High Hearts (23 page)

He handed Colonel Windsor a note.

Jeffrey folded up the note and placed it in his leather bag. If he’d put it into his wet, bloody pocket, the ink would have run. He returned to his branch of hell.

A battery under Lieutenant Robert F. Beckham joined Stuart. Convinced the enemy could be beaten here, Stuart sent a message to Colonel Jubal Early, whose column, the Sixth Brigade, Geneva and Mars saw. Stuart told Early they could rout the Federals. While Early came up, Stuart joined his battery to Beckham’s, and they pounded at the mauled Northerners.

Geneva, Nash, and Banjo watched the fireworks as did the others.

All of a sudden, the Federals broke. They turned and ran. Mars was immediately in the saddle.

“They’ll head back on Sudley Road. Pursue them, boys. Drive every last mother’s son of them out of Virginia.”

The men cheered, and even Nash gave an old-fashioned war whoop.

The batteries continued shelling until the cavalry came in range. They then stopped briefly. Geneva felt as though she were sweeping under an invisible victory ribbon. The Federal guns were smashed. A detachment of Confederate cavalry was already on its way to appropriate the guns for the Confederacy. Geneva felt the earth tremble underneath her as hundreds, maybe thousands, of horsemen thundered forward.

The Federals did not retreat in good order. They had no reserve troops to cover for them. As she pressed Gallant forward, she saw men throwing down their rifles as if they were burning hot. She waited to see what Mars would do. Would he cut down these stragglers? He didn’t.

One Federal did take aim as the cavalry swept by him. Banjo, his eye like an eagle’s, dropped him with his pistol.

Even at a distance, the panic was confusing to Geneva. When her regiment had charged the Fourteenth New York, she had a clear objective. She knew to go in, take the shock, cut them down, frighten them if possible, and then retire in good order to the woods. But this was different. She saw a twenty-pounder pulled by six horses. There were no riders on the team, and the cannon rolled this way and that, crushing everybody and everything in its way. She saw one man shoot another in the back because he wasn’t crossing a ford quickly enough.

As her regiment, sowing even more panic in its wake, headed toward Sudley Springs, the task of pursuing became impossible. The regiment itself was engulfed in the Yankee panic. Federals actually clung to Geneva’s boot, begging to be taken prisoner. They were terrified that the cavalry would cut them down from behind.

Disgusted, Mars and Stuart rounded up hundreds of prisoners. Banjo took a detachment of fifty men to secure supplies left behind by the panicked men. One well-born aide managed in all the confusion to lodge a complaint to Stuart that Banjo Cracker was only a private and a man of low station at that. Enraged, Stuart promoted Banjo to a first lieutenant, as one rank above that of the complainer.

Geneva worked until darkness. By now the smell of rotting flesh, gunpowder, and fear was nauseating. In the twilight she passed a dead Yankee whose twisted body looked so gruesome and silly like a tumbler playing for the delight of
children. On his cap a neatly printed logo read “Richmond or Hell.” He got hell.

Geneva and her regiment finally reached camp under a full moon, although the light was sometimes obscured by the still burning fires and smoke. Mars posted a guard around the prisoners, who fell asleep in their tracks.

After tending to Gallant, Geneva sat down and drank the cold dregs of the morning’s coffee. She’d eaten nothing since breakfast and was now too exhausted to even look for food.

Nash unsaddled his horse; he moved very slowly, as if he were under water. The clouds spiraling into the moonlight looked to him like dust thickened with blood and souls. He knew he would never feel the same after today. He’d never have the same warm hope for people. Even animals behave better than humans; animals only kill when they’re hungry.

Geneva touched his cheek. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

He looked at his wife. When they married she was perhaps two inches taller. She seemed even taller tonight. “Geneva, we have written sorrow on the bosom of the earth.”

Geneva saw the sadness in his eyes. She knew Nash did not feel the glory she felt. She was born to this. When she heard the great cannon tear the skies this morning at six, it was as if a new Geneva was born. Nash was born for other things. Could she accept that in him? And could he accept this in her?

He touched her cheek in return and silently walked away with his blanket draped over his shoulder.

