knocked. Waited. Heard movement inside; muffled voices.

  “Stay to one side and keep that piece ready,” he whispered. Ambrose slid up by the wall, hands on his shotgun, cheeks popping with sweat. Charles pounded the door.

  “What the devil you mean, makin’ such racket?” said the poorly dressed old farmer who answered. He crowded into the opening as if to hide whatever the shadows behind him contained.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” Charles said, keeping his temper. “Captain Main, Wade Hampton Legion. First Lieutenant Pell and I are searching for a fugitive Negro and two white men, Belgians, who may have passed here on their way to Washington.”

  “What makes you think so? This road takes you to Benning’s Bridge, but there’s plenty of others close by.”

  Warier each second, Charles said, “I fail to understand your lack of civility, sir. Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours. But I got chores waitin’.” He stepped back to shut the door.

  Charles rammed his shoulder against it. The old man fell back, exclaiming. A woman uttered a little piping scream out of all proportion to her size. An elderly person with the shape and bulk of a small whale, she lumbered into the parlor entrance to block Charles’s view. He was too tall.

  Terrified, the woman said, “We’re caught, Miz Barclay.”

  “We shouldn’t have tried to keep him out. Unless it’s McDowell in disguise, he’s one of our own.”

  The soft, tart words of the second speaker startled and confused Charles for a moment. She sounded like a Virginian, but what he saw of the young woman was decidedly suspicious. Her outer skirt was hoisted to reveal a second one, crinoline-stiffened and divided into small pockets, each of which bulged slightly. On a chair he saw four oilskin packets tied with string. All at once it dawned, and he almost laughed. He had never met a smuggler, let alone an attractive one.

  “Captain Charles Main, ma’am. Of—”

  “The Wade Hampton Legion. You have a loud voice, Captain. Are you trying to bring the Yankees down on us?”

  Saying it, she smiled, but without friendliness. He had trouble knowing what to make of her. Her clothing wasn’t poor, but it was plain and wrinkled from travel. She was about his age and four or five inches shorter, with wide hips, a full bosom, blue eyes, and blond curls; a young woman who managed to look both robust and pretty as hell. For a few seconds he felt light-hearted as a boy. Then he remembered his duty.

  “I’d better ask the questions, ma’am. May I present First Lieutenant Pell?” Ambrose entered the parlor. The old man huddled beside his wife.

  “I saw him preening in the hall mirror. I’d have suspected you were South Carolina boys even if you hadn’t announced it.”

  “And just who are you, if you please?”

  “Mrs. Augusta Barclay of Spotsylvania County. My farm is near Fredericksburg, if that’s any of your concern.”

  He began, “But this is Fairfax—”

  “My. A student of geography as well as bad manners.” She leaned over to pluck packets from the underskirt. “I haven’t time to waste with you, Captain. I fear there are horsemen not far behind me. Yankees.” Plop went another packet on the chair, and
plop.

  “The widow Barclay’s been to Washington City,” the farmer’s wife said. “A secret errand of mercy for—”

  “Sssh, don’t say no more,” the old farmer interrupted.

  “Oh, why not?” snapped the young woman, whipping out packets. “Perhaps if he knows what we’re doing, he’ll help us instead of standing there like some stately pine, waiting to be admired.”

  The blue eyes shot Charles a look so scornful it left him unable to speak. To the old couple, the young widow continued: “I was wrong to arrange a rendezvous this close to the Potomac. I feared someone was on to the scheme when they took ten minutes to examine my papers at the bridge. One sergeant’s eyes kept boring holes in my skirt—and I’m not that attractive.”

  “I want to know what’s in the packets,” Charles said.

  “Quinine. Plentiful in Washington, but scarce in Richmond. It will be desperately needed once the real fighting starts. I’m not the only woman doing this work, Captain. Far from it.”

  Spurs jingling, Ambrose crossed the parlor. The widow Barclay’s prettiness and patriotism pleased Charles but not her sharp tongue. He was reminded of Billy Hazard’s sister Virgilia.

