High Hearts (20 page)

“Geneva, how do you do that to me?”

She kissed him. “I love you. I want to make you happy.”

“Happy?” He laughed. “You make me ecstatic!” The blond stubble on his cheeks glistened like gold in the bright sun.

“Do you hear that?”

He held his breath and put his ear to the ground. “Hoof-beats.”

He tossed on his shirt. Geneva wiggled into her pants and put on her shirt. Nash climbed up a big hickory tree.

“There they are. Four of them. And they’re going like a bat out of hell toward the camp.”

He jumped out of the tree, scooped her in his arms, and squeezed her. “You do make me happy. I’ll be glad when this war is over. Then you won’t pretend you’re a man, and we can make love in our big feather bed every day, until we’re so old we’re in pushchairs.”

The four riders showed up at Mars Vickers’s tent. Mars had refused a house in town. If his men lived in tents, then he’d live in a tent, too. An old friend of his, J.E.B. Stuart, had reported to camp with the rank of major. Mars was both
delighted and curious because Stuart had the stomach for politicking and Mars did not. Stuart’s father-in-law stayed with the Union Army as a general. Mars did not envy him that anxiety. But the arrival of Stuart meant Mars had an ally. He could have his regiment and let J.E.B. contend with the senior officers since Stuart was so hot to become one himself.

While Mars was a fighting man, he was not ambitious in the conventional sense. What he really wanted to do was write a book on modern warfare. His years in Europe taught him that the staffs of those armies looked backward to Napoleon. Mars believed in industry, railroads, and improved artillery. Rifles could fire with accuracy up to five hundred yards. In Napoleon’s day, the range was a mere one hundred yards. He believed progress outstripped the military’s ability to assimilate it. He wanted to incorporate his thoughts on new weaponry and strategy into a book. That would wait until after this war, if he lived through it. His ambition, then, was to provoke thought, to prepare his country for the future.

“Mars!” Sam Wells burst through the tent flap. He placed a packet of letters on Mars’s camp desk. “From your wife, sir.”

Mars glanced at the packet. “You didn’t beat your shadow here for that. I thought you were to stay in Richmond another week.”

“I called upon headquarters there. They gave me permission to ride up the lines. After calling upon Mrs. Vickers, I rode through Fredericksburg. Then I kept on the main road toward Washington until a few miles from the Potomac. Every time I saw anyone, I asked if they’d seen any troops cross the river.”

“Sam, our people have been watching that river since Fort Sumter.”

“I know that, but I wanted to see for myself. I rode by the river, keeping it to my right and got maybe six miles west of Alexandria. I camped without a fire by the river. Around two in the morning I heard voices, Yankee voices. A scouting mission, I reckon.”

“So?”

“Yankees on our soil!” Sam was exasperated that Mars did not grasp the import of his message. “I say we take the whole army up there, mass on the banks of the river, and blast those sons of bitches to kingdom come!”

“We can’t do that, Sam.”

“Why the hell not?”

“We want them to cross over to Virginia soil and initiate hostilities. They are the ones who are going to start this war.”

Livid, Sam shouted, “Then what was Fort Sumter about?”

“That was South Carolina. And if you want to get technical about it, you could argue that South Carolina was pushed into cleaning out the fort. We did not initiate hostilities.”

“Horseshit!”

“I agree with you, Sam, but we aren’t making policy. We’re carrying it out. Jefferson Davis runs the army.”

“We should hit them now, Mars, right now. We can end this goddamned thing in a week.”

“With what?”

Crestfallen, Sam sat down in a folding chair. “Hell, Mars, I want to fight. I’d be happy to go call out a Yankee and have at him.”

“This is a war, Sam, not a duel. Now go wash up, have a good supper, and get some sleep.”

Wearily, Sam stood up. “You’re so logical about it.”

“That’s the point, Captain.”

Mars opened his wife’s letters and read them. She reported the doings of the town, already swelled with about twenty thousand newcomers and more on the way.

