"I'd better ask the questions, ma'am. May I present First Lieutenant Pell?" Ambrose entered the parlor. The old man huddled beside his wife.
"I saw him preening in the hall mirror. I'd have suspected you were South Carolina boys even if you hadn't announced it."
"And just who are you, if you please?"
"Mrs. Augusta Barclay of Spotsylvania County. My farm is near Fredericksburg, if that's any of your concern."
He began, "But this is Fairfax —"
"My. A student of geography as well as bad manners." She leaned over to pluck packets from the underskirt. "I haven't time to waste with you, Captain. I fear there are horsemen not far behind me. Yankees." Plop went another packet on the chair, and plop.
"The widow Barclay's been to Washington City," the farmer's wife said. "A secret errand of mercy for —"
"Sssh, don't say no more," the old farmer interrupted.
"Oh, why not?" snapped the young woman, whipping out packets. "Perhaps if he knows what we're doing, he'll help us instead of standing there like some stately pine, waiting to be admired."
The blue eyes shot Charles a look so scornful it left him unable to speak. To the old couple, the young widow continued: "I was wrong to arrange a rendezvous this close to the Potomac. I feared someone was on to the scheme when they took ten minutes to examine my papers at the bridge. One sergeant's eyes kept boring holes in my skirt — and I'm not that attractive."
"I want to know what's in the packets," Charles said.
"Quinine. Plentiful in Washington, but scarce in Richmond. It will be desperately needed once the real fighting starts. I'm not the only woman doing this work, Captain. Far from it."
Spurs jingling, Ambrose crossed the parlor. The widow Barclay's prettiness and patriotism pleased Charles but not her sharp tongue. He was reminded of Billy Hazard's sister Virgilia.
He had been a mite rough on the old couple. To the woman he said, "You may certainly help her if you wish." The woman lumbered past, knelt behind Augusta Barclay and put her head under the widow's outer skirt. Packets appeared twice as fast.
Addressing Charles, and still with sarcasm, the young woman said, "Generous of you. I was serious when I said there might be pursuit."
"Damn if there isn't," Ambrose exclaimed from the parlor's north window. Tense, he motioned for Charles, who peered over his shoulder and saw dust rising behind a hill a mile or two down the road.
"Must be Yanks, riding that fast." He let the curtain fall. To the women struggling with the packets he said, "I regret my sharp words, ladies —" He hoped the widow Barclay understood he meant that for her; a slight lift of her head said perhaps. "I don't want this commendable work undone, but it will be if we don't move quickly."
"Just a few more," the fat woman panted. Packets flew right and left.
Charles signaled for the farmer to gather them, asking: "Where's the safest place to hide those?"
"Attic."
"Do it. Ambrose, go out and take that buggy into the trees. If you can't get back before those horsemen come into sight, stay put. You finished, Mrs. Barclay?"
She smoothed down her outside skirt as the farmer's wife loaded her husband's arms with packets. "It only takes two eyes to answer that, Captain."
"Kindly spare me the banter and go out to the woodshed in back. Get inside and don't utter a syllable. If that's possible." Surprisingly, she liked the sally and smiled.
The farmer tottered up the hall stairs. Outside, wheels creaked as Ambrose moved the buggy. Augusta Barclay hurried out.
Charles ran to the north window again. He saw the riders clearly now, approaching at a gallop. Half a dozen men, all wearing dark blue. Under his cadet gray jacket, sweat began to pour.
The farmer came down again. "Is there water in the kitchen?" Charles asked the woman.
"A bucket and a dipper."
"Fill the dipper and bring it here. Then both of you keep still."
He tossed his shako aside and moments later strolled out to the porch, shotgun hanging in the crook of his left arm, dipper in his right hand. He saw the riders react to the sight of him by drawing swords and side arms. The lieutenant in charge of the detail held up his hand.
The moment in which Charles could have been shot passed so quickly, it was over before he realized it. He leaned on one of the porch pillars, the beat of his heart pounding in his ears.
26
The horsemen spilled in from the road, raising dust that blew away on the breeze. The barrels of several army revolvers pointed at Charles's chest.
Red as an apple in the heat, the lieutenant walked his horse to the porch. Charles drank from the dipper, then let his hand fall laconically. He pressed his right sleeve against his ribs to hide a tremor. He had seen the young Union officer before.
"Good day, sir," the lieutenant said. His voice broke into a squeak as he spoke. Charles didn't laugh or smile. A nervous man — or one humiliated — often reacted without thinking.
"Good day," he answered with a pleasant nod. His gaze drifted from face to face. Four of the Yanks were barely old enough to use razors. Two refused to meet his eye; they would be no threat.
By waiting, Charles forced the first identification: "Second Lieutenant Prevo, Georgetown Mounted Dragoons, Department of Washington, at your service."
"Captain Main, Wade Hampton Legion. Your servant."
"May I inquire, sir, what a rebel officer is doing so near the Potomac?"
"I don't care for the term rebel, sir, but the answer to your question is simple. My nigra bond servant, whom I brought all the way from South Carolina, ran away day before yesterday — heading for the blessed freedoms of Yankee territory, I presume. I have now concluded I can't catch him. Trail's gone cold."
The lieutenant indicated the two tethered horses. "You didn't undertake the pursuit by yourself, I see."
"My first lieutenant is inside, napping." Where the devil had he met this green youngster?
"You say your nigger slave ran away —?"
"These rebs got all the luxuries, don't they, Lieutenant?" said a toothy corporal with a huge dragoon pistol. Bad eyes on that one, and a side arm that could blast Charles to pieces. Had to watch him.
Charles's tactic was to ignore the corporal and say to the officer, "Yes, and I'm goddamn angry about it."
The corporal persisted. "That's what the war's all about, ain't it? You boys don't want to lose your boot polishers or them nigger gals you can fuck anytime you —"
The lieutenant started to reprimand the noncom. Before he could, Charles flung the dipper in the dirt. "Lieutenant Prevo, if you'll ask your man to step down, I'll reply to that remark in a way he'll understand." He stared at the corporal while reaching across to his saber hilt. It would be stupid to bluff his way into a fight. But if they smelled fear and dismounted and spread out, Mrs. Barclay was a goner.
"Not necessary, sir," Prevo said. "My corporal will keep his mouth shut." The toothy noncom grumbled, glaring at Charles.
The Yank officer relaxed somewhat. "I confess I'm not entirely unsympathetic to your feelings, Captain. I hail from Maryland. My brother had two slaves on his farm there, and they've run away, too. When this militia unit was mustered, about a third of the boys refused to take the loyalty oath and resigned. I was tempted. Since I didn't, I must carry out my duty." Like a weathervane in a gale, his mood swung again. "But I can't escape a feeling we've encountered one another before."
"Not in Maryland." His memory suddenly made the connection. "West Point?"
"By God that's it. You were —?"