Traveller (14 page)

He waited a few moments. Then he turned away, came into my box and began stroking my nose and talking to me. “That jest leaves you and me now, Traveller,” he says. “Jest the two of us. But I reckon you're all I'm going to be needing from now on. You and me, we'll make out jest fine.”

“Is that right, sir,” asks Dave, “the enemy's gone?”

“Yes, they're gone all right,” answers Marse Robert. ‘Peared like he was leaving, but then he spoke to me again, very low in my ear. “Oh, Traveller,” he said, “by rights they should have been destroyed! They should have been
destroyed
!”

August 19, 1862. It is now seven weeks since General Lee, in the remarkable campaign known as the Seven Days, drove General McClellan's army back from the eastern outskirts of Richmond, by one engagement after another forcing them into retreat through the marshy, wooded country bordering the Chickahominy and finally into ignominious refuge under the protection of Federal gunboats along the northern shore of the James River. Had it not been for faulty staff-work and uncertain coordination of the conglomerate and as yet inexperienced Army of Northern Virginia, the Federals might well have been reduced to surrender. As matters stand, the hitherto unregarded General Lee has won the adulation of every officer and man under his command and the respect and confidence of the entire Confederacy. Now—so is the common feeling throughout the South—there is every prospect of such a victory as will bring about recognition by the European powers and a negotiated peace acknowledging independence
.

Yet the cost in casualties, to a nation with less than half the manpower of its enemy, has been fearful. During the Seven Days' campaign, the flower of the South has perished. In particular the loss of junior officers—the fulcrum of any army and the reservoir of future senior command—has been grave. Such losses cannot be made good and the Confederacy cannot afford their continuance. As with material resources, so with manpower; already, with courage and determination still high, the South has begun to feel the pinch
.

General Lee is in no position to follow up or exploit his brilliant victory. He is like a man swimming against the sea. As fast as he breasts the waves, they close again. McClellan has evacuated his army to the area of Fredericksburg. The Federal forces so skillfully defeated by Stonewall Jackson in his Valley campaign of June have been reorganized under the command of General Pope on the upper Rappahannock. Here they have been joined by reinforcements under General Burnside
.

There has been no time for the full period of rest, refit and reinforcement that General Lee would have wished for his men. The weaker side cannot afford to wait. He must take the offensive—if possible, threaten Washington, for Richmond is never so safe as when its defenders are absent. If General Pope—a bombastic and truculent character, regarded by Lee with contempt—is to be suppressed, it must be quickly, before McClellan's army can join him. Piecemeal and secretly, the Army of Northern Virginia has been transported from Richmond to the area of Gordonsville in the Piedmont, near the eastern foot of the Blue Ridge. Until two days ago Pope was known to be lying some twenty miles to the north, beyond the Rapidan. Now, however, there is news that he has taken alarm and begun a retreat northward towards the Rappahannock. General Lee, accompanied by his subordinate General Longstreet, has ridden to the top of Clark's Mountain to see for himself
.

Gets cold these midwinter nights, Tom, don't it? Been pretty cold today, particular late afternoon. It's fine in here, though. I guess you got to've been out cold nights in the open ‘fore you can really ‘preciate a warm stable like this ‘un. That's it—rake round the straw close up agin me and settle yourself in comfortable.

What's that? A new horse? You seed a new mare come with Marse Robert's son today? Tom, that was no new mare. My shoes and ears, give me the shock of my life! For a moment I thought I seed a ghost! That's Lucy Long, Tom—her as first soldiered with me four year ago and more. No, well, ‘course you wouldn't know. Soon's ever I seed her coming round the corner with young Marse Rob, I recognized the blaze on her forehead and her white hind legs. ‘Made me start all over, but then she nickered to me, jest like she used to, so I knowed it was Lucy all right. I ‘membered her at once—that light brown color and the square build of her. Well, so I ought, after all we was through together.

‘Course, there was a time once't when I didn't like Lucy. ‘Twarn't no fault of her'n. I was jest plain mean, that was what it come down to: jealousy—that, and knowing well ‘nuff why Marse Robert had felt ‘bliged to get her. Yeah, well, I'll tell you all ‘bout it sometime. But you couldn't dislike Lucy for long. For one thing, she's a shade older'n me, with real nice manners. Quiet kinda horse—no bad habits at all. Not half the trouble I can be. We got the same fast walk, but Lucy never cared for a trot. She liked an easy pace and a short canter. I got to admit she was what Marse Robert needed at the time. And it was all my fault—all my fault! Worst thing I ever done in my life. I hate to think of it even now.

