The Bloody Ground

  Swynyard took Nate's orders, read them quickly, then handed them back. "They're taking you away, Nate, and giving the Legion to Mister Maitland." He pronounced the newcomer's name bitterly.

  Maitland ignored Swynyard's tone. Instead he took out a silver case and selected a cigar that he lit with a lucifer before staring serenely into the wet trees where the men of Swynyard's Brigade were coaxing fires and hacking at hardtack with blunt bayonets. "I doubt we'll get more rain," he said airily.

  Starbuck read the orders again. He had commanded the Legion for just a few weeks and had been given that command by Major General Thomas Jackson himself, but now he was ordered to hand his men over to this popinjay from Richmond and take over an unknown battalion instead. "Why?" he asked, but no one answered. "Jesus!" he swore.

  "It ain't right!" Swynyard added his protest. "A regiment is a delicate thing, Colonel," he explained to Maitland. "It ain't just the Yankees who can tear a regiment to bits, but the regiment's own officers. The Legion's had a bad stretch, but Nate here was turning it into a decent unit again. It don't make sense to change commanders now."

  Maitland just shrugged. He was a handsome man who carried his privilege with a calm self-confidence. If he felt any sympathy for Starbuck, he did not betray it, but just let the protests flow past him.

  "It weakens my brigade!" Swynyard said angrily. "Why?"

  Maitland offered an airy gesture with his cigar. "I'm just the messenger, Colonel, just the messenger."

  For a second it looked as though Swynyard would swear at Maitland, then he conquered the impulse and shook his head instead. "Why?" he asked again. "This brigade fought magnificently! Doesn't anyone care what we did last week?"

  It seemed no one did, or no one for whom Maitland spoke. Swynyard momentarily closed his eyes, then looked at Starbuck. "I'm sorry, Nate, real sorry."

  "Son of a bitch," Starbuck said of no one in particular. The gall of the moment was particularly bitter, for he was a northerner who fought for the South and the Faulconer Legion was his home and his refuge. He looked down at the orders. "What's the Second Special Battalion?" he asked Maitland.

  For a second it looked as though Maitland would not answer, then the elegant Colonel gave Starbuck a half smile. "I believe they're more commonly known as the Yellowlegs," he said with his irritating tone of private amusement.

  Starbuck swore and raised his eyes to the clouded heavens. The Yellowlegs had gained their nickname and lost their reputation during the week of springtime battles in which Lee had finally turned McClellan's Northern army away from Richmond. Jackson's men had come from the Shenandoah Valley to help Lee and among them were the 66th Virginia, a newly raised regiment that saw its first and, so far, last action near Malvern Hill. They had run away, not from a hard fight, but from the very first shells that fell near them. Their nickname, the Yellowlegs, supposedly described the state of their pants after they pissed themselves in fright. "Pissed in unison," Truslow had told Starbuck on hearing the story, "and made a whole new swamp." Later it was determined that the regiment had been too hastily raised, too skimpily trained, and too badly officered, and so its rifles had been given to men willing to fight and its men taken away to be retrained. "So who's this Colonel Holborrow?" Swynyard asked Maitland.

  "He's in charge of training the punishment battalions," Maitland answered airily. "Wasn't there one at the battle last week?"

  "Hell, yes," Starbuck answered. "And it was no damn good." The punishment battalion at the previous week's battle had been a makeshift collection of defaulters, stragglers, and shirkers, and it had collapsed within minutes. "Hell!" Starbuck said. Now, it seemed, the 66th Virginia had been renamed as a punishment battalion, which suggested its morale was no higher than when it had first earned its nickname and, if the performance of the 1st Punishment Battalion was anything to go by, no better trained either.

  Lucifer put two mugs of coffee on the makeshift table and then, after a glance at Starbuck's distraught face, backed far enough away so that the three officers would think he was out of earshot.

  "This is madness!" Swynyard had found a new energy to protest. "Who sent the order?"

  "The War Department," Maitland answered, "of course."

  "Who in the War Department?" Swynyard insisted.

  "You can read the signature, can't you, Colonel?"

  The name on the order meant nothing to either Starbuck or to Swynyard, but Griffin Swynyard had a shrewd idea where the papers might have come from. "Is General Faulconer posted to the War Department?" he asked Maitland.

