Columbia. He has first claim on my loyalty.' 'Rightly so. However —'
'He's a competent officer and a brave one.'
'No one doubts Wade Hampton's courage. But the man is — well — not young. And on occasion he has displayed a certain timidity.'
'Fitz, with all due respect, please don't say any more. You're my friend, but Hampton is the best officer I've ever served under.'
Fitz cooled noticeably. 'Do you include General Stuart in that statement?'
'I'd sooner not elaborate, except on one point. What some call timidity, others call prudence — or wisdom. Hampton concentrates his forces before he attacks! He wants a victory, not casualties or headlines.'
Fitz practically bit the spoon bread off his fork. 'Amos? Get in here with the whiskey.' As the servant poured, Fitz eyed his visitor with disappointment and annoyance. 'Your loyalty may be commendable, Charles, but I still insist you're wasting your talents.' No more nickname; the reunion had soured. 'Most every officer who graduated from West Point when we did is a colonel or a major — at minimum.'
That hurt. Charles took a breath. 'For what it's worth, I was in the promotion line two years ago. I made some mistakes.'
'I know all about what you term your mistakes. They're not as serious as you may imagine. Grumble Jones and Beverly Robertson are disciplinarians, too. Both lost elections to colonel because of it. But new commands were found for —'
'Fitz,' he interrupted, 'haven't I made myself clear? What I'm doing suits me. I don't want or need a new command.'
Silence fell in the tent. Outside, the black servant could be heard pottering at his camp stove. 'I'm sorry you feel that way, Charles. If you won't go where you can be most useful, why fight for the South at all?'
The faint scorn angered Charles. 'But I'm not fighting for the South if that means slavery or a separate country. I'm fighting for the place where I live. My land. My home. That's why most of the men joined up. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Davis understands that.'
Fitz shrugged and began to eat quickly. 'Sorry to hurry you, but I must make an attempt to get to the ball. By the way, General Lee has announced himself available on Monday. General Stuart has ordered a review.'
'Another one? What's he thinking of? Today's review tired the horses and put the men in bad temper. We should be watching for Yankees north of the river, not expending more energy on military foppery.'
Fitz cleared his throat. 'Let us agree those remarks were never uttered. Thank you for coming, Charles. I'm afraid you will have to excuse me now.'
The evening taught Charles a gloomy lesson. He and Fitz could no longer be friends. They were divided by rank, by opinion, and by all the political pulling and hauling of command. Next day an incident near Kelly's Ford deepened his gloom. Scouting northeast of the Rappahannock, beyond the picket outposts, he and Ab stopped at a small farm to water their horses and refill their canteens. The householder, a skinny old man, struck up a conversation. With a bewildered air, he told them that his two elderly slaves, husband and wife, had run off the day before yesterday.
'Couldn't get over it. Still can't. They was always so nice. Smiling, biddable darkies — been that way ever since I bought 'em six years ago.'
'We had a lot of that in South Carolina,' Charles said. 'Folks call it puttin' on ol' massa.'
'Can't understand it,' the farmer said, staring right through him. 'I fed 'em. Didn't whip 'em but three or four times. I fixed up presents for 'em ever' Christmas — cakes, little jams and jellies, things like that —'
'Come on, Ab,' Charles said wearily, while the old man continued to condemn the ingratitude. Charles mounted, and scratched the inside of his left leg. His case of camp itch was worsening. At least the rash wasn't as bad as the clap that several scouts had caught from camp followers who dignified themselves with the title laundress.
Bound back toward Brandy Station, Charles pictured the foolish farmer with dismay, then disgust. More and more lately, he saw the peculiar institution for what it was and always had been. The reality of it — from the point of view of those enslaved, anyway — could be nothing less than fear and rage behind a deceptive mask. The kind of mask that had to be worn if the slave meant to survive.
Gus would understand his feelings about slavery, though he dared not express them to Ab or anyone else with whom he served. He was beginning to think that whereas he was fighting for his home, the politicians in charge of things were fighting for slogans, rhetoric, a 'cause.' A wrong one, at that.
No ladies attended the review on Monday; it was a less pleasant event for that reason. Less pleasant, too, because some idiot invited John Hood, and he brought his entire infantry division. The cavlarymen growled threats of what they would do if a foot soldier dared to taunt them with the familiar, 'Mister, where's your mule?'
As Charles feared, the review exhausted everyone — and they were supposed to be ready to advance Tuesday morning. He and Ab rode directly from the review field, where they had glimpsed Bob Lee, handsome as ever but graying rapidly, to Hampton's encampment. Charles's sleep was restless, and he woke abruptly, jerking his head off the saddle and rolling out of his blanket to bugling and the drummers pounding out the long roll.
It was just daybreak. The camp was in turmoil. Ab ran up, swirling the fog that had settled during the night. He carried their coffeepot in such a way that Charles knew he hadn't had a chance to heat it.
'Off your ass, Charlie. General Stuart paid too damn much attention to the ladies an' not enough to the bluebellies. A whole cavalry division's across the river at Beverly Ford.'
'Whose?'
'They say it's Buford's. He's got infantry an' God knows what else. They may be crossin' at Kelly's, too. Nobody's sure.'
The bugler sounded boots and saddles with several sour notes. 'They's thousands of 'em,' Ab said, dropping the enameled pot. 'They come out of the fog an' took the pickets clean by surprise. We're s'posed to go along with Butler to scout an' guard the rear.'
Whips cracked. Great ships in a sea of soft gray mist, Stuart's headquarters wagons loomed at the edge of the camp, bound for safety at Culpeper. Damn, Charles thought. Caught napping. But it wouldn't have happened with Hampton in charge. He grabbed his shotgun and blanket, flung his saddle on his other shoulder, and ran like hell after Ab Woolner.
Charles knew Ab must have had a hard night. First he yelled at some hospital rats scurrying to the surgeons with imaginary complaints, a familiar sight whenever cannonading began. Ab cursed a blue storm when he saw two perfectly good boots lying in weeds. Unshod men, like unshod horses, couldn't fight and weren't expected to — and some fucking yellow dog, as Ab characterized him, had shed his boots to escape what looked like a very bad day.
Riding hard in thinning fog, Charles and Ab soon pulled away from the detachment of Butler's sent to screen the southern approaches to Fleetwood Hill, where Stuart's headquarters on high ground was the obvious target of enemy artillery banging away from the southeast. In a small grove of pines above Stevensburg, Charles reined in suddenly. Beyond the trees, half a dozen Union troopers were approaching on a dirt track beside a field of ripening wheat. Alarmingly, Charles saw no sign of the famous mountains of gear the Southern cavalry scornfully termed 'Yankee fortifications.' The enemy riders carried weapons, nothing else.
'Let's dodge around them, Ab. We'll get to Stevensburg faster.'
Haggard, not to say hostile, Ab stared at him. 'Let's kill us some Yanks. Then we'll get to Stevensburg for sure.'
'Listen, we're only supposed to take a look and see whether —'
'What's wrong with you, Charlie? Lost your nerve 'cause of that gal?'
'You son of a bitch —'
But Ab was already galloping from the pines, double-barrel shotgun booming.
Any Southerner caught with one of those weapons was subject to hanging, the Yankees said. But the two Ab blew from their saddles would never report him. Dry-mouthed, Charles kneed Sport forward.
Bullets buzzed by. As soon as he got in range he gave the Yanks both barrels. That disposed of four. The last two wheeled right and plunged into the wheat to escape. Ab pounded toward Stevensburg without a backward
