Love and War nas-2 Read online

  Long hair flying, he laughed again. In this wrong-colored, unhandsome little animal, he just might have discovered a remarkable war horse.

  "I'll take him," he said when he returned to the fence by the road. He reached for a wad of bills. "You said a hundred —"

  "While you was frolicking with him, I decided I can't let him go for less than a hundred and fifty."

  "The price you quoted was a hundred, and that's all you get." Charles fingered the shotgun. "I wouldn't argue — you know us boys from the buttermilk cavalry. Thieves and killers."

  He grinned again. The deal was concluded without further negotiation.

  "Charlie, you were flummoxed," Ambrose declared five minutes after Charles got back to camp with the gray. "Any fool can see that horse has nothing to recommend it."

  "Appearances don't always tell the tale, Ambrose." He ran a hand down Sport's slightly arched nose. The gelding nuzzled in a determined way. "Besides, I think he likes me."

  "He's the wrong color. Everyone will take you for a damn cornet player instead of a gentleman."

  "I'm not a gentleman. I quit trying to be one when I was seven. Thanks for the loan of your horse. I've got to feed and water this one."

  "Let my nigger do it for you."

  "Toby's your manservant, not mine. Besides, ever since I attended the Academy, I've had this peculiar idea that a trooper should care for his own mount. It is his second self, as the saying goes."

  "I detect disapproval," Ambrose grumbled. "What's wrong with bringing a slave to camp?"

  "Nothing — until the fighting starts. No one will do that for you."

  Ambrose found the remark irksome. He stayed silent for some seconds, then muttered, "By the way, Hampton wants to see you."

  Charles frowned. "About what?"

  "Don't know. The colonel wouldn't confide in me. Maybe I'm not professional enough to suit him. Hell, I don't deny it. I only signed up because I love to ride and I hate Yankees — and I don't want a bundle of petticoats left on my doorstep some night to tell everybody I'm a shirker. I thought I'd earn the respect of my friends by taking a legion commission, and instead I've lost it." He sighed. "Remember we're dining with old princey-prince this evening?"

  "Thanks for reminding me. I forgot."

  "Tell Hampton not to keep you, because his highness expects us to be prompt."

  Charles smiled as he led Sport away. "That's right, in this army it's dinner parties before duty. I'll be sure to remind the colonel of that."

  Though Camp Hampton was the bivouac of an elite regiment, it was still succumbing to familiar afflictions, Charles noticed on his way to regimental headquarters forty minutes later. He saw human waste left on the ground instead of in the sinks dug for the purpose. The smell was worse because the late afternoon was windless.

  He saw a pair of privates stumbling-drunk from the poisonous busthead sold by the inevitable sutler in the inevitable tent. He saw three gaudily dressed ladies who were definitely not officers' wives or laundresses. Charles hadn't slept with a woman in months, and he could tell it. Still, he wasn't ready to take up with beauties like these; not with so many complaints of clap in the encampment.

  In contrast to the busy sutler, the gray-bearded colporteur had no customers at all and made a forlorn sight seated against the wheel of his wagon reading some of his own merchandise. One of the Bibles he sold? No, it was a tract, Charles observed; possibly A Mother's Parting Words to Her Soldier Boy, eight pages of cautionary moralizing in the form of a letter. It was a hot seller throughout the army, though most of the better-educated legionnaires jeered at it.

  He passed two young gentlemen whose salutes were so brief as to border on insulting. Before Charles finished returning the salutes, the men were once again arguing over the price to pay a substitute when it was inconvenient to stand guard. Twenty-five cents per tour was the customary rate.

  The next unpleasantness he came upon was a large pavilion with its sides raised because of the sweltering heat and dampness after the rain. Inside lay those already felled by the shotless war. Sickness was everywhere; bad water made men's bowels run and constrict with ghastly pain; balls of opium paste did little to alleviate the suffering. Surviving dysentery in Texas had not kept Charles from spending another week with it in Virginia. Now there was a new epidemic in the army: measles.

  He hated to wish for combat but, as he entered the headquarters area, he couldn't deny he was sick of camp life. Mightn't be long before he got his wish, at that. Some old political hack, General Patterson, had pushed Joe Johnston and his men out of Harpers Ferry, and word was circulating that McDowell would shortly move at least thirty thousand men to the strategic rail junction of Manassas Gap.