  Maitland took the cigar from his mouth, spat a speck of leaf from his lips, then shrugged as if the question were irrelevant. "General Faulconer's been made Deputy Secretary of War, yes," he answered. "Can't let a good man idle away just because Tom Jackson took a dislike to him."

  "And General Faulconer made you the Legion's commanding officer," Swynyard said.

  "I guess the General put in a good word for me," Maitland said. "The Legion's a Virginia regiment, Colonel, and the General reckoned it ought to be led by a Virginian. So here I am." He smiled at Swynyard.

  "Son of a bitch," Starbuck said. "Faulconer. I should have known." General Washington Faulconer had been the Legion's founder and the brigade's commander until Jackson had dismissed him for incompetence. Faulconer had fled the army convinced that Starbuck and Swynyard had been responsible for his disgrace, but instead of retreating to his country house and nursing his hurt, he had gone to Richmond and used his connection and wealth to gain a government appointment. Now, safe in the Confederate capital, Faulconer was reaching out to take his revenge on the two men he saw as his bitterest enemies. To Swynyard he had bequeathed a man of equal rank who would doubtless be an irritant, but Faulconer was trying to destroy Starbuck altogether.

  "He'd have doubtless liked to get rid of me too," Swynyard said. He had led Starbuck away from the tent and was walking him up and down out of Maitland's hearing. "But Faulconer knows who my cousin is." Swynyard's cousin was the editor of Richmond's Examiner, the most powerful of the five daily papers published in the Confederate capital, and that relationship had doubtless kept Washington Faulconer from trying to take an overt revenge on Swynyard, but Starbuck was much easier meat. "But there's something else, Nate," the Colonel went on, "another reason why Maitland took your job."

  "Because he's a Virginian," Starbuck said bitterly.

  Swynyard shook his head. "I guess Maitland shook your hand, yes?"

  "Yes. So?"

  "He was trying to see if you're a Freemason, Nate. And you're not."

  "What the hell difference does that make?"

  "A lot," Swynyard said bluntly. "There are a lot of Masons in this army, and in the Yankee army too, and Masons look after each other. Faulconer's a Mason, so's Maitland, and so am I, for that matter. The Masons have served me well enough, but they've done for you, Nate. The Yellowlegs!" The Colonel shook his head at the awful prospect.

  "I ain't good for much else, Colonel," Starbuck admitted.

  "What does that mean?" Swynyard demanded. Starbuck hesitated, ashamed to admit a truth, but needing to tell someone about his fears. "I reckon I'm turning into a coward. It was all I could do to cross that cornfield yesterday and I'm not sure I could do it again. I guess I've used up what courage I ever had. Maybe a battalion of cowards deserve a coward as their commander."

  Swynyard shook his head. "Courage isn't like a bottle of whiskey, Nate. You don't empty it once and for all. You're just learning your trade. The first time in battle a boy reckons he can beat anything, but after a while he learns that battle is bigger than all of us. Being brave isn't ignorance, it's overcoming knowledge, Nate. You'll be all right the next time. And remember, the enemy's in just the same funk that you are. It's only in the newspapers that we're all heroes. In truth we're most of us frightened witless." He paused and stirred the damp leaves with the toe of a boot from which the sole was gaping. "And the Yellowlegs ain't cowards," he went on. "Something went wrong with t
hem, that's for sure, but there'll be as many brave men there as in any other battalion. I reckon they just need good leadership."

  Starbuck grimaced, hoping Swynyard told the truth, but still unwilling to leave the Legion. "Maybe I should go and see Jackson’ he suggested.

  "To get those orders reversed?" Swynyard asked, then shook his head in answer. "Old Jack don't take kindly to men questioning orders, Nate, not unless the orders are plumb crazy, and that order ain't plumb crazy. It's perverse, that's all. Besides," he smiled, trying to cheer Starbuck, "you'll be back. Maitland won't survive."

  "If he wears all that gold into battle," Starbuck said vengefully, "the Yankees will pick him off in a second."

  "He won't be that foolish," Swynyard said, "but he won't stay long. I know the Maitlands, and they were always high kind of folk. Kept carriages, big houses, and acres of good land. They breed pretty daughters, haughty men, and fine horses, that's the Maitlands. Not unlike the Faulconers. And Mister Maitland hasn't come to us because he wants to command the Legion, Nate, he's come here because he has to tuck one proper battlefield command under his belt before he can become a general. Mister Maitland has his eye on his career, and he knows he has to spend a month with muddy boots if he's ever going to rise high. He'll go soon enough and you can come back."

