Traveller (9 page)

Worst of all, General McClellan, having landed a Federal army of more than 90,000 men on the southeastern tip of the Virginia Peninsula lying between the York and the James Rivers, has advanced sixty miles to the very outskirts of Richmond. Despite a brilliant diversionary campaign by Stonewall Jackson in the Shen-andoah Valley, the Confederate capital seems about to fall to McClellan. Two days ago, the Confederate army defending the city, commanded by General Joseph E. Johnston, launched a counterattack upon McClellan—the so-called battle of Seven Pines. Yesterday General Robert E. Lee, chafing and frustrated in his anomalous post as “conductor of military operations under the direction of the President,” himself rode out of Richmond to view what he could of the battlefield. Arrived there, he was shortly joined by none other than President Davis. Under Federal fire, as darkness fell the two saw the mismanaged Confederate attack peter out into a drawn battle, in which General Johnston himself was seriously wounded
.

General Lee, now aged fifty-five, has been appointed by the President to the command of the army. His reputation is not particularly high, and little enthusiasm attends the announcement. Lee is regarded by Johnston's lieutenants as a nonentity and the nearest thing to a mere staff officer. Richmond newspapers disparage him. Since last August he has conducted a small and unsuccessful campaign in western Virginia, and then spent four months of the winter strengthening the coastal defenses of South Carolina. Now, at no notice at all, the fate of Richmond itself has been laid upon his shoulders
.

What use is a general in the field without a steady and reliable horse? About as much use as a shepherd without a dog
.

That day—that day I was telling you ‘bout, Tom—that's what they call “coming under fire.” That was the first day I ever come under fire. I was scairt out o' my wits—dancing ‘bout all over the place—and I don't reckon that there President's horse was no better, neither. Sometimes it seems like I've reg'lar lived under fire from that day to this. I mean, if it's not bangs right now, then it's
going
to be bangs, or else it
has
been bangs an' you're still shaking. And if it's not that, why then you can go to sleep and jest
dream
‘bout bangs instead. Only there's been no bangs now—no more ground shaking—for a long time—oh, two summers. Marse Robert, he put a stop to the bangs, you see, in the end. Well, I'll tell you all ‘bout that some other time. For now, I'll— Hey, stop batting my tail around, and jest listen, will ya? I've had ‘nuff folks messing with my tail.

Where was I? Oh, yeah: first thing that happened after that day was we-all moved out of the city. I was right glad bout that. As I told you, I'd never liked living in the city—no grass, lots of smoke in the air and Marse Robert ‘parently too busy to ride. But now that was all going to change. Marse Robert hisself rode me out to this here farm place, a mile or so out of town, on the same road where we'd talked to the President. We lived there best part of a month, I figure. The house was very plain and trim, jest like t'other used to be when we was down south. When we got there, I remember, Perry and Meredith and the other fella—a white fella, Bryan he was called—they was all bustling round, getting the place ready and talking to the farm lady—Miss Dabbs, they called her. Us three horses was given a nice stable, warm an' dry. There was a plenty of other horses around, course, but the General's horses had their own stable.

It needed to be warm an' dry, too. My ears and tail, didn't it rain ‘bout then? You never seed nothing like it. Rained like it was never going to stop. My chief recollection of them days at old Miss Dabbs's is the everlasting rain. You'd ‘a drowned for sure. Do you know, Tom, I more'n once seed horses mired knee-deep? True.

The funny thing was Marse Robert, he seemed real pleased. More it rained, better he liked it. “Aha, Traveller,” he says to me one day, jest as we was setting out in a real downpour, “this'll keep ‘em quiet! Couldn't be better, could it?” My oats! I thought; I don't see how it could be much worse. Still, if it pleased Marse Robert, that was all right with me; he must have his reasons. ‘Nother day, Marse Taylor looks up at the sky and says to him, “Strikes me, sir, Little Mac's going to need his mac today,” and then they both bust out laughing like to split. They was real happy. Blest if I was.

And nor was the soldiers. You should have heared ‘em swearing and cussing. ‘Cause Marse Robert, he had ‘em on the same as before digging! All in the rain—I can see ‘em still—the long, long lines of men, soaking wet, cussing up a storm and the shovels shining in the rain and the pits half-full of water, plop-plop-plop as fast they was dug.