Mars clapped his hand on Geneva’s shoulder.

She jumped.

“I’m promoting you to sergeant. You’re in charge of these men now.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“You can fight, Jimmy.”

“If you lead, Major, I’ll fight anybody, anywhere, anytime.”

A mighty cloud of blackbirds swirled through the sky and blotted out the moon, an eclipse of death. As blackbirds rarely fly at night, the beating of their massed wings and their cawing was eerie. Knowing their destination, Geneva shuddered.

Banjo also had his head to the sky. “I’ve seen things on this day I’ll never forget.”

Geneva nodded. As though pushed by a giant hand, she found herself sitting on the ground by Banjo’s boot. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “Jimmy,” he said, “Yankees are like potatoes, better underground.”

At 3:12
A.M.
, Lutie was jolted out of bed by a frantic knocking at her door. Because she slept alone in the big house at night, there was no one downstairs to get the door.

“Miz Lutie! Miz Lutie!”

“I’ll be right there.” Fearing the worst, but hoping for the best, Lutie wrapped her ancient bathrobe around her. Although it was dark, she hurried down the grand, curving stairway in her bare feet. She opened the fan door. Jenkins, a ten-year-old black boy owned by the Taliaferro family, stood there.

“Come in, Jenkins.”

“I can’t, ma’am. I got more messages to run.”

“Come into the kitchen for a moment. At least let me give you some bread.”

Jenkins followed her into the great kitchen. Lutie lit a straw from the warm ashes of Ernie’s cooking fire and touched it to the wick of a huge tallow candle. The greasy smell filled the room. She gave Jenkins an entire loaf of Ernie’s raisin bread and nervously opened the telegram.

“Thank God!” Lutie sighed deeply. “I was afraid it might be bad news about Sumner. Do you know who won?”

“Yes, Miz Lutie, we kicked their ass bad up at Manassas Junction. Come over the wire. Whole Yankee army running like dogs for Washington!”

Impulsively she hugged the child. “Praise be to God! Perhaps they’ll give up on invading us, and we can make peace.”

Lutie, holding the tallow candle, escorted the child to the door. “Here, sugar, take this.” She reached into a satinwood basket where she kept her pin money. She handed Jenkins an entire dollar bill.

As the boy rode down the long driveway, Lutie raced through the moonlight to Sin-Sin’s house. She burst through the bright red door and found Sin-Sin sound asleep in her feather bed. That feather bed was a bone of contention with Ernie June who slept on a straw pallet. If Sin-Sin could sleep in such luxury, then Ernie June certainly had a feather bed coming, too.

“Get up! We’ve won a great victory at Manassas.”

“Can’t we celebrate in the mornin’?” Groggy, Sin-Sin stayed under the covers.

“We must get to the train station. Dr. Windsor is bringing in the wounded.”

Sin-Sin shot out of bed. “Why din’ you say so?” Sin-Sin threw a shawl around her nightdress and hurried outside in the moonlight with Lutie on her heels. Sin-Sin pulled the rope on the large bronze bell by the kitchen. On a clear, sharp night like tonight, it would be heard for miles around. One by one the cabin doors opened, and servants, some stumbling, some running, others wailing in bewilderment, made their way to the back porch. An owl hooted in disgust and flew over the top of the big house.

Di-Peachy, curled in Geneva’s bed, heard the bass command. In an instant she opened the door and nearly fell over Big Muler, who was struggling to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’s here every night, ma’am, so no harm kin come to you.” His voice was gravelly with sleep.

“I think we’d better get up the hill.” She’d worry about him later.

Everyone at Chatfield huddled around the kitchen porch. Ernie, dripping with importance because Lutie had already whispered the news to her, displayed her power by putting up coffee in the winter kitchen next to the bell, so everyone could see her. Boyd was banished to the summer kitchen, some distance from the big house, where she was doing the same. Ernie was preparing to feed everyone at Chatfield before they began their unusual toil.

The children bedeviled Sin-Sin for the news. She shook her head no while pacing on the porch, her arms folded across her bosom. Lutie looked ten years younger with her hair down and the soft light on her face. The Chalfonte beauty was still there, despite the plumpness and the years.

