High Hearts (44 page)

As the sun edged over the rolling horizon, Stuart’s men rode toward the Hanover Courthouse five miles east. When roads narrowed, they passed in twos. The rest of the time they stayed four abreast.

Sam Wells remarked on the enemy. “Fitz-John Porter is at Mechanicsville, or so we’ve heard.”

Private Parker, who lived in these parts and was therefore very valuable to the expedition, replied, “If he is, then his outposts will be along the Virginia Central Railroad toward the north. I mean, if he has any sense, that’s where his outposts will be.”

“Bluebirds!” Banjo shouted, pointing to the crest of a hill. They hovered on the rim, wheeled, and disappeared. Hanover Courthouse was within sight.

At the crest of a wooded knoll, Stuart halted his column.
He called Colonel Fitz Lee forward and instructed him to take his rear guard and swing right to flank the Federals, cutting them off further down Courthouse Road. Satisfied that would do it, the rest of the men turned south a mile past Hanover Courthouse, riding past Taliaferro’s Mill and Erron Church to Hawes’ Shop near Totopotomy Creek, bloated with the recent rains.

“This road gets right evil.” Banjo squinted ahead.

Geneva noticed that the road dwindled into a narrow ravine, the sides studded with pine and laurel. If infantry was in there, they’d be blown to bits in a matter of minutes.

A disappointed Fitz Lee soon rejoined the column. He’d bogged down in swampland and hadn’t cut off the small force of Federal cavalry.

Mars turned in the saddle. “You know, those boys—”

A shout interrupted him.

“Sabers!”

Geneva drew her saber, the rattle tinkling in her ears. No one uttered a word.

Lieutenant Robins called to his advance guard. “Prepare to meet an attack!”

Mars’s moustache twitched upward on the left. “Goddammit, I hate it when I can’t see.”

He did see Rooney Lee quickly send out flanking parties on both sides, but in this terrain they were useless.

The lead squadron, under Captain S.A. Swann, cantered forward. The column behind them moved up. “Close ranks!” an officer in the front shouted. The men kept their rows as though a center axle ran underneath each team of four. If the lead squadron broke, then the next row would take the attack, and so on down the line until the rear guard was called into action.

Shouts, pistol reports, and the wild neighing of horses made Geneva’s heart race like an engine. The Yankees retreated without a fight.

“Dammit to hell!” Mars cursed. “Those boys broke. No dance for us.”

Captain Swann chased the fleeing Yankees one mile down the road and then sounded recall. The road was too narrow ahead; maybe that easy victory was bait to reel them in.

The column rode forward to Old Church two miles away.
They knew there’d be trouble there because the Federals ran in that direction.

“Nobody’s here.” Banjo held his hands, palms upward, as he scanned the river crossing. Totopotomy Creek, a natural defensive barrier, surged on its way, no rifle pits, redoubts, or abatis on its banks.

“They’re up in the air.” Mars wiped his lips with his sleeve. “I think McClellan’s putting his marbles in the center and paying little attention to his right. Let’s find out how far his line extends.” He rode down his line. “Dress up, dress up there. No reason to get raggedy.”

The Confederates trotted toward Old Church. So far, so good. Geneva’s senses were razor-sharp.

“Battle form!” Again the call came down the line.

“I knew they’d be back.” Banjo nonchalantly lit a cigar. “No reason to let a few Yankees get in the way of a good smoke.”

Immediately ahead, dust swirled up in the road. The front of the Confederate column blasted into the Yankee cavalry, which was waiting for them four abreast. Geneva strained to hear.

“Move up!” Mars ordered.

Geneva squeezed Gallant, and he picked up his trot. Now she could see. The Federals broke and ran, but not for long. They must have had some Old Army officers with them because they wheeled about, re-formed into fours, and galloped back toward the Confederates. The Confederate squadron attacked them again. Steel clinked against steel. The combat was hand to hand and in tight quarters. There was precious little room to maneuver.

“We’re next,” Mars called. “Move up! Move up! Steady!”

Again the Yankees broke and ran. Geneva saw a scattering of bodies on the road. A few riderless horses plunged back into the retreating Federals, adding to their confusion. She could plainly see the sergeant’s stripes on one Yankee as he held his bleeding arm and ran off the road. The Northerners turned and re-formed one more time. She heard their captain curse them and bellow, “Cut those secessionist sons of bitches to pieces!”