Jine-the-Cavalry got her for Marse Robert, you know. ‘Far's I can remember, I think Ajax must have come ‘bout the same time. He came from somewhere down near Andy's, I believe. Ajax never suited Marse Robert, though—too tall. Well, he
is
kinda big and awkward, Tom, don't you reckon? And not all that much vigor, neither. Got him a reg'lar easy life, hasn't it? Warn't many bangs for Ajax—he never come much under fire, and he's sure comfortable ‘nuff here.

What was it I was going to tell you, though? Oh, ‘bout when me and Hero was up on Clark's Mountain, they calls it. It was a fine, clear morning in late summer—pretty hot day coming on. I knowed something was fixing to happen, jest from the general feel of the whole place. The mood of the soldiers—all strung up, y'know.

This was a different kinda country; we'd come up on the railroad, and it was—oh, yeah, a month and more'n a month—after the Blue men had run away off the hill in the fog and our headquarters had gone back to ol' Miss Dabbs's. No more swamps; jest nice, clear streams. Open country; no underbrush and hardly no forests—not as I seed. The roads was pretty good, too—more certain for my hooves. It was all long, low ridges, with fields of standing grass and crops, and here and there a high hill. The real mountains was far off. You could see ‘em black agin the evening sky.

Well, that morning—getting on for mid-morning, ‘twas—I was cropping some fresh grass, nice and easy, in the meadow near a farm where Marse Robert had set up headquarters, when up comes Old Pete and Hero. I was glad to see Hero, cause to tell you the truth I was still missing Brown-Roan, though ‘course there was plenty of other horses round headquarters. Marse Robert and Old Pete, they got to talking together, leaning on the rail by the meadow; but I knowed they wouldn't be long, ‘cause Old Pete had left Hero's saddle on. Sure ‘nuff, the two of ‘em, and Marse Taylor and a few more, we-all set off for a nice ride. We must'a gone maybe six or seven mile when we come to this here Clark's Mountain, and up we went on the open grass. Some of our soldiers was round, and they saluted Marse Robert. When we got to the top, out came everybody's two bottles up to their eyes. I was used to that by now.

“What're we all a-doing, d'you figure?” I asked Hero.

“Looking for Blue men, ‘course,” he says. “What else?”

Now you gotta know, Tom, that ever since that morning when Richmond died, I'd s'posed we was through with the Blue men. Don't ask me why I'd thought that, with soldiers and tents and guns all around, but I had. Well, ‘cause I'd wanted to, I reckon. Y'see, Marse Robert had told Dave that the Blue men was gone right ‘nuff, and I'd s'posed that meant for good. But Hero, he knowed better. When he told me that, I had a horrible sinking feeling in my gut. Again? I thought. Bangs, battles, horses squealing and bullets smacking up the dust? I was going to ask him how he knowed, but then I reckoned that wouldn't look right for Marse Robert's horse. So I jest turned my head and looked out over the country from up top there.

You could see a long ways. Jest below us, at the foot of the hill, was a real pretty river, all open, shining and glittering in the sunshine. Beyond that, on our left, ran a railroad, but I couldn't see no smoke, and no trains. And then, far off, after a bit I could make out some of them cloths on sticks fluttering in the distance, and white things moving.

“See?” says Hero. “See their wagons out there? They're retreating. They've got wind of us. Keep watching them camps down yonder.”

Hero always understood so much more'n me—well, in them days he did—that I jest waited, puzzling. Everything seemed real quiet in the midday sun. The generals sat watching. I dropped my head for a mouthful or two of grass. Marse Robert, he didn't make no objection, so I jest went on browsing. Other horses began to do the same. I wished there was some water around.

The wagons vanished into the far distance; and then, nearer, but still a long ways off, beyond the river, I seed the camps. They was all alive with little clouds of dust—Blue men on the march. Like Hero said, they was going away from us, and as they met up into columns the clouds of dust jined together in long trails. They drifted away in the bright haze of the afternoon sun. They got thinner and thinner and finally disappeared. Still no one spoke.

