High Hearts (49 page)

They bore left. The sound of cannon was faint now. “I heard that an entire block of Locust Alley has been given over to an army of scarlet women,” Geneva chatted.

Nash hoped this war would be over soon. The longer Geneva was in it, the worse she got. Nash pushed his horse up next to hers and growled under his breath, “You disgust me. You’re not here because you love me. You’re here because it suits you. If I left, you’d stay.”

She snarled back. “I joined because of you, and I’m staying because of you. Don’t say that you’d leave, because you
won’t. I used to look up to you, but you’re not the end all and be all. I’m out in the world now, and I’ve got a mind of my own.”

“That’s exactly why women should stay at home.”

Banjo, riding behind them, noticed the mounting anger. “You two are like oil and water today. Jimmy, go on up and ride point.” Point was first man, ahead of the advance unit.

“With pleasure!”

Furious, she trotted forward. She neared Ashland Station and saw low clouds. These were dust clouds. She wheeled, cantering back to the advance guard. Fitz Lee was up front today. A reward perhaps for his tenacious covering of their rear during the three days’ ride.

“Colonel Lee.” She saluted. “Jackson’s coming, sir. I saw the dust clouds. They should be at Ashland Station in time to bivouac for the night.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. You may return to duty.” What Fitz Lee didn’t tell her was that Jackson had been due at Ashland Station at sunup, not after sundown. The less the troops knew, the better. Why force them to bear the anxieties of a senior officer? If a man is captured, the less he knows, the less he can blurt out or unwittingly reveal to the enemy.

Mars knew as well as Fitz Lee that the plan was for Magruder to make a demonstration on the center of McClellan’s line. Stuart was to screen Jackson’s advance on the left, once that general arrived from the valley. The other generals, D.H. Hill, A.P. Hill, and Longstreet, together with Jackson, would roll up McClellan’s right. There’s an old saying, Between a rock and a hard place. McClellan was between a swamp and a swamp and two rivers. The York River could afford him naval assistance; the James River could not. The only thing about the terrain was that the Confederates had to move through it as well as the Federals. Nature didn’t take sides.

Before sunset a large, bright rainbow arched over the Confederate camps immediately outside Richmond. The raindrops sparkled like diamonds falling through sunshine.

“What do you think it means?” Banjo asked Nash.

“That we’re all dumb beasts on Noah’s ark.”

From far away a toy bugle sounded. An army of elves was blowing reveille. Riding point along the Virginia Central Railroad, Geneva and Nash heard it.

The pearl-gray haze grudgingly revealed an orchard here, a meadow there, a lean- to shed on a dewy meadow. Husband and wife were the two points on the railroad. Mars had fanned out scouts on every road and path. Their mission was to keep alert for Yankees.

At sunrise, the advance of Stuart’s column was at Merry Oaks Church on the Ashcake Road. One mile east of the road ran the Virginia Central Railroad.

The crackle of carbines told Geneva and Nash that they were lucky not to be riding down the railroad.

The cloudless sky shone a robin’s egg blue.

“I thought we’d hear cannon by now,” Geneva said.

“Maybe we’re too far behind the line. Here, chew some hickory ’bacca. Takes your mind off food.” Nash handed her a strip of hickory bark, thin and sappy.

They moved on. Two squadrons were about one mile behind them. If they ran into resistance, the squadron would be up quickly. If the resistance proved formidable, two squadrons ought to be able to hold them until the column hurried forward.

Ahead lay Taliaferro’s Mill, a familiar landmark that they had passed two weeks ago.

“Wish we had some of that ground fog back.” Geneva’s nerves sang a warning. A sudden hail of bullets tore into the trees and kicked up the dust around the horses’ feet. Nash wheeled and turned the squadrons with Geneva right behind him. “Bluebirds!” Nash sang out.

Von Borcke, riding halfway between Geneva and the squadron, signaled them to move up.

“They’re deployed along both sides of the road. They’ve dismounted.” Geneva reined in next to the Prussian.

“How many?”

“At least a squadron,” answered Nash. “They know we’re coming.”

Mars rode up. “Dismount, fan out, and press forward. By the time the column comes up, they’ll be pinned by fire. When they break for their horses, we can mop them up.”