  "Not if Faulconer has anything to do with it."

  "So prove him wrong," Swynyard said energetically. "Make the Yellowlegs into a fine regiment, Nate. If anyone can do it, you can."

  "I sometimes wonder why I fight for this damn country," Starbuck said bitterly.

  Swynyard smiled. "Nothing to stop you going back North, Nate, nothing at all. Just keep walking north and you'll get home. Is that what you want?"

  "Hell, no."

  "So prove Faulconer wrong. He reckons that a punishment battalion will be the end of you, so prove him wrong."

  "Damn his bastard soul," Starbuck said.

  "That's God's work, Nate. Yours is to fight. So do it well. And I'll put in a request that your men are sent to my brigade."

  "What chance is there of that?"

  "I'm a Mason, remember," Swynyard said with a grin, "and I've still got a favor or two to call in. We'll get you back among friends."

  Maitland stood up as the two ragged officers walked back to the tent. He had drunk one of the two cups of coffee and started on the second. "You'll introduce me to the Legion's officers, Starbuck?" he said.

  "I'll do that for you, Colonel," Starbuck said. He might resent this man displacing him, but he would not put difficulties in Maitland's way because the Legion would have to fight the Yankees whoever commanded them and Starbuck did not want their morale hurt more than was necessary. "I'll talk you up to them," he promised grudgingly.

  "But I don't think you should stay after that," Maitland suggested confidently. "No man can serve two masters, isn't that what the good book says? So the sooner you're gone, Starbuck, the better for the men."

  "Better for you, you mean," Starbuck said.

  "That, too," Maitland agreed calmly.

  Starbuck was losing the Legion and been consigned to a battalion of the damned, which meant he was being destroyed and would somehow have to survive.

  LUCIFER WAS NOT HAPPY. "Richmond," he told Starbuck soon after they had arrived in the city, "is not to my taste."

  "Then go away," Starbuck retorted grumpily.

  "I am considering it," Lucifer said. He was liable to pompousness when he perceived that his dignity was under assault, and that dignity was very easily offended. He was only a boy, fifteen at the very most, and he would have been small for his age even if he were two years younger, but he had crammed a lot of living into those few years and was possessed of a self-assurance that fascinated Starbuck quite as much as the mystery of the boy's past. Lucifer never spoke directly about that past, nor did Starbuck ask about it, for he had learned that every query merely prompted a different version. It was plain the boy was a contraband, an escaped slave, and Starbuck suspected Lucifer had been trying to reach the sanctuary of the North when he had been apprehended by Jackson's army at Manassas, but Lucifer's life before that moment, like his real name, remained all mystery, just as it was a mystery why he had elected to stay with Starbuck after his recapture.

  "He likes you, that's why," Sally Truslow told Starbuck. "He knows you'll give him plenty of rope and he's mischievous enough to want rope. Then one day he'll grow up and you won't ever see him again."

  Starbuck and Lucifer had walked from the rain-soaked battlefield to the railhead at Fredericksburg, then taken the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac Railroad to the capital. Starbuck's travel pass gave him admission to one of the passenger cars while Lucifer traveled in a boxcar with the other Negroes. The train had puffed and jerked and clanked and shuddered and thus crept south until, at dawn, Starbuck had been woken by the cry of a Richmond milkmaid. The Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac depot was in the heart of the city and the rails ran right down the center of Broad Street, and Starbuck found it a strange experience to see the familiar city through the soot-smutted window of a slow-moving railcar. Newspaper boys ran alongside the train offering copies of the Examiner or Sentinel, while on the sidewalk pedestrians edged past the carts and wagons that had been herded to the street's sides by the train's slow, clangorous passage. Starbuck stared bleary-eyed through the window, noticing gloomily how many doors were hung with black, how many women were in mourning, how many cripples begged on the sidewalk, and how many men had crepe armbands.