“Steady.” Mars trotted forward, his saber resting on his right shoulder. He lifted his saber and hollered, “Let’s go, boys!”

Geneva whooped. Banjo emitted a piercing rebel yell, sending shivers down her spine. The thunder of hooves pounded in her head. She stood in her stirrups, racing forward as far as she could, saber poised at a forty-five-degree angle to her body so she could slash downward. With a terrific slam, her line hit the Yankees and was hit in return. She couldn’t see for the dust. Gallant, a dependable rock, kept his head. The Yankee coming toward her didn’t have as much success with his animal, and he pitched off under the metal hooves, more dangerous than the saber. A puff of dust blew up before her, then subsided. She saw Mars stick a Yankee between the ribs, withdraw his saber, and lash out at a ferocious man coming straight at him. Another swirl of dust obscured him.

“Get out of here!” someone shouted in a nasal, Northern accent.

Amidst the screaming and choking dust, she felt more room around her, and she pressed a lathered Gallant forward. The Yankees scooted away and were about ten yards ahead except for those on the ground.

“Come on, get ’em!” Mars, his face streaked with dust and sweat, appeared amidst the confusion. He looked terrifying and beautiful. Banjo, on his left, shot forward, his saber level to the ground and straight out, riding for all he was worth to catch the rear of the Yankee line. Geneva overtook him, and they rode side by side, but the bluecoats pulled further and further away. Recall sounded.

“Slow down, Jimmy boy.”

“Shit!”

“Don’t be ugly.” He sheathed his saber.

“Your cigar went out,” she casually told him.

Men were picking up discarded guidons. The few Yankees that lost their mounts and couldn’t get away surrendered.

A lifeless body was put on a horse.

“Who’s that?” Geneva asked Sam Wells, slightly ahead of her as they returned to form in fours once again.

“Latane, five bullet holes in him,” the trooper answered.

Mars rode up and down his line. Everyone was accounted for and in one piece.

The few Yankees who surrendered were put on their horses and tucked in at the rear of the line between the artillery and the last of the rear guard.

* * *

After 4
P.M.
, the column halted at the house of Dr. Brocken-borough. General Stuart dismounted, removed his hat, and went inside. Mercer Hackett and Heroes Van Borcke, formerly of the Third Dragoon Guards of the Royal Prussian Army, dismounted also. Geneva knew who Mercer was, but as yet she had not introduced herself. She didn’t know why she hung back, but the more she pretended to Di-Peachy that it didn’t bother her that Mercer was a white man, the less she wanted to meet him.

Heroes hypnotized Geneva. The giant wore boots like Casimer Harkaway, huge leather ones that, if unfurled, would cover the knee and a portion of the thigh. Heroes rolled the boot top over once. A heavy dragoon sword, longer than a light cavalry sword, dangled at his right side. He sported expensive gauntlets, a campaign hat with a luxurious ostrich feather, a wide red officer’s sash, and a fierce, waxed moustache that nearly reached his ears. She tried to imagine what the fighting would have been like if the Yankees were dragoons, encased in shiny breastplates and metal helmets, riding thick-boned horses. Just bumping into a heavy cavalryman like that would send an opponent flying off the road. But what they gained in weight, they lost in maneuverability. Light cavalry was exactly where she belonged.

“Wore a pink coat, white breeches, and those top boots, did he?” Banjo unceremoniously pointed to the Prussian.

“It worked. Stuart noticed him.”

“He’d be hard to hide,” Private Parker chimed in.

“Colonel,” Geneva asked Mars, “do they look like that in Prussia?”

“Some do.” Mars rested his hands on his saddle pommel. “Some units have long horsehair manes dyed in regimental colors flowing from their helmet halfway down their back. You should see it when they ride. Male Valkyries!”

“What’s that?” Banjo inquired.

“One of twelve female warriors from Valhalla, the Teutonic heaven. When a warrior dies on the battlefield, a Valkyrie rides down to bring him to the hall of heroes where he feasts with Odin.”

“Do they fight, too?” Geneva let a hint of a grin flicker across her face.

“The fiercest warriors in Teutonic mythology are the
Valkyries. They ride naked from the waist up except for breastplates.”

Parker’s ears picked up. “Say, think we might enlist a few?”

“Just for you, Parker,” Mars replied.

