The wagon creaked away into the hot dusk, and Ambrose and Charles went to the sutler's to get drunk. After four rounds, Ambrose insisted on buying copies of The Richmond Songster, one of many such compilations being sold throughout the army. Charles put the songbook in his pocket and noticed a black smear on his thumbs. Damp ink. Everything was speed and opportunism these days.
A harsh surprise awaited them in their tent. Toby had disappeared, taking his master's best boots and many personal effects. Furious, Ambrose went straight to legion headquarters, while Charles, on a hunch, rode to the Tiger encampment not far away.
Sure enough, the prince's pavilion was gone, and so were his servants.
"Bet you my pay for the year that Toby and that pair left together," he said to Ambrose later.
"Absolutely! The Belgies can pretend Toby's their nigra and sneak him right across the Potomac into Old Abe's lap. The colonel granted me permission to leave and try to recover my property. But he said I needed your permission, too." His look said Charles had better not withhold it.
Charles sank down on his bed, unbuttoning his shirt. The death, the thefts, the waiting — all of it depressed him. He didn't believe Toby could be found — wasn't even sure the recovery attempt should be made — but he wanted a change of scene.
"Hell, I'll go with you if I can."
"By God, Charlie, you're a real white man."
"I'll speak to the colonel first thing tomorrow," he promised, anxious to sleep and forget.
"I don't object to your undertaking to assist Pell," Hampton said next morning, "provided your other subaltern and your first sergeant can handle drills."
"Easily, sir — though I wouldn't want to be away if we might be called up for an engagement."
"I don't know when we'll fight, or if we will," Hampton replied with uncharacteristic choler. "No one tells me anything. If you ride north, you'll be closer to the Yankees than I am — perhaps you'll see some action. Have Captain Barker write a pass and be back as soon as you can."
Fatigue shadows ringed Hampton's eyes, Charles noticed as he left. Handling a regiment all day and attending Richmond levees every night took a toll.
He and Ambrose set out at eight o'clock. Charles had donned the dress shako he seldom wore and took his shotgun, the light cavalry saber, and rations for two days. Sport frisked through the cool morning. The gelding was rested and healthy; the legion had an abundance of dry corn and plenty of pasturage near the encampment.
Charles had never thought himself capable of loving anyone or anything deeply, but he was developing a strong and unexpected liking for the quirky little gray. He knew it when he used drinking money to buy molasses to mix with Sport's feed; molasses gave a horse extra energy. He knew it when he spent an hour rubbing down the gray with a folded piece of the softest blanket he could find; fifteen minutes would have sufficed. He knew it when he devoted free time to currying and brushing the horse and trimming his mane. He knew it especially when a careless noncom put Sport in with the troop's bay mares at feeding time. A fight broke out, and Charles dashed among the snorting horses to lead the gray to safety. He cursed out the noncom, then lectured him on the importance of feeding like with like, never mixing mares and geldings.
The air today was mild and breezy, too sweet for there to be war anywhere. They inquired about the fugitives at hamlets and farms, and found the trail easy to follow. Several patrols demanded to see their passes, and Charles insisted they stop often to water the horses; an animal needed twelve gallons daily, minimum, in the summer. Charles made sure Sport stood in the shade, with hooves in water to help prevent cracking. The gray seemed nearly ready to speak when, after teasing motions toward his pocket, Charles would finally pull out the salt block and let Sport nibble and lick contentedly.
On they rode, the Blue Ridge and the sundown on their left. When Ambrose began his monotone version of "Young Lochinvar," Charles joined in with enthusiasm.
Next morning they crossed into Fairfax County, drawing closer to Old Bory's base at Manassas Junction, a small depot stop of no intrinsic value but considerable strategic significance; there, the Manassas Gap rail line came in from the Shenandoah to meet the Orange and Alexandria line. The trail had simply run out. They met no one who had seen two white men and a black answering the descriptions; there were just too many glens, woods, windy little roads, and hiding places up here near Linkumland.
About two, Charles said, "No use going on. We've lost them."
Ambrose sighed. "Damned if I like to admit it, but I think you're right." He squinted into the glare. "What do you say to a stop at that farm up by the bend? My canteen's empty."
"All right, but then we turn around. I thought I saw a flash of blue on that ridge a minute ago." He didn't know how close they were to the Yankee lines and couldn't have marked their position if it had been given to him. Reliable maps didn't exist.
They rode the last quarter mile to the neat white house with a big green wood behind. Fine fields spread on the north side.
Charles slowed Sport to a walk. "Look sharp, Ambrose. There's another visitor here ahead of us."
He bobbed his head toward the horse and buggy tied to an elm shading the rear of the house. As they turned into the front door-yard and dismounted, Charles thought a window curtain stirred. His neck began to itch.
He tethered Sport and carried his shotgun up to the porch, spurs clinking in the summer stillness. He knocked. Waited. Heard movement inside; muffled voices.
"Stay to one side and keep that piece ready," he whispered. Ambrose slid up by the wall, hands on his shotgun, cheeks popping with sweat. Charles pounded the door.
"What the devil you mean, makin' such racket?" said the poorly dressed old farmer who answered. He crowded into the opening as if to hide whatever the shadows behind him contained.
"Beg your pardon, sir," Charles said, keeping his temper. "Captain Main, Wade Hampton Legion. First Lieutenant Pell and I are searching for a fugitive Negro and two white men, Belgians, who may have passed here on their way to Washington."
"What makes you think so? This road takes you to Benning's Bridge, but there's plenty of others close by."
Warier each second, Charles said, "I fail to understand your lack of civility, sir. Whose side are you on?"
"Yours. But I got chores waitin'." He stepped back to shut the door.
Charles rammed his shoulder against it. The old man fell back, exclaiming. A woman uttered a little piping scream out of all proportion to her size. An elderly person with the shape and bulk of a small whale, she lumbered into the parlor entrance to block Charles's view. He was too tall.
Terrified, the woman said, "We're caught, Miz Barclay."
"We shouldn't have tried to keep him out. Unless it's McDowell in disguise, he's one of our own."
The soft, tart words of the second speaker startled and confused Charles for a moment. She sounded like a Virginian, but what he saw of the young woman was decidedly suspicious. Her outer skirt was hoisted to reveal a second one, crinoline-stiffened and divided into small pockets, each of which bulged slightly. On a chair he saw four oilskin packets tied with string. All at once it dawned, and he almost laughed. He had never met a smuggler, let alone an attractive one.
"Captain Charles Main, ma'am. Of —"
"The Wade Hampton Legion. You have a loud voice, Captain. Are you trying to bring the Yankees down on us?"
Saying it, she smiled, but without friendliness. He had trouble knowing what to make of her. Her clothing wasn't poor, but it was plain and wrinkled from travel. She was about his age and four or five inches shorter, with wide hips, a full bosom, blue eyes, and blond curls; a young woman who managed to look both robust and pretty as hell. For a few seconds he felt light-hearted as a boy. Then he remembered his duty.