  Starbuck had convinced himself that he would not call on Sally. He told himself that she was no longer his woman. She had found a lover, Starbuck's good friend Patrick Lassan, a French cavalryman who was ostensibly observing the war on behalf of the French army but who really rode with Jeb Stuart. Starbuck told himself that Sally was no longer his business and he was still telling himself that truth when he knocked on the blue painted door beside the tailor's shop on the corner of Fourth and Grace. Sally had been glad to see him. She was already up, already busy, and she ordered her slaves to bring Starbuck a breakfast of coffee and bread. "It's bad bread," she said, "but there ain't any good bread. Nor any good coffee, for that matter. Hell, I'm using acorns, wheat berries, and chicory for coffee. Nothing's good now except the cigars and business." Sally's business was to be Madame Royall, Richmond's most expensive medium, who offered expensive seances to reunite the living with the dead. "It's all tricks," she said scornfully, "I just tell 'em what they want to hear and the more I charge the more they believe me." She shrugged. "Dull business, Nate, but better than working nights." She meant the brothel on Marshall Street where Sally had first discovered her business acumen.

  "I can imagine."

  "I doubt that you can, Nate," Sally said good humoredly, then gave him a long searching look. "You're thin. Look worn out like a mule. That a bullet cut on your face?"

  "Tree splinter."

  "The girls will love it, Nate. Not that you ever needed help in that department, but tell them it's a bullet and they'll all want to pet you. And you got a slave too?"

  "I pay him when I can," Starbuck said defensively.

  "Then you're a damn fool," she said fondly. "Bad as Delaney." Belvedere Delaney was a lawyer officially attached to the War Department, but his duties left him plenty of time for running his various businesses, which included Richmond's most exclusive brothel as well as the crepe-curtained premises where Sally manufactured conversations with the dead. Sally had first met Delaney by being one of his employees in the brothel, and not just any employee, but the most sought-after girl in Richmond. She was Captain Truslow's only child and had been raised to hard work and small reward on Truslow's hill farm, but she had fled the farm and embraced the city, a transition made easy by her striking looks. Sally had a deceptively soft face, a mass of golden hair, and a quick spirit to liven her attractiveness, but there was far more to Sally Truslow than nature's accident of beauty. She knew how to work and knew how to profit from that work, and t
hese days she was Delaney's business partner rather than his employee. "Delaney's a fool," she said tartly. "He lets his house boy twist him round his little finger, and you're probably just as bad. So let's have a look at your boy. I want to know you're being looked after." And thus Lucifer was summoned up to the parlor where he quickly charmed Sally who recognized in the boy someone who, like herself, was working up from rock bottom. "But why are you carrying a gun, boy?" she demanded of Lucifer. "'Cos I'm in the army, miss."

  "The hell you are. You get caught with a gun in this town, boy, and they'll skin your backside and then send you down the river. You're damn lucky to have survived this long. Take it off. Now."

  Lucifer, who had resisted every former effort to disarm him, meekly unbuckled the gunbelt. It was plain that Lucifer was awestruck by Sally, and he made not even the smallest complaint as she told him to hide the revolver in Starbuck's baggage and then dismissed him to the kitchen. "Tell them to feed you up," she said.

  "Yes, miss."

  "He's got white blood," Sally said when Lucifer had gone. 1 guess.

  "Hell, it's obvious." She poured herself more of the strange-tasting coffee, then listened as Starbuck told her why he was in Richmond. She spat derisively when Washington Faulconer's name was mentioned. "The city was full of rumor about why he'd left the army," she said, "but he rode right over the rumor. Arrived here bold as brass and just claimed Jackson was jealous of him. Jealous! But your General Jackson, Nate, he makes enemies like a louse makes itches and there are plenty of men here ready to sympathize with Faulconer. He got office soon enough. I guess you're right and the Masons looked after him. Delaney will know, he's a Mason. So what do you do now?'

  Starbuck shrugged. "I have to report to Camp Lee. To a Colonel Holborrow." He was not looking forward to the moment. He was unsure of his ability to lead the worst battalion in the South's army, and he already missed the companionship of the Legion.

  "I know Holborrow," Sally said, "not personally," she added hastily, "but he's pretty considerable in town." Starbuck was not surprised at her knowledge, for Sally kept an ear very close to the ground to snap up every trifle of gossip that she could turn into a mystical revelation in her seances. "He's got money," she went on, "God knows how, 'cos he wasn't nothing but a penitentiary governor in Georgia before the war. A prison man, right? Now he's in charge of training and equipping the replacements at Camp Lee, but he spends most of his time down in Screamersville."