  Barker, the regimental adjutant, was finishing some business with the colonel, so Charles had to wait. He scratched suddenly. God, he had them, all right.

  About six, the captain came out and Charles reported to the colonel he greatly admired — Wade Hampton of the Congaree: a millionaire, a good leader, and a fine cavalryman in spite of his age. "Be at ease, Captain," Hampton said after the formalities. "Sit if you like."

  Charles took the stool in front of Hampton's neat field desk, one corner of which was reserved for a small velvet box with its lid raised. In the box stood an easeled frame, filigreed silver, containing a miniature of Hampton's second wife, Mary.

  The colonel rose and stretched. He was a man of commanding appearance, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, obviously possessed of immense strength. Though a splendid rider, he never indulged in the kind of equestrian pranks that were common in the First Virginia, commanded by Beauty Stuart, whom Charles had known and liked at the Academy. Jeb had dash, Hampton a forceful deliberateness. No one questioned either man's courage, but their styles were as disparate as their ages, and Charles had heard their few meetings had been cool.

  "I'm sorry I was gone when you sent for me, Colonel. Captain Barker was aware of the reason. I needed a remount."

  "Find one?"

  "Luckily, yes."

  "Very good. I wouldn't care to lose you to Company Q for too long." Hampton drew a paper from a pile on the desk. "I wanted to see you about another discipline problem. Earlier today, one of your men absented himself without leave. He was present for morning roll call but gone by breakfast call a half hour later. He was apprehended ten miles from here, purely by change. An officer recognized the legion uniform, hailed him, and asked where he was going. The young idiot told the truth. He said he was on his way to participate in a horse race."

  Charles scowled. "With some First Virginia troopers, perhaps?"

  "Exactly." Hampton brushed knuckles against his bushy side whiskers, dark as his wavy hair; the whiskers met and blended into a luxuriant mustache. "The race is to be held tomorrow, within sight of enemy pickets — presumably to add the spice of danger." He didn't hide his scorn. "The soldier was returned under guard. When First Sergeant Reynolds asked why he'd gone off as he had, he replied —" Hampton glanced at the paper —" 'I went to have some fun. The First Virginia are a daring bunch, with good leadership. They know a trooper's first responsibility is to die game.'" Chilly gray-blue eyes fixed on Charles. "End of quote."

  "I can guess the man you're talking about, sir." The same one who had wanted to kill the Union prisoner they took some weeks ago. "Cramm?"

  "That's right. Private Custom Dawkins Cramm the third. A young man from a rich and important family."

  "Also, if the colonel will forgive me, an aristocratic pain in the rear."

  "We do have our share of them. Brave boys, I think, but unsuited to soldiering. As yet." The addition declared his intent to change that. He slapped the paper with the back of his other hand. "But this foolishness! 'To die game.' That may be Stuart's way, but I prefer to win and live. Regarding Cramm — I'm empowered to convene a special court-martial. He's your man, however. You deserve the right to make the decision."

  "Convene it," Charles said without hesitation. "I'll serve, if you'll permit
one."

  "I'll place you in charge."

  "Where's Cramm now, sir?"

  "Confined to quarters. Under guard."

  "I believe I'll give him the good news personally."

  "Please do," Hampton said, his eyes belying his dispassionate expression. "This man's come to my attention too often. Examples must be made. McDowell will move soon, and we can't mass our forces and overwhelm the enemy if each soldier does exactly as he wishes, whenever he wishes."

  "Exactly right, Colonel." Hampton had no formal military training, but he understood that part of the lesson book. Charles saluted and went straight to Private Cramm's tent. Outside, a noncom stood guard. Nearby, Cramm's black body servant, old and hunchbacked, polished the brass corners of a trunk.

  "Corporal," Charles said, "you will hear and see nothing for the next two minutes."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Inside, Private Custom Dawkins Cramm III reclined among the many books he had brought to camp. He wore a loose white silk blouse — no regulation — and didn't rise when his superior entered, though he gave him an annoyed stare.