His wife’s fragrance lingered on the letters. She liberally dusted them with her perfume. The smell of the woman drove him wild. But Mars knew he’d been betrayed by his cock when he married the sensational Kate Louisa Carpenter. Before the first year of the marriage ran out, he’d known he’d made a terrible mistake. She rarely endured him physically. He was reduced to begging for it. Though her sex drive was low, her ambition was high. If Kate ever found out he had turned down an offered colonelcy, she would probably kill him. She wanted to be a leader of political society. Mars wanted to be left alone to think and to have a family. They couldn’t have children. She blamed him for it. He blamed her. Mars was a tool to Kate. He knew that, and it cut him deep inside. But then what was she to him? He wanted a beautiful woman. He got one. Too late did he understand the meaning of the word partner. Well, he suffered for his foolishness. He remembered his Greek: Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. He thought it should
be, Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make fall in love.

Nash walked in. “You wanted to see me, Major Vickers?”

“You’re on guard duty tonight and the password is love’s labor lost.”

Nash smiled. “I did not take you for a literary man, Major Vickers.”

Mars bristled. “I did not take you for a military man, Private Hart.”

By three in the morning, the chill had secreted itself into Nash’s bones. Posted on the northern edge of the camp, he pulled a horse blanket around him. Loud rustling off to his right bolted him wide awake.

“Who’s there?”

Nash could feel the sweat running from his armpits down his sides. He picked up his rifle and placed his thumb on the trigger. “Say the password!” The noise grew louder, and then he heard hoofbeats heading for the camp.

“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!” He fired into the air, then fired again. He wanted to leave his post and run back to the camp, but he remembered Mars’s instructions: “Obey orders, no matter how ludicrous they seem; you don’t see the whole picture.” Nash hoped to God an advance party of Yankees wasn’t on his right, heading into the camp. He was at his post stone alone. They’d kill or capture him for certain. Nash continued to fire in the air. After what seemed a very long time, he heard noises far away in the camp. He emptied his pistol. Feverishly he jammed shells into the hot chamber. If they rode on him now, he was defenseless except for a knife. The sound of his own breathing crashed in his ears. He held
his breath. No more noise. Gulping air, he held it again. Silence around him, but noise in the camp below.

He heard men shouting and horses neighing. He thought he could hear an order shouted from time to time. Then he heard a new sound—laughter. Hundreds of voices, laughing! His regiment had captured the Yankees, and here he was stuck on the edge of nowhere. Well, he had warned them. He sat down and thought how unfair the world was.

Hoofbeats alerted him again. A figure wearing a slouch hat approached. It was Benserade, Mars’s right-hand man.

“Say the password,” Nash said sternly.

Captain Benserade answered, “Love’s labor lost. Did you fire off those shots, Hart? We thought they came from you.”

Proudly, Nash said, “Yes, I did. How many Yankees did you get? I heard one mounted man, but there may have been others.”

“You did, did you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What you heard, you silly ass, was a pig.”

Stunned, Nash swallowed hard. His deep bass voice cracked. “A pig?”

“A pig with a curly tail. You must have scared it, Mr. Hart, because that pig moved faster than anything I’ve seen since I got here. I expect, sir, you were not fully awake”—his voice dripped sarcasm—“when you heard the hoofbeats.”

“I—” Nash could not look into Benserade’s mocking eyes.

“Well, Private Hart, you can go back to the camp now and get your beauty sleep. I’ll take over here.”

“Does everyone know I fired those shots?”

“Came from your sentry station. The answer is yes.”

Nash placed his rifle alongside his saddle. He rolled his blanket up and put it behind his saddle. Then he slowly walked his horse back to camp. Benserade’s chuckles assaulted his ears.

Inside the camp, his humiliation was complete. Oinking sounds were all around him. Even Bumba, his servant, laughed at him. One of the men called out “Private Piggy.” Another crooned “Piggy Woo!” Fighting back his misery, Nash stalked into his tent where Geneva waited for him. He brushed off her consolations and lay on his cot. He languished there
with his eyes open and vowed to make good during the first battle.

When Mars bumped into Nash the next morning before drill, he addressed him as Private Woo. Piggy Woo stuck. Only Geneva, Banjo, and Bumba called him Nash after that.