  He had been a mite rough on the old couple. To the woman he said, “You may certainly help her if you wish.” The woman lumbered past, knelt behind Augusta Barclay and put her head under the widow’s outer skirt. Packets appeared twice as fast.

  Addressing Charles, and still with sarcasm, the young woman said, “Generous of you. I was serious when I said there might be pursuit.”

  “Damn if there isn’t,” Ambrose exclaimed from the parlor’s north window. Tense, he motioned for Charles, who peered over his shoulder and saw dust rising behind a hill a mile or two down the road.

  “Must be Yanks, riding that fast.” He let the curtain fall. To the women struggling with the packets he said, “I regret my sharp words, ladies—” He hoped the widow Barclay understood he meant that for her; a slight lift of her head said perhaps. “I don’t want this commendable work undone, but it will be if we don’t move quickly.”

  “Just a few more,” the fat woman panted. Packets flew right and left.

  Charles signaled for the farmer to gather them, asking: “Where’s the safest place to hide those?”

  “Attic.”

  “Do it. Ambrose, go out and take that buggy into the trees. If you can’t get back before those horsemen come into sight, stay put. You finished, Mrs. Barclay?”

  She smoothed down her outside skirt as the farmer’s wife loaded her husband’s arms with packets. “It only takes two eyes to answer that, Captain.”

  “Kindly spare me the banter and go out to the woodshed in back. Get inside and don’t utter a syllable. If that’s possible.” Surprisingly, she liked the sally and smiled.

  The farmer tottered up the hall stairs. Outside, wheels creaked as Ambrose moved the buggy. Augusta Barclay hurried out.

  Charles ran to the north window again. He saw the riders clearly now, approaching at a gallop. Half a dozen men, all wearing dark blue. Under his cadet gray jacket, sweat began to pour.

  The farmer came down again. “Is there water in the kitchen?” Charles asked the woman.

  “A bucket and a dipper.”

  “Fill the dipper and bring it here. Then both of you keep still.”

  He tossed his shako aside and moments later strolled out to the porch, shotgun hanging in the crook of his left arm, dipper in his right hand. He saw the riders react to the sight of him by drawing swords and side arms. The lieutenant in charge of the detail held up his hand.

  The moment in which Charles could have been shot passed so quickly, it was over before he realized it. He leaned on one of the porch pillars, the beat of his heart pounding in his ears.

  26

  THE HORSEMEN SPILLED IN from the road, raising dust that blew away on the breeze. The barrels of several army revolvers pointed at Charles’s chest.

  Red as an apple in the heat, the lieutenant walked his horse to the porch. Charles drank from the dipper, then let his hand fall laconically. He pressed his right sleeve against his ribs to hide a tremor. He had seen the young Union officer before.

  “Good day, sir,” the lieutenant said. His voice broke into a squeak as he spoke. Charles didn’t laugh or smile. A nervous man—or one humiliated—often reacted without thinking.

  “Good day,” he answered with a pleasant nod. His gaze drifted from face to face. Four of the Yanks were barely old enough to use razors. Two refused to meet his eye; they would be no threat.

  By waiting, Charles forced the first identification: “Second Lieutenant Prevo, Georgetown Mounted Dragoons, Department of Washington, at your service.”

  “Captain Main, Wade Hampton Legion. Your servant.”

  “May I inquire, sir, what a rebel officer is doing so near the Potomac?”

  “I don’t care for the term rebel, sir, but the answer to your question is simple. My nigra bond servant, whom I brought all the way from South Carolina, ran away day before yesterday—heading for the blessed freedoms of Yankee territory, I presume. I have now concluded I can’t catch him. Trail’s gone cold.”

  The lieutenant indicated the two tethered horses. “You didn’t undertake the pursuit by yourself, I see.”

  “My first lieutenant is inside, napping.” Where the devil had he met this green youngster?

  “You say your nigger slave ran away—?”