“Hey, Gin'ral!” A fella calls out to Marse Robert one day, real sassy, “Hey, Gin'ral! We-all didn't jine up to do nigger work! We-all jined up to fight!”

“We've got to protect Richmond first, my man,” answers Marse Robert. “Then we'll fight, sure ‘nuff.”

I didn't rightly know what he meant, or why we had to protect Richmond. Of all the cussed, ornery horses I ever met, Richmond was jest about the worst. I really got to hate him, and he took care I did, too. I don't know what had been done to him when he was a colt, but that horse hated jest ‘bout everybody and everything. He was a big bay stallion, and one way or ‘nother he was never tired of saying so. He was full of hisself, Richmond was. “You ball-less gray brute,” he said to me one day, “do you reckon Marse Robert's going to get any use out o'
you?
Why, he only took you to do your master a favor.” He'd never use my right name, neither. He always called me Greenbrier, jest ‘cause he knowed I didn't like it. “Oh, here comes
Greenbrier”
he'd say to Brown-Roan when I come in streaming wet from a long day on the trenches with Marse Robert.
“He
wouldn't know what to do with a mare if he had a field-full to choose from!” He hated all other horses, and if he had to go near any he didn't know, he'd commence to squealing. As time went on, he got to know sure ‘nuff that Marse Robert preferred me to hisself, and that made him still madder. I never used to answer him back; I didn't have to, after all. I'd jest toss my head and eat my hay.

Brown-Roan was another matter. I liked Brown-Roan. He was what's knowed as “a nice, quiet horse.” He never did no one any harm in his life. Trouble was the poor fella was jest
too
quiet. He hadn't got the keep-going or the spunk you needed to be one of Marse Robert's horses. There's awful big demands on a general's horse, Tom, you see; it's not like reg'lar work. You might go thirty mile in a day, and then, jest when you figure you're going into stable, the general suddenly needs another five mile or more out of you. You've got to
love
your man to be up to that—you've got to feel what
he
feels. You've got to be
part
of your man. Poor Brown-Roan was never that.

“Oh, I wish I'd ‘a never jined up with Marse Robert,” he says to me one evening when he'd come in soaked through. “I warn't made for this!”

“Why,” I says to him—one of our soldiers was rubbing him down at the time—”you've got to look at it different. You couldn't have a better horseman for a master. And you're a general's horse. That ought to make you mighty proud.”

“I know it makes me tired,” says he, stamping his nearside rear hoof. “I believe I've strained a muscle.” He was forever believing he'd strained a muscle.

You couldn't dislike Brown-Roan. He was always pleasant in his temper, and he was no quitter, neither. ‘Best he could, he gave what he had, but he jest hadn't got ‘nuff; the shame was no one—not even Marse Robert—found out in time. I only wish they had.

But Marse Robert was terrible busy in them days! He had a whole lot on his mind. I haven't given you no idea, Tom. Very often we'd be out all day, up and down them gun pits and trenches, and mostly in the rain. Even Marse Taylor told him one day that he figured he'd surely done ‘nuff, and he'd wear hisself out. “I can't ask those men to stand anything I won't stand myself,” he answered. “How can I expect them to keep working in that rain if'n they don't see me out there with ‘em?”

Sure ‘nuff, pretty soon I could see the soldiers was getting more chipper, and the reason was they was trustful of Marse Robert. He was forever praising them and telling them their work was the best he'd ever seed. He made ‘em dig like they was to bury a pack of horses, but he'd always remember to put in a joke or a good word. After a bit the grumbling stopped, and when we come round it'd be “Howdy, General!” or “Come and have a look at this, General!” Now and then someone'd say, “How's your horse today, General?” And he'd say, “Fine—couldn't want for a better.” ‘Course, for all I know he may have said that when he was on Richmond, too. Some of them fellas couldn't tell a dad-burn horse from a bucket. They was only young boys for the most part, you know, Tom—lot of ‘em younger'n the boys you can see round here now.