Geneva crawled on her belly between Nash and Banjo. She fired her Henry rifle. “I’m not hitting the broad side of a barn.” Dust up her nose and in her mouth further irritated her.

“Little whizzing over their heads ought to keep those boys honest. Doesn’t matter if you hit any or not.” Banjo squeezed the trigger.

“There they go!” Geneva stood up.

“Keep firing!” Mars bellowed as he stood and motioned for the men to run forward.

The Yankees leapt on their horses and were quickly out of range, but the head squadron of the column now pursued them.

Geneva kicked at the soft earth.

Mars laughed at her. “Did I ever tell you about Epaminondas?”

“No.” She walked next to him as they returned to their horses.

“Up until the time of Epaminondas, whenever there was an armed dispute, men just ran at one another pell-mell and that was it. But Epaminondas developed the echelon, a column of men who would obey orders—turn right, turn left, go forward, fall back. When he did that, war became a science. You’re still at the pell-mell stage.” He clapped her on the back.

Henley Chatfield stayed at a respectful distance from General Robert E. Lee and President Davis. Headquarters for the army was the Dabbs’ House, on the north side of Nine Mile Road, perhaps one and one-half miles from Richmond. It was two o’clock.

Apart from Magruder’s continued demonstration at the center
of McClellan’s line, there seemed to be an ominous lack of activity on the enemy’s right.

Henley hovered in the background on the Mechanicsville Turnpike. The earthenworks protecting the permanent gun positions rose out of the ground like red shoulders of half-buried titans. On either side of the road, men stood at attention by their guns. Most artillerists acted like old men, fussing at ammunition boxes, checking and rechecking harness, testing spokes of the gun carriages for light artillery. Heavy artillery men, though equally fussy, had the starch burnt out of them. Standing at their posts since sunup, they felt wilted by two in the afternoon.

President Davis, a blackbird amidst gray catbirds, stood out among his entourage of staff officers. He wasn’t saying much.

On the other side of the road, General Robert E. Lee affected a glacial composure. He betrayed neither anger nor irritation, but his glance swept to his left. Nothing was happening.

General Magruder, for the second day, blasted away at McClellan’s center doing exactly as he was asked to do and in good form.

Henley wondered if it was usually this calm at field headquarters. Sharp rifle fire snapped him out of his stupor. Officers quickly stared through field glasses. A young major with prodigious brown sideburns offered a pair of field glasses to Henley, pointing to the rolling hills dotted here and there with woodlands.

“Over there, Colonel.”

Henley observed figures of blue in a ragged line falling back from Meadow Bridges. This bridge over the Chickahominy was one and one-half miles from the village of Mechanicsville toward the northwest. The road leading to it was roughly parallel to the Mechanicsville Turnpike. The red Confederate battle flag unfurled like a tongue in the slight breeze. “We’re coming on in columns of four,” said Henley.

“A.P. Hill,” the Major commented.

“I need a courier,” called out Charles Venable, an aide-decamp to General Lee.

“I can take that.” Henley stepped forward.

“Colonel Chatfield, I’m sure one of the boys will be up in an instant.”

“An instant might be too late.” Henley smiled.

The general noticed this exchange. “Never was a message in such capable hands.” A fleeting smile crossed his bearded face.

“Find A.P. Hill at the Meadow Bridges, Colonel, and wait for him to reply, if you will. Oh, Colonel Chatfield, take this extra paper and pencil. The officers have a habit of losing them.”

Henley carefully slid the material into the inside pocket of his tunic. He gracefully swung onto a big gelding and moved off toward the roar of the guns.

By the tollgate he had to decide whether to press on the Mechanicsville Turnpike or to cut over on one of the side roads and take his chances. If he pushed straight ahead, he’d smack into the Yankees eventually. If he rode off to the side. perhaps he could circle them without losing too much time.

The rich fragrance of June filled his nostrils. He asked the gelding for a strong canter.

The sounds of battle grew louder. His heart raced. He thought to himself that his daughter had faced this as had his son. For a second, Henley felt his heart might burst with fear, excitement, grief, and pride. Those emotions, for himself and his children mixed together, stirred in him as he swept closer to danger.