  "Stand up."

  Cramm went off like a bomb, hurling down the gold-stamped volume of Coleridge. "The hell I will. I was a gentleman before I joined your damned troop, I'm still a gentleman, and I'm damned if you'll continue to treat me like some nigger slave."

  Charles took hold of the fine blouse, ripping it as he yanked Cramm to his feet. "What I'm going to do, Cramm, is chair the special court-martial to which Colonel Hampton appointed me five minutes ago. Then I'll do my utmost to give you the maximum penalty — thirty-one days of hard labor. You'll serve every minute of it unless we go up against the Yankees first, in which case they'll punish you by blowing your head off because you're too stupid to be a soldier. But at least you'll die game."

  He pushed Cramm so hard that the young man sailed into his little wooden library cabinet, bounced away, and knocked down the rear tent pole. On one knee, gripping the pole, Cramm glared.

  "We should have elected a gentleman as our captain. Next time we will."

  Red-faced, Charles walked out.

  "Here we come, gentlemen. Nice hot oysters Creole. Got 'em fixed crispy and jus' right for you."

  With a politeness so exquisite it approached mockery, Ambrose Pell's slave Toby bent forward to offer a silver tray of appetizers on small china plates; Toby had been dragooned to assist the host's hired servants, a couple of rascally looking Belgians. Toby was about forty, and in contrast to his servile posture, his eyes shone with a sly resentment. So Charles thought, anyway.

  Privately, he termed that kind of behavior putting on old massa. He had a theory that the more expert a slave became at the deceptive ritual, the more likely it was that he hated those who owned him. Not that Charles blamed any black very much for such feelings; four years at West Point, and exposure to people and ideas not strictly Southern, had begun a change in his thinking, and nothing since had stopped it or reversed it. He considered all the rhetoric in defense of slavery so much spit in the wind and probably wrong to boot.

  The large striped tent belonging to their host was ablaze with candles and filled with music — Ambrose performing some Mozart on the better of his two flutes. He played well. One side of the tent was raised and netted to bar night insects but allow entry of an occasional breeze. Bathed and outfitted in clean clothes, Charles felt better. The trouble with Cramm had put him in a bad mood, but discovery of a parcel from Mont Royal had helped to relieve it. The sight of the inscription on the light cavalry saber touched him. The gilt-banded scabbard rested against his left leg now. Though the sword lacked the practicality of Hampton's Columbia-made issue, Charles would treasure it far more.

  With a tiny silver fork, he broke the lightly spiced breading on the oyster. He ate a morsel, then swallowed some of the good whiskey from the Waterford goblet provided by their host and new friend, Pierre Serbakovsky. He and Ambrose had met the stocky, urbane young man during a tour of Richmond's better saloons.

  Serbakovsky had the rank of captain but preferred to be addressed as prince. He was one of a number of European officers who had joined the Confederacy. The prince was aide-de-camp to Major Rob Wheat, commander of a regiment of Louisiana Zouaves nicknamed the Tigers. The regiment contained the dregs of the streets of New Orleans; there wasn't a unit in Virginia more notorious for robbery and violence.

  "I believe this will be enough whiskey," the prince declared to Toby. "Ask Jules whether the Mumm's is chilled, and if so, serve it at once."

  Serbakovsky liked to be in charge, but his manner was too lofty even for a slave. Charles watched Toby swallow twice and compress his lips as he walked out.

  He took more whiskey to relieve feelings of guilt. He and Ambrose shouldn't be lolling at supper, but conducting school for their noncoms, which they did almost every night so that the noncoms could attempt to re-teach the lessons on the drill field. The devil with guilt for one evening, he thought. He'd drink it away now and let it return tomorrow.

  Abruptly, Ambrose jerked the flute from his lips and scratched furiously under his right arm. "Damn it, I've got 'em again." His face grew as red as his curls. He was a fastidious person; this was humiliation.