Heroes removed the body of Latane from his horse and swiftly carried him into the nicely kept house. Stuart emerged, remounted, and the column moved on. The ladies and servants of the Brockenborough place came out on the porch to wave to the men as they passed by.

“Where are we headed now?” Banjo asked, after another sixteen miles of fighting and marching.

“Tunstall Station,” Parker said. “About eight miles from here. That’s where we’re going unless the general changes direction.”

“The Yankees have to know we’re here.” Geneva unbuttoned the top of her tunic, revealing the shirt underneath. The sun was blazing.

Mars called back, “They know we’re here. The question is, Where are they?”

From a slight distance it sounded like Chinese firecrackers.

Mars fished his gold filigree watch from his back pocket. The chain, fastened to his belt, was long enough so he could bring the timepiece around his waist. The sun fried him. “Someday someone will figure out how to make an accurate, light watch, and that man will make a fortune.”

“Sure ’nuff,” Banjo agreed, “but you’d lose a valuable weapon. Twirl that thing over your head, Colonel, and you could decapitate offenders.”

“Parker, up front,” Mars ordered the young private. “They’re ready for you to scout.” Parker tipped his hat to Banjo, Geneva, and Sam and cantered forward.

“That’s the life,” said Geneva, “being a scout, jumping ditches and fences, a life of adventure.”

“If we fight around Charlottesville, you can be our scout,” Mars promised.

“Think we will?” Geneva’s high voice climbed higher.

“No one knows where armies will collide, especially when commanded by peculiar generals like that Yankee Hooker, for instance. But I think Charlottesville is safe. No important railroad junction or precious material will lure them that way. Course, if they want horses, you might get raiding parties.”

Geneva thought of Yankees riding up the long driveway. What would her mother do? Well, it couldn’t happen.

“Firing stopped,” Banjo laconically noted.

“Think we’ll turn back, Colonel?” Sam Wells asked. There was an army between him and Richmond. Not that he minded.

“We know where their right stops. But if we turn back, they’ll be waiting for us at every crossroads along the way. If they aren’t that alert, you’d think they’d have the sense to burn the bridge at the Totopotomy and bag us there,” Mars replied.

“This is most interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this situation.” Banjo grinned mischievously.

“Tunstall’s Station is McClellan’s main supply line, according to Parker.”

“There ought to be infantry there.” Sam removed his cap and ran his fingers through his sweating head, hair sticking out between his fingers. “What’s to prevent the Yankees from sending troops down the York River Railroad to intercept us there?”

“Nothing,” Mars replied. “Except everything we’ve seen indicates these boys are sloppy as hell.”

“Isn’t General Stuart’s father-in-law commanding?” Banjo enjoyed personal gossip.

“If he is, he’s doing a piss poor job of it.”

“It’s this heat.” Banjo appeared philosophical. “Those fellows can’t stand the heat. That’s why they wear blue coats. Makes them dream of ice and snow. They’d be better off if they’d go home, poor things.”

Mars called ahead and put Sam Wells in charge. Sam cut out and moved ahead of the unit. Banjo and Geneva, side by side, rode behind him. The column spread out longer than its formerly tight half-mile span. News came up from the rear that the firing was from advance Federal units who withdrew after harmlessly discharging their rifles.

Geneva turned and looked behind her. A fantastic red ball seemed to be advancing upon her or the earth. Sunset and the long, summer, Virginia dusk would soon envelop them in pink light.

“First firefly!” She pointed out the blinking light to Banjo.

“Just think if we could light up our rear ends like that. Never get lost in the dark.”

“Banjo, who knows what you’d attract?” Sam jibed him.

A commotion rumbled up from the rear.

“What in the hell are they doing back there?” Sam twisted in his saddle.

“Well, they’ve got that big rifle and the howitzer. Guess they have a right to commotion. This road has seen better days,” Geneva reminded him.

“Captain, may I go back?” Banjo said.

“Yes, but then come forward.” Sam thought this would give him relief from Jimmy and Banjo’s incessant chatter. If a fence rail was down, one would point it out to the other. If a red-winged blackbird flew overhead, Jimmy would relate some superstition about it. A squirrel brought forth a torrent of culinary advice from Banjo.

Banjo soon reported back to Sam. “A party of about twenty-five Federals plus a captain and one assistant surgeon surrendered to Lieutenant Colonel Martin. They think we’re advance guard for a large body of infantry. Ignorance is bliss.”