Shortly after tattoo, duties took me on a course leading back across one of the low hills close by. There before me, unexpectedly, spread the whole of the Cumberland Landing encampment beneath a sky shedding light red as that from any furnace at Hazard's. Struck dumb with wonder, I knew at last what Lije means when he says, ever paraphrasing the Bible, that we have come here with an exceeding great army.
I saw below the hill rows of Sibley and A tents numerous as the tipis of some migratory tribe. I smelled the smoke of cooking fires, the homely stinks of the horses, the worse one of the sinks. I heard the music of war, which is more than song or bugling; it is a varied strain of courier horses and artillery; the lowing of our great cattle herd; the hails of pickets, the called-back countersigns; arms rattling and clicking as they are cleaned and stacked; and voices, always the voices, speaking of homes, families, sweethearts, in English, Gaelic, German, Hungarian, Swedish — the many and varied tongues of man. Two units of our "aeronautic corps," tethered for the night like beasts, rode the air above the holy of holies — the tents of those who lead us, surrounded by the chosen of the headquarters guard. Adding brightness were the flags — our own, whose integrity we fight for, and all the regimental banners, rainbows of them, handed to so many proud colonels by so many pretty girls at so many martial gatherings in so many cities and hamlets. All the arrayed flags I saw, and watched their hues all melting to the scarlet of the sundown, and then to gray.
There is much of this war I am not clever enough to understand — and much I do not like. Nor do I refer solely to physical hazards. But as I stood watching the May wind snap the flags and ripple the white tops of five hundred wagons in their park, I had a sense of our purpose. We are here engaged in something vast and noble, and things will change because of it, though exactly how, I have not the wisdom to predict. Overcome by this feeling of epochal time and place, I lingered a while and then moved on. I soon came upon a civilian seated on a stump completing a sketch of our boys at bayonet drill. He introduced himself as Mr. Homer, said he had observed the drill earlier and was touching up his artwork for inclusion in a composite picture he will later prepare for Harper's, which sent him here. He commented on the beauty and majesty of the evening scene. He said it made him think of the migration of the children of Israel.
But we are not many tribes bound to dwell peaceably in some promised land — we are many regiments bound to Richmond, to burn and kill and conquer. Behind the evening scene lay that truth, of which I said nothing to Mr. Homer as we walked down from the hill in companionable conversation.
The May woods smelled of rain. Charles, Ab, and a third scout, named Doan, sat motionless on their horses, hidden by trees, watching the detachment pass on the country road: twelve Yankees in double file, moving at a walk from the direction of Tunstall's Station toward Bottom's Bridge on the Chickahominy. Johnston had withdrawn to the other side of the river. Pessimists in the army were given to observing that at several points the watery demarcation line was little more than ten miles from Richmond.
The three scouts had been on the Yankee side of the Chickahominy for two days, with inconclusive results. They had checked, the Richmond & York rail line for signs of traffic, found none, doubled back, and were heading for the low, boggy land near the river when they heard the Yanks approaching. The scouts immediately hid in the woods.
A yellow butterfly darted in and out of a shaft of sun a yard to Charles's left. He had his .44 Colt drawn and resting on his right thigh and his shotgun within reach. He wanted a fight far less than he wanted to know the identity of these Yanks and their purpose on this road.
"Mounted rifles?" he whispered, having seen that the pair of officers in the lead wore orange pompons on their hats.
"Not likely 'cept for them two shoulder straps," Ab answered. "If any of the rest of them boys has been on horses more than two hours in their whole lives, I'm Varina Davis."
Doan leaned close. "Who the devil are they, then? Their uniforms are so blasted dirty, you can't tell."
Charles stroked his beard, which now reached to an inch below his chin. He connected mud to riverbanks and riverbanks to his friend Billy. "Bet anything they're engineers."
"Might be," Ab said. "Doin' what, though? Scoutin' the swamps?"
"Yes. For bridges. Places to cross. This may be the first sign of an advance."
Sport shied. Charles steadied the gray with his knees as a far part of his mind noted a queer whispery sound on the ground. He didn't ponder its meaning because Doan was talking.
"Can we shoot 'em up a little, Cap?"
"I wouldn't mind, but I suspect it would be smarter to ride on to the next road. The sooner we're over the river with news of this, the better."
"Rattler," Ab whispered, louder than he should have. The snake tried to slither past the forehoofs of his horse. The horse lanced back and whinnied, long and loud.
"That's done it," Charles said. He heard halloos on the road; someone yelling orders. The snake, more frightened than any of them, disappeared. "Let's ride out of here."
Ab had trouble with his spooked mount. "Come on, Cyclone, damn you —" Accustomed to gunfire but not reptiles, the scout horse reared and nearly unseated its rider. Charles grabbed the headstall, the forehoofs crashed down, and Ab kept his seat. But seconds had been lost, and the horse's erratic behavior had placed it in one of the shafts of light falling through the trees. Two Yankees at the tail of the column spotted Ab and aimed shoulder weapons.
Charles pulled his shotgun, discharged both barrels, then fired his revolver three times with his right hand. As the fusillade faded, the Yanks skedaddled, shouting, "Take cover."
"Come on, boys," Charles cried, leading the way. The Yanks would likely go to ground in the roadside ditches, giving the scouts a margin of time. He spurred Sport through the trees, not away from the road, as he had first intended, but toward it, up the side of an imaginary triangle that should bring them out well ahead of the detachment.
After some hard riding, he burst onto the road, Ab a length behind, Doan bringing up the rear. A glance behind showed him two Yanks standing in the road. The rest were hidden.
Both Yanks fired at the scouts. A ball flipped the side brim of Charles's hat. Another few seconds and they were safely out of range of the enemy muskets. Charles shoved his revolver into the holster and concentrated on riding. The road serpentined through woods where swampy pools glittered.
Another quarter of a mile and the sheets of water were solid on both sides. The trees appeared to rise from a surface fouled by green scum and speckled by tiny insects. A mile or less should bring them to the crossing.
The road behind them erupted in a single jet of flame and a fountain of shrapnel. Ab was so unnerved, he nearly galloped off into the water. Charles reined around, saw a smoking hole and Doan dragging himself from under his fallen horse.
Round-eyed, Doan made choking sounds. The horse was finished. The buried columbiad shell triggered by a friction primer had hurled lethal fragments into the animal's shoulder, chest, and crest.
Doan struggled free of the left stirrup. His horse slid tail first into the hole. Doan walked in a little circle like a confused child. Hidden by the looping curves of the road, the Yanks could be heard coming at a gallop.
Charles began to sweat. He urged Sport to the edge of the hole, but the gray shied from the dying horse, shuddering down there and blowing out its breath in great sad gasps. "Get up," Charles said, reaching behind to slap Sport's croup. Doan's confusion continued. Ab excitedly fired a shot up the road, though no Yankees were in sight. Suddenly Doan began crying. "I can't leave him." "He's a goner, and Company Q is a better post than some Yankee stockade." The first blue horseman came around the bend. Charles seized Doan's collar. "Get up, damn it, or we'll all be caught." Doan managed to climb onto the gray and take hold of Charles's waist. Charles pulled Sport's head around, and they broke for the Chickahominy. Ab stepped his horse to one side to let the gray go by, then emptied his side arm at the oncoming horsemen. He had little chance of a hit, but the firing slowed the pursuers.