  Serbakovsky leaned back in his upholstered chair, amused. "Permit me a word of advice, mon frere," he said in heavily accented English. "Bathe. As frequently as you can, no matter how vile and strong the soap, how cold the stream, or how repugnant the notion of standing naked before one's inferiors." "I do bathe, Princey. But the damned graybacks keep coming." "The truth is, they never leave," Charles said as Toby and the younger Belgian entered with a tray of fluted glasses and a dark bottle in a silver bucket of flaked ice, a commodity so scarce in the South it might well have cost more than ten times the champagne. "They're in your uniform. You have to give the vermin a complete discharge."

  "What, throw this coat away?"

  "And everything else you wear."

  "Replacing 'em at my own expense? Damned if I will, Charlie.

  Uniforms are the responsibility of the commandant, not gentlemen who serve with him."

  Charles shrugged. "Spend or scratch. Up to you."

  The prince laughed, then snapped his fingers. The young Belgian stepped forward at once, Toby more slowly. Was Charles the only one who noticed the slave's resentment?

  "Delicious," he said after his first drink of champagne. "Do all European officers entertain this handsomely?"

  "Only if their ancestors accumulated wealth by means better left unmentioned."

  Charles liked Serbakovsky, whose history fascinated him. The prince's paternal grandfather, a Frenchman, had held a colonelcy in the army Bonaparte led to Russia. Along the invasion route, he met a young woman of the Russian aristocracy; physical attraction temporarily overcame political enmity, and she conceived a child, born while the colonel was perishing on the infamous winter retreat. Serbakovsky's grandmother had given her illegitimate son her last name as a symbol of family and national pride; and never married. Serbakovsky had been a soldier since his eighteenth birthday, first in his mother country, then abroad.

  While Ambrose vainly tried to drink and scratch at the same time, in came the first course — local shad, baked. This was to be followed by a specialty of the older Belgian, three chickens stewed with garlic cloves in the style of Provence.

  "Wish we'd get out of this damn camp and see the elephant," Ambrose said as he prepared to attack the shad.

  "Do not ask for that which you know nothing about, my good friend," the prince said, somber suddenly; he had been blooded in the Crimea and had told Charles of some of the horrors witnessed there. "It's an idle wish anyway, I believe. This Confederacy of yours — she is in the same happy position as my homeland in 1812."

  "Explain that, Prince," Charles said.

  "Simple enough. The land itself will win the war for you. It is so vast — so spread from here to there — the enemy will soon despair of conquering it and abandon the effort. Lit
tle or no fighting will be necessary for a victory. That is my professional prediction."

  "Hope it's wrong," Charles said. "I'd like one chance to wear this to accept the surrender of some Yanks." He touched the scabbard. The various drinks had combined to banish what he knew about the nature of war and create a pleasant sense of invulnerability.

  "The sword is a gift from your cousin, you said. May I examine it?"

  Charles drew the saber; reflections of the candles ran like lightning along the blade as he passed the weapon to Serbakovsky. He inspected it closely. "Solingen. Very fine." He returned it. "Beautiful. I would keep a sharp eye on it. Serving with these Louisiana guttersnipes, I have discovered that soldiers in America are like soldiers everywhere. Whatever can be stolen, they will steal."

  Drunk, Charles managed to forget the warning right away. Nor did he hear the sound of one man, perhaps more, moving on again after stopping in the dark beyond the netting.

  21

  From the valise on the dirty floor, Stanley took the samples and set them on the desk, which was clean and bare of so much as a single piece of paper. The factory had no business; it was shut down. A property broker had directed the Hazards there shortly after they arrived in the town of Lynn.

  The man at the desk was temporarily acting as a sort of care­taker for the factory. He was a husky, ruddy fellow, white-haired and broad about the middle. Stanley put his age at fifty-five. The man picked up the samples, one per hand, with a quickness suggesting he hated his idle state.

  "The Jefferson style," he said, tapping a free finger on the moderately high quarter of the shoe. "Issued to the cavalry as well as the infantry."

  "You know your business, Mr. Pennyford," Stanley said with a smarmy smile. He distrusted New Englanders — people who spoke with such a queer accent couldn't be normal — but he needed this man on his side. "A contract for bootees of this type would find a broad and lucrative market."

  "In heaven's name, Stanley, call them by their right name. They're shoes," Isabel said from near the window. The light of a dark day through a filthy pane didn't flatter her; outside, a late June storm pounded the roofs of Lynn.