At last Marse Robert said to Old Pete something ‘bout he'd never thought they'd turn their backs on us so soon. We-all went down off'n the hill, an' I had the drink I'd been wanting. Marse Robert never overlooked things like that, no matter how much he had on his mind. Well, like I said, it was always him and me, Tom, y'see.

Next thing I remember is very late that same night—almost morning. The moon was waning—jest a little light, but ‘nuff for us. Our Army was fording that river I'd seed from the top of the hill; I could see the hill behind us, agin the night sky.

We was going after the Blue men—I knowed that. I remember how I come a-splashing up the far bank, and Marse Robert reined me in and waited to watch the men go past—boots and boots, and muskets a-sticking up every which way, and the cloths on sticks going by, and the fellas a-laughing and joking like they was sure of theirselves. Yes, they was in good spirits, rightly—blamed if'n I knowed why.

Myself, I was feeling bad. What Hero'd told me had sunk in and given me a shock. I didn't want no more battles—I hadn't reckoned on that. Jest thinking ‘bout what I remembered made me feel bad ‘nuff. Maybe the Blue men would keep on running away, I thought. Yeah, and maybe they wouldn't. I knowed the bangs couldn't hurt Marse Robert, but if you'd ever heared jest one bang, Tom, you'd know how I felt all the same. The bangs had driven Brown-Roan blind, and they'd as good as killed Richmond. I felt sure o' that. Without the bangs he wouldn't have got that there colic or whatever ‘twas as finished him off.

Our headquarters was advancing along with Cap-in-His-Eyes an' his ‘uns, but we didn't go far that day—maybe twelve mile—'fore we pitched tents for the night by the railroad we'd seed from the high hill the day before. We spent the next two-three days working along, on and off the bank of a pretty big river—bigger'n the one we'd crossed in the dark. There was no fighting—none that I seed, anyways—but bangs in the distance all day; and that was ‘nuff to scare me, though I did all I could to keep Marse Robert from seeing anything was the matter.

I'll tell you one thing, Tom, as I remember jest ‘bout that time. We was a-marching near the bank of that river, along a pretty good road, when all of a sudden we come round a bend and there was a man's body hanging from the branch of a tree, right ‘side the road. The bend was so sharp that I ‘most ran agin it, and I nearly shied. “Easy, Traveller, easy!” But I figured that jest then even Marse Robert warn't all that easy. I felt him start in the saddle. Then he calls out to some man ‘side the road there. “What's this, Sergeant?” he says.

“Spy, sir,” answers the fella, saluting. “Executed by court-martial this morning, sir.”

The man's head was covered and his hands was roped behind him. He warn't dressed like a soldier—jest ordinary—but his boots was gone—well, with our Army boots never stayed long on dead bodies, you know, Tom. There was jest ‘nuff wind to swing him gentle-like. Marse Robert nodded to the sergeant and we rode on. But a ways further we stopped off—us and Marse Taylor and Cap-in-His-Eyes and a few more—and back down the road I could see the man hanging there, while company after company rounded the bend and come up agin him jest like we had.

It rained torrents that night, and I recollect, next day, all the creeks and ditches boiling brown and chattering bubbles. Still no fighting, jest bangs all day long and nothin' to be seed. Come night-time, an officer rode up to headquarters on a sweating horse pretty near done up. After they'd fed and watered the horse and rubbed him down, he was picketed ‘longside me and Little Sorrel. He told us how him and his man had been sent back by General Stuart, who was playin' hell with the Blue men, he said, miles away acrost the river. ‘Peared Jine-the-Cavalry and his fellas had been trying to burn a railroad bridge behind the Blue men, but the heavy rain had put an end to that. This horse, Rollo, kept on talking mighty big ‘bout how fine it was to be out behind the Blue men with Jine-the-Cavalry. He said it was the greatest life in the world for a horse, and then he was laying it on that Skylark was a personal friend o' his, and the real reason his man had been sent back twenty-five mile to Marse Robert was ‘cause he hisself was reckoned to be jest about the best horse in the whole durned outfit.

“Any officer would ‘a done,” he said, “but not any horse.”