  “These rebs got all the luxuries, don’t they, Lieutenant?” said a toothy corporal with a huge dragoon pistol. Bad eyes on that one, and a side arm that could blast Charles to pieces. Had to watch him.

  Charles’s tactic was to ignore the corporal and say to the officer, “Yes, and I’m goddamn angry about it.”

  The corporal persisted. “That’s what the war’s all about, ain’t it? You boys don’t want to lose your boot polishers or them nigger gals you can fuck anytime you—”

  The lieutenant started to reprimand the noncom. Before he could, Charles flung the dipper in the dirt. “Lieutenant Prevo, if you’ll ask your man to step down, I’ll reply to that remark in a way he’ll understand.” He stared at the corporal while reaching across to his saber hilt. It would be stupid to bluff his way into a fight. But if they smelled fear and dismounted and spread out, Mrs. Barclay was a goner.

  “Not necessary, sir,” Prevo said. “My corporal will keep his mouth shut.” The toothy noncom grumbled, glaring at Charles.

  The Yank officer relaxed somewhat. “I confess I’m not entirely unsympathetic to your feelings, Captain. I hail from Maryland. My brother had two slaves on his farm there, and they’ve run away, too. When this militia unit was mustered, about a third of the boys refused to take the loyalty oath and resigned. I was tempted. Since I didn’t, I must carry out my duty.” Like a weathervane in a gale, his mood swung again. “But I can’t escape a feeling we’ve encountered one another before.”

  “Not in Maryland.” His memory suddenly made the connection. “West Point?”

  “By God that’s it. You were—?”

  “Class of ’57.”

  “I reported just before you graduated.” Prevo paused, “I had to take the Canterberry Road after my plebe year. Couldn’t handle the studies. I wish I’d been able to last the course. I loved the place—Well, the mystery’s cleared up. If you’ll pardon us, we’ll get on with our job.”

  “Surely.”

  “We’re pursuing a female smuggler. We believe she brought contraband medicines out of the district and came this way. We’re searching every farm along this road.” He prepared to dismount.

  “Female smuggler?” Charles hoped his stifled laugh sounded convincing. “Save yourself, Lieutenant. I’ve been here an hour, and I give you my word, there’s no such person inside this house.”

  Prevo settled in his saddle again, hesitating. The gun muzzles remained trained on Charles, the toothy corporal’s steadiest.

  “My word as an officer and Academy man,” Charles said in a
n offhand manner that, he hoped, lent conviction to the carefully delimited truth.

  Seconds passed. Prevo took a breath. It didn’t work. Now what will they—?

  “Captain Main, I accept your word and thank you for your gentlemanly cooperation. We have more ground to cover, and you’ve saved us time.”

  He sheathed his sword, shouted orders, and the detachment wheeled back to the road and moved on southward. The corporal’s disappointed face disappeared in dust. Charles retrieved the dipper and leaned against the post, momentarily dazed with relief.

  27

  CHARLES WAITED TEN MINUTES in case the soldiers returned, then called Augusta Barclay from her hiding place and whistled Ambrose out of the woods. “Leave the buggy there. Those Yankees might take the same road home.”

  “I gather your eloquence was persuasive, Captain,” Augusta said as she brushed wood splinters from her skirt.

  “I gave them my word there was no female smuggler in the house.” He gauged the distance between the white building and the woodshed. “It missed being an outright lie by about seven feet”

  “Clever of you.”

  “That compliment just makes my day, ma’am.”

  He didn’t mean to be biting, but it came out that way as the tight-wound tensions of the last half hour let go. He turned and quickly bent over the water trough to splash his face. Why did he give a damn what she said or didn’t say?

  A touch on his shoulder. “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “You have a right to be irked. I spoke out of turn earlier. And more than once. You acted bravely and performed a valuable service. I owe you thanks and an apology.”

  “You owe me neither one, Mrs. Barclay. It’s my war, too. Now I suggest you go indoors and stay there till it gets dark.” Responding with a small nod, she let her blue eyes hold his a moment. He felt a deep and unfamiliar response; unsettling—