Lutie felt wonderful today even though a low, yellowish haze hung over the meadows, refusing to burn off. The lesson for the day was chapter 28 in the first book of Samuel. Saul and the Israelites prepare for battle against the Philistines. However, God keeps a tight lip. So Saul, worried, wants someone to tell him what to do. Even though he has banished wizards and people who have familiars, in desperation he goes to a woman of Endor who has a familiar. He asks her to call up the spirit of Samuel, who had recently died. Samuel came to him and asked why Saul had disturbed him. Saul wanted some military advice, and Samuel, maybe he was crabby at being brought back to the fractious land of the living, sounded like the voice of doom. He told Saul that the Lord was done with him and that by tomorrow he’d be right there where Samuel was because the Philistines would do him in and Israel would be delivered into the hands of the Philistines. Saul probably wished he’d left Samuel with the dead. He felt weak and wouldn’t eat. The woman of Endor, a kind heart, forced him to eat something.

Lutie liked the fact that a familiar was mentioned in the Bible and rather nicely, too. Naturally, the woman didn’t know what Samuel would say when she called him up so she was hardly responsible for him being a wet blanket.

The great bulk of Big Muler crossed Lutie’s line of vision.
He was carrying sacks of rice from Reddy Neutral Taylor’s wagon.

“He’s never far from you.” Lutie pointed out the window to Di-Peachy, who was enjoying the Bible lesson.

Di-Peachy shrugged. “He’s respectful.”

“He’s in love with you. They’re all in love with you.”

Di-Peachy bowed her head. “Don’t say that, Miss Lutie.”

“Why, does keeping my mouth shut make it any less true? That giant out there would follow you to the ends of the earth. Has he given up trying to sleep with you?”

Di-Peachy bit her lip and said nothing.

Lutie flounced her skirt. “But I forget. My husband doesn’t want you carrying on with the help. I’d like to know just where you’re going to find a husband good enough.”

“I don’t want to get married.”

“I sometimes think that my husband and I were cruel to allow you to read. Your head is full of ideas, and where can you go with them? Life is unfair—for each of us in our various ways. Perhaps it’s easier to see injustice with you. I’d advise you to make a good match while you’re young.”

Di-Peachy said nothing.

Frustrated, Lutie left the room. Di-Peachy was holding something back.

Outside, Reddy Neutral Taylor lounged in his wagon. As the owner of the hardware and provisions store, he usually did not make deliveries. However, he hoped for sight of Di-Peachy.

He called out to Big Muler. “Boy, where’s that gorgeous piece of black ass lives up there?”

Big Muler slung another sack over his shoulder.

Reddy, like a terrier chasing a rabbit, ran on. “You know who I mean, boy. Di-Peachy. Nature’s dusky goddess, I say. I’ll bet Sumner Chatfield has enjoyed her delicacies!” He hooted.

Big Muler walked over to Reddy. He dumped the sack on the ground, stood by the wagon, and picked it up. He shook the wagon as easily as if he were shaking out a dust rag.

“Hey, hey! What you doin’, nigger?” Reddy shouted.

“Doan like such talk ’round here.” Big Muler gave the wagon an extra hard push and dropped it.

Reddy, tremendously impressed by this display of raw
strength, replied, “Chatfield niggers, Chatfield whites. You all think your shit don’t stink up here. But I take your point, boy. I truly take your point. You take mine. You’re a young buck. Lots of history here you know nothin’ about. Won’t do you good to ride a high horse, and won’t do you good to think jes ’cause you’re a Chatfield nigger, you’re better than a workin’ white man.”

Impassively Big Muler stared at him. “Doan be talking that way ’bout Di-Peachy.” He picked up the sack and returned to his chores.

The city of Richmond exploded overnight. The influx of government officials, those seeking posts and hangers-on, had swelled the population to forty thousand people, if anyone could keep count. Aside from those wishing to latch on to the cornucopia of government, there were the countless thousands of riffraff, drunks, lunatics, and failures that flocked to Screamersville just west of town. Whores cleaned up and so did the bartenders who cheerfully served rotgut. A few wags dubbed it “Disease Depot.”

But on this day, every church, civic group, and musical consortium flocked to the train station or lined the avenue by which Jefferson Davis would make his jubilant progress to the Spotswood Hotel. Living at the hub of activity was a mixed blessing to Henley. Josiah Gorgas, Chief of the Ordnance Bureau, told Henley he hoped that he would press forward the needs of the department at every conceivable opportunity to the president. Henley liked Gorgas but he distrusted every department head, civilian or military, hovering over the budget, such as it was, like so many flies at a picnic.

Whatever thought Henley nursed about fostering good relations
with Davis and his cabinet dashed out of his head when Kate Vickers appeared in the doorway of his makeshift office.