“Dear people of Chatfield”—Lutie’s voice quavered slightly—“I have just received a telegram. Our troops have won a most glorious victory.”

The children whooped. Most of the adults did, too, but a few remained less enthusiastic.

“Is Marse Sumner alive?” Timothy put it bluntly and received a sound smack from his mother.

Lutie’s voice shook. “I am sorry to say I have received no information on my son.”

Boyd said soothingly, “Take more than a Yankee army to ketch Mr. Sumner.”

“The reason I have disturbed your sleep is that the telegram came from Colonel Jeffrey Windsor. I am to meet him at the train station to receive the wounded. I shall need everyone’s help. Braxton, dispatch messengers to Hazel Whitmore, Rise Rives, Miranda Lawrence, and Lillian Philpotts. Tell them to meet me at the station and bring their bandages, medicines, bedding, and any clothes they can spare. We don’t know how many men will arrive.” She gave everyone instructions, then all left to make hasty preparations.

Lutie and Sin-Sin reached the station before the others. Braxton and Big Muler followed with the big wagon. To be on the safe side, Braxton hitched up a buckboard. Timothy drove while Di-Peachy kept the boy company. Thanks to the
moonlight, they stayed on the roads with no problem. They didn’t need coach lights or lanterns although Braxton prudently packed them. No sooner had they gotten into town at sunup than a light rain spattered on their heads.

Hazel and Judson Whitmore greeted them. The Whitmores had made arrangements to use the facilities at the local university on behalf of the Confederate troops. If need be, they could even use the lawn for the wounded. They left Charles Duval, a professor of chemistry, in charge of organizing help, then they rushed to the station.

Across from the small train station was the Delevan Hotel, called Mudwall by the older residents of Charlottesville because in their youth one entire side of the building had been a thick mud wall. Judson, in his wheelchair but commanding, woke up John Slingsby, the owner. Slingsby, called Grits because of his fondness for the dish, pulled on his pants over his worn nightshirt and started to work immediately.

Grits crossed the street and personally put Lutie’s bright red and gold gig into the stable. Braxton spoke with him, and they hauled out large water troughs and lined the side of the street with them. The horses would be needing plenty of water if the day proved as hot as yesterday. Braxton figured that wagons would line up to cart away the wounded to the university or to Stone Tavern on Market Street or to other houses who would agree to take the wounded.

Jennifer Fitzgerald arrived, her court in tow. She, too, had the presence of mind to bring a buckboard. By 7
A.M.
, Rise Rives, Miranda Lawrence, and Lillian Philpotts had arrived.

They waited for the train and waited and waited. By now it was raining buckets. Jennifer, never at her best when bored, flounced around asking who hunted with black and tans. She received no satisfactory answer. Lutie overheard and kept her mouth shut, which was difficult.

Finally, under the pretext of offering Lutie some honey cakes, Jennifer said, “I saw people hunting with black and tans last night. I think it’s you, Lutie. You keep a pack of those hounds where none of us will ever see them and then tell ghost stories.”

“I’m not the horsewoman my daughter is.”

“You can handle a team like a driver.” Jennifer offered the compliment as an argument.

“No one would hunt at night, Jennifer, and the scent’s no
good in such hot conditions. Hounds would get thrown off by nature’s richness, if you will.”

“And if I don’t believe that, you’ll tell me that the cubs are half-grown and no one would hunt now anyway.”

“I expect you saw the Harkaway Hunt.”

Jennifer laughed. “Really, Lutie, really. I am not given to superstitions or imaginary companions.”

Sin-Sin cleared her throat. Lutie’s face flushed. “The only people who ever hunted with black and tans were the Harkaways. That’s the truth.”

“You have great respect for the truth since you so rarely use it.” Jennifer laughed.

Lutie, enraged, grabbed her driving gloves, which she’d jammed in her skirt pocket, and hit Jennifer full across the face. That stopped traffic. “You offend my honor, Mrs. Fitzgerald. If I were a man, I would call you out. Being a woman, I’ll have to be content with the invitation.”