Cutting across a meadow, a swarm of milk-white butterflies appeared out of the grasses, hesitated, and then darted off, a parasol of winged happiness. Henley noticed them out of the corner of his eye. Immediately up ahead was Meadow Bridges Road. Once on a solid road, he urged the gelding to a gallop.

As he cut across a meadow, noise burst in his ears. He began passing over bodies. Ahead of him he could make out the last of a column of infantry moving up double-quick, discipline holding tight.

He clattered over the bridge, slowing the horse. He couldn’t charge by the column. He held a fast trot on the outside of the men. Most of them were looking at some point off in the distance. Their energies focused on what was about to happen. Each man seemed absorbed in his private world.

The horse snorted and reared. A disemboweled corpse frightened the animal. For the first time in his life, Henley smelled hot blood. The odor was strong. He’d smelled it when pigs and cattle were slaughtered, but he’d never smelled human
blood. It smelled sweeter. For a moment he felt woozy. He shook his head vigorously and passed along the moving brigade. A stern infantry colonel rode ahead of his men.

“Colonel.” Henley saluted smartly. “Where might I find A.P. Hill?”

“Up ahead, sir. The fat’s in the fire!”

A ball whistled overhead, exploding about fifteen feet away. The men didn’t flinch, but pressed on.

Henley now heard shouting and screaming. The fire grew hotter. His heart pounded so hard he thought his ribs would break.

The late afternoon heat caused moisture to glisten on bayonets, on foreheads, on the flanks of horses.

Ten minutes later under heavy fire, Henley found A.P. Hill, a handsome man in his late thirties who was eager to fight.

Henley dismounted, handing the reins of his lathered horse to a placid sergeant. “From General Lee, sir.” Henley saluted.

Hill read the note. A lieutenant handed him a small lap board. Hill wrote a reply, put it in an envelope, and gave it to Henley.

Henley saluted and ran toward his horse. He felt himself float up in the air and then crash to earth. A cannonball removed his right kneecap from his outstretched leg, passed between his legs, and blew off his left leg completely from the knee down. He was tossed in the air, then dumped like a doll.

“Colonel Chatfield! Colonel Chatfield!”

Henley pushed up on his elbows. He struggled to clear his mind.

“You are hit, sir.”

Another voice leaned over him. “I’ll take the message, Colonel.”

“Yes, of course.” He handed the envelope over. “Take the horse, too. Headstrong. Belongs to Mrs. Vickers.”

“Yes, sir.” The man vaulted into the saddle and spurred away.

“Stretcher!” the first voice shouted.

Henley saw his boot about eight yards from him. “That is my leg, is it not?”

“I’m afraid it is,” replied the sergeant who had held his horse.

He looked down and saw his legs. He trembled violently for an instant, then forced himself to be calm. “Sergeant, carry me to that tree, will you? And bring me a lapboard.”

“A stretcher will be here in a moment, Colonel.”

“I’ll bleed to death before they get me to the field hospital. Please do as I ask.”

Two men carried him to the tree. The hum of bullets darted around them.

“The lapboard, sir.”

“May I ask you, young man, to do me one last favor? Will you see that these letters reach my wife in Richmond?”

“I will do that, Colonel.”

“You are most kind.” Henley, wishing to make use of what energy he had remaining to him, pulled paper out of his tunic. He wrote quickly.

He smoothed out another piece of paper on the board.

Hands beginning to tremble, he wrote another letter.

He forced himself to write one last letter.

Ebbing fast, he handed these folded papers to the sergeant. He watched men hurry past him with slight interest. A locust sputtered for an instant. The boom of another cannon convinced the insect she couldn’t outsing that roar.

He thought of Chatfield and the seventeen-year locusts. Once every seventeen years, each tree, bush, and building would be crawling with the large green-black bugs, their eyes popping. Harmless, the cacophony of those millions of joined locust trills was enough to drive him crazy. Yet he looked forward to each seventeenth year. Next one would be in 1877. He had seen the seventeen-year locusts three times in his life. When he sold Di-Peachy’s mother, in ’43, translucent tan locust shells were everywhere. Like a dead soldier, a locust shell, the essence is elsewhere. “Did she love me? Did she ever really love me?” He felt pain, but no self-pity. Rousing himself for one last look at the world, he noticed the lacy pattern of the leaves, the handiwork of a master. “Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will—”