As the days went by, I gradually got to know most of the people who came to see the General. There was one afternoon in particular comes back to me now. It jest happened to be hot and sunny for a change, and I was hitched to the rails in front of the house when a young fella comes riding up on a real fine brown horse. Now this young fella, he was what you might call a sight to see. First of all, he'd strike anyone as an uncommon robust and vigorous kind of a man. He warn't tall out o' the ordinary, but he was powerful and broad-shouldered, and there was a kinda go and dash ‘bout him, so's you felt he'd be ready to jump his horse over the house if'n anyone dared him to. The way he was turned out, smart warn't no word for it. He had gold spurs on his boots. His hat was sorta looped up with a gold-colored brooch and there was a great, floating black plume stuck in it. His jacket was covered with gold braid and all the buttons was bright gold, too. His gloves, which looked new, came up to his elbows and he had a yellow silk sash tied round his waist. On ‘count of the day being hot, he'd throwed back his cape, and you could see it was all lined with some sorta very fine, shining-smooth stuff, bright scarlet. Although he had a huge, curling mustache and a big brown beard—biggest I ever seed, I reckon—the way he was acting he'd put anyone in mind not so much of a general as of some young fella riding out for a whole load of fun. I ‘member there was some red roses stuck in his horse's headstall, and as he come riding up he was a-singin'—jest out of high spirits, so I figured.

As for his horse, he made me feel like I was some kinda smalltime cob. And I'm telling you, Tom, I've never been in the habit of calling other horses real fine. That's what's knowed as self-respect. But this here horse, he had a very quiet, superior kind of a manner, like he knowed everyone knowed he was so good there was no need even to be mentioning it. All his movements was very refined and confident, an' he'd been groomed so he shone glossy all over. But his appearance warn't the end of it—not by a long piece. I sorta got an uncomfortable notion that he might jest be able to give me a considerable run over twenty mile. Anyone could see he had quality from his nose to his hooves.

I nickered to him and he nickered back. Nothing quarrelsome; nothing wrong there. His master dismounted, hitched him ‘longside and took a good look at me.

Jest then Perry come out of the house, toting a bucket of garbage.

“Hey!” calls out the young fella, putting his hand on my nose. “What horse is this?”

“Dat's Traveller, General, sah,” answers Perry. “General Lee's horse.”

“Howdy there, Traveller!” says he. “Why, you look too good to stand fretting on a rail. If you want to have a good time, jine the cavalry! Jine the cavalry!”

He'd plainly taken a liking to me, and I found myself feeling the same way ‘bout him. I even felt that if Marse Robert hadn't ‘a been my master, maybe it wouldn't be so bad belonging to this young fella. For one thing, you could tell at a glance that he was a natchral-born horseman like no one else in the world. He was the only other man ‘sides Marse Robert who ever made me feel that he
was
a kind of horse hisself. The way he looked me over, I figured he understood every last thing ‘bout me. And yet it didn't make me fidgety or nervous, on account of it was a sympathetic sort of understanding.

Jest then Marse Robert came out of the house hisself. The young fella saluted him and then they shook hands and walked away together, talking. Marse Robert ‘peared to regard him as an old friend.

“Who's your master?” I asked the brown horse.

Now you gotta know, Tom, that ever since I jined up with Marse Robert, I'd got into the habit of considering myself as good as any other horse, and better'n most; an' they mostly went along with this and acted according. But now I found myself being looked at by this horse—well, sort of judicious-like, as you might say.

“You don't know?” he says at length, and then he don't say no more, so in the end I had to say, “No, I don't.”

“That's General Jeb Stuart,” he says, “commanding the cavalry in this here Army.”

This made me feel so small I almost mouthed at him, like I was a colt again. I began to explain that Marse Robert and me hadn't been all that long in command. That was all right, though; this horse—Skylark, he told me he was called—had all the good manners of someone that knows his own worth.

“Glad to know you, Traveller,” he says. “Dare say you'll be seeing a good deal of us—that's to say, when we're around. There's quite a passel of us belonging to General Stuart—Star of the East's a particular friend of mine. And ‘sides him, there's Lady Margaret and Lily of the Valley. Only, we spend a lot of our time riding round behind the Blue men, you know, finding things out.”