Preston was one of his father's aides. Hampton's brother Frank, a cavalryman, had also escaped injury.
While Charles was using a pick to remove dirt and bits of dead tissue from Sport's hooves, Calbraith Butler, another troop commander, drifted up. Butler was a handsome, polished fellow, exactly Charles's age. He was married to the daughter of Governor Pickens and had given up a lucrative law practice to raise the Edgefield Hussars, one of the units Hampton had absorbed into the legion. Though Butler had no military experience, Charles suspected he would be fine in a fight; he liked Butler.
'Ought to have a nigra do that for you,' Butler advised.
'If I were as rich as you lawyers, I might.' Butler laughed. 'How's the colonel?'
'In good spirits, considering the loss of Johnson and the casualties we took.'
'How high?'
'Not certain. I heard twenty percent.'
'Twenty,' Charles repeated, with a slight nod to show satisfaction. Best to think of the dead and injured as percentages, not people; it helped you sleep nights.
Butler crouched down. 'I hear the Yankees not only ran from our Black Horse, but they ran from the mere thought of them. They ran from bays, grays, roans — any color you care to name. Called 'em all the Black Horse. Sure sorry we missed that. One nice development — whether we fought or not, we're to taste the fruits of victory in a week or so. Those of us who can manage to get back to Richmond, anyway.'
He went on to explain that grateful citizens had already announced a gala ball to which favored officers from Manassas would be invited. 'And you know, Charlie, cavalry officers are the most favored of all. We needn't tell the ladies we were miles from the battle. That is, you needn't. Out of respect for my wife, I don't suppose I'll attend.'
'Why not? Beauty Stuart's married, and I bet he'll be there.'
'Damn Virginians. Have to be in the forefront of everything.' During the battle, Stuart had led a much- discussed charge along the Sudley Road, further enhancing his reputation for bravery — or recklessness, depending on who told the story.
'A ball. That does have a certain tempting ring.' Charles tried to keep his gaze away from more ambulances moving in slow file along the ridge, past the blazing disk of the sun.
'Charming female guests from miles around are to be invited. The sponsors don't want our brave boys to suffer a shortage of dance partners.'
Thoughtfully, Charles said, 'I just might go if I can scrounge an invitation.'
'Well! There's a sign of life in the weary trooper. Good for you.' Butler strolled off, and Sport nuzzled Charles's arm as he resumed his work. He found himself whistling, having realized that with a touch of luck he might find Augusta Barclay at the ball.
34
They had arrived in the capital at seven in the morning, soaked and on the verge of sickness. George, Constance, and the children went straight to Willard's; Stanley, Isabel, and the twins to their mansion, with not so much as a syllable of good-bye exchanged.
George washed, shaved — cutting himself twice — drank two fingers of whiskey, and reported to the Winder Building in a daze. So widespread was despair over the defeat that nothing got done all morning; Ripley shut the office down at half past eleven. George heard that the President was in another of his depressive states. Small wonder, he thought as he staggered through crowds of army stragglers on his way to the hotel.
He fell into a stuporous sleep, from which he was gently shaken around nine that night. Constance felt he should take some nourishment. In Willard's dining room, which was packed yet unnaturally quiet, George questioned those at nearby tables and winced at the answers. He asked more questions next day. The scope and consequences of the tragedy at Bull Run became, clearer.
Everyone spoke of the disgraceful behavior of the volunteers and their officers, and of the ferocity of the enemy troops, especially something called the Black Horse Cavalry. George got the impression the rebs had no other kind, which couldn't be true. Yet even Ripley spoke as if it were.
Casualty figures were vague as yet, though some losses were certain; Simon Cameron's brother had died leading a Highlander regiment, the Seventy-ninth New York. Scott and McDowell were the identified culprits. While George snored away most of Monday, McDowell had been relieved and George's old classmate Mc-Clellan was summoned from western Virginia to command the army and, presumably, organize and train it into something more nearly worthy of the name.
On Tuesday, office work resumed. George received orders for a flying trip to acquaint himself with activities of the Cold Spring Foundry across the river from West Point. His father had visited the foundry during George's cadet years. Even back then, it had been turning out some of the finest ironwork in America. The foundry was now manufacturing great iron-banded artillery pieces designed by Robert Parker Parrott. The Ordnance Department's on-site officer was a Captain Stephen Benet.
Tuesday night, after George packed, the high-command change took up most of the conversation before he and Constance fell asleep.
'Lincoln and the cabinet and the Congress all pushed McDowell. They forced him to send poorly trained amateurs into battle. The volunteers failed to behave like regulars, and McDowell's been punished for it — by Lincoln and the cabinet and the Congress.'
'Ah,' she murmured. 'The first girl on the President's card proved clumsy, so he's changing partners.'
'Changing partners. That says it very well.' George hoisted his nightshirt to scratch an itch on his thigh. 'I wonder how many times he'll do it before the ball is over?'
George was thankful to exchange Washington's air of hopelessness for the beauty of the Hudson River valley, all the more vivid because of the glorious sunshiny weather he found there. Old Parrott, class of '24, ran the plant, and he insisted on showing the visitor every part of it personally. Bathing in the foundry's heat and light was a kind of joyous homecoming. George was fascinated by the precision with which the workers bored out the cannon and heated, coiled, and hammered four-inch-square bars of iron to form the bands that were the maker's mark on Parrott guns.
Parrott seemed to appreciate the presence in the Ordnance Department of someone who understood his problems as manufacturer and manager. George liked the older man, but the real find, personally as well as professionally, was Captain Stephen V. Benet, whom George remembered from the class of '49.
A Florida native, so dark as to be mistaken for a Spaniard, Benet divided his time between the foundry and West Point, where he taught ordnance theory and gunnery. Together, the two men crossed the river to roam their old haunts one afternoon. They discussed everything from their own classes to the mounting attacks on the institution.
Over supper at the post hotel, Benet said: 'I admire the patriotism that inspired you to accept a commission. As for being in Ripley's department — that calls for condolences.'
'That place is an infernal mess,' George agreed. 'Lunatic inventors in every cranny, piles of paper a year old, no standardization. I'm trying to compile a master list of all the types of artillery ammunition we're using. It's a struggle.'
Benet laughed. 'I should imagine. There are at least five hundred.'
'We may defeat ourselves and save the rebs the job.'
'Working for Ripley would discourage anyone. He looks for reasons to reject new ideas. He seeks their flaws. I'd rather look for strengths. Reasons to say yes.' Benet paused, twirling his glass of port. He gave his visitor a level look and decided to trust him. 'Perhaps that's why the President now sends prototypes directly here for evaluation.' He sipped. 'Did you know about that — bypassing Ripley?'
'No, but it doesn't surprise me. Taking the other side, I must tell you Lincoln's very unpopular in the War Department because of his constant interference.'
'Understandable, but —' another searching look — 'how will we whip the Ripleys without it?'
