Love and War

His moist dark eyes reflected the bright gas mantles as he said carefully, 'I know you can't abide the colored and those who champion them. But you're right, we need to speed up our own — cultivation, as you call it, of the important pro-abolition people attending that party. Simon is about to go down. If we aren't careful, he'll take us with him. He'll ruin our reputations and dam up the river of money that's flowing into Lashbrook's.' There was a hint of uncharacteristic strength in his voice as he finished. 'We must do something and do it soon.'

35

The hot haze of August settled on the Alexandria line. Encamped north of Centreville, the legion awaited replacements and the Enfields the colonel had paid for with personal funds. The rifles were to come from Britain on a blockade runner.

The legion reorganized to compensate for its losses at Manassas. Calbraith Butler, promoted to major, took command of the four troops of cavalry. Charles reacted to the change with initial resentment, which he was sensible enough to keep to himself. When he thought about it, the choice wasn't so surprising. Butler was a gentleman volunteer, without the taint of professionalism Charles carried. Being married to the governor's daughter didn't hurt, either.

Also, Charles knew his own cause hadn't been helped by his insistence on discipline and his occasional anger with offenders. He had a less violent temper than many an Academy graduate — a Yankee hothead named Phil Sheridan came to mind — but he still yelled in the approved West Point style.

The hell with it. He had enlisted to win a war, not promotions. Butler was a fine horseman and by instinct a good officer; he led men the right way — by example. Charles congratulated his new superior with unfeigned sincerity.

'Decent of you, Charles,' said the new major. 'In terms of experience, you're more deserving than I.' He smiled. 'Tell you what. Since I have all these new responsibilities and am married to boot, you must hie yourself to Richmond and represent me at that ball. Take Pell along if you like.'

Charles needed no further invitation. He spruced up his uniform and hurried completion of the most important of his current tasks. Sometimes, he thought, the duties were more a father's than a soldier's. He finished the work just in time for evening review. At the ceremony, the colonel formally received the regiment's newest battle flag, sewn by ladies at home. A palmetto wreath and the words Hampton's Legion decorated the scarlet silk.

Afterward, Charles made final preparations for travel to Richmond. He was interrupted by a trooper named Nelson Gervais, who had a long letter from a girl back home in Rock Hill. The nineteen-year-old farmer shifted his weight back and forth and rattled the letter paper as he explained.

'I've pressed my suit with Miss Sally Mills for three years, Captain. No luck. Now all of a sudden she says —' rattle went the paper — 'she says my joining up and going away made her wake up to how much she cares for me. She says here that she'd entertain a marriage proposal.'

'Congratulations, Gervais.' Impatient, Charles missed the point of the trooper's imploring look. 'I don't believe you'd be permitted a furlough anytime soon, but that shouldn't stop you from asking for her hand.'

'Yes, sir, I want to do that.'

'You don't need my consent.'

'I need your help, sir. Miss Sally Mills writes real well, but — ' his face turned red as the new flag — 'I can't.'

'Not at all?'

'No, sir.' Long pause. 'Can't read, either.' Rattle. 'One of my messmates, he read this for me. Where Sally said she loved me and all —'

Charles understood, gently tapped the desk. 'Leave that, and as soon as I'm back from Richmond, I'll compose a letter of proposal and we'll go over it till it meets with your approval.'

'Thank you, sir! I really thank you. I can't hardly thank you enough.'

Private Gervais's effusions floated in the humid night for some moments after his departure. Charles smiled to himself and blew out the light in his wall tent, feeling remarkably middle-aged.

The night ride on the cars of the Orange & Alexandria proved exhausting due to unforeseen and unexplained delays en route. Charles dozed on the hard seat, doing his best to ignore Ambrose's attempts at conversation. His friend was annoyed that they were segregated from Hampton and other senior officers in the car ahead.

Charles was worn out and dirty when they arrived in Richmond late next morning. Quarters had been arranged with a Mississippi unit, so he had a chance to jump into a zinc tub, then find a pallet and try to catch an hour's sleep. Excitement made it impossible.

The Spotswood ballroom glittered with braid and jewels and lights that shone on yards of Confederate bunting. Hundreds packed the room and the adjoining parlors and corridors. Soon after Charles entered, he glimpsed his cousin Ashton on the far side of the dance floor. She and her pale worm of a husband were hovering near President Davis. Charles would avoid coming anywhere near them.

Young women, many quite beautiful and all vivacious and handsomely gowned, laughed and danced with the officers, who outnumbered them three to one. Charles wasn't anxious for companionship unless he found the right person. He didn't see her anywhere. His hopes had been far-fetched, he supposed. Fredericksburg was miles away.

But there were unexpected diversions. A burly first lieutenant with the beginnings of a great beard left a group around Joe Johnston and hurled himself over to give Charles a bear hug.

'Bison! I suspected you might be here.'

'Fitz, you look grand. I heard you were on General Johnston's staff.'

Fitzhugh Lee, nephew of Robert E., had been a close friend at West Point and in Texas. 'Not so grand as you, Captain.' He loaded the last word with mock deference. Charles laughed.

'Don't hand me that. I know who's superior here. You're regular army. We're still just state troops.'

'Not for long, I'm sure. Oh-oh — there's another gorgeous phiz you should recognize. And precisely where you'd expect it, too — in the middle of a bevy of admiring females.'

Charles looked, and his heart leaped at the sight of an old friend who was in theory his colonel's rival. Jeb Stuart's russet beard was full and resplendent. Gauntlets were artfully draped over his sash. A yellow rose adorned his buttonhole. His blue eyes flashed as he teased and flattered the ladies pressing close to him.

The commander of the First Virginia Cavalry had been a first classman when Charles entered the Academy. Stuart had given the callow plebe a haircut — or half of one — that Charles would never forget. Together, he and Fitz worked their way toward Stuart. He spied them and excused himself from the disappointed ladies just as Charles saw a major from the First Virginia request a dance from a full-bosomed blonde wearing pale blue silk. It was Augusta.

Away from the crowd, Stuart's boots were visible; there were the gold spurs everyone talked about. 'Bison Main! Now the party's perfect!'

Charles's greeting was restrained and correct. 'Colonel.'

'Come, come — you don't say hello to your old barber that way.'

'Very well, Beauty. It's grand to run into you. You and General Beauregard are the heroes of the hour.'

'I do hear those Yankees think we all ride black stallions that squirt fire and brimstone from their nostrils. Good! We'll whip 'em that much sooner if they stay scared. Come along and have a whiskey.'

The three walked to the refreshment bar, where black men deferentially filled the orders. Stuart couldn't help crowing a little.

'Hear you boys missed the muss the other day. Luck of the game. How do you find your commander?' He indicated Hampton, some distance away. The colonel was engaged in conversation with one man in civilian clothes; there were no admirers.

'None better.'