North and South: The North and South Trilogy (86 page)

Wind whipped the grass, and dust and debris blew through the air for half an hour. But no rain fell. The storm passed by, leaving the troopers more disgruntled than ever. They could have pushed on, been in their bunks before taps.

Camp had been pitched in a level area beside a dry creek bed. A few cottonwoods lined the bank, and among these Bent had put down his blanket and built his fire. Normally any other officers would have shared the fire, but Charles knew better than to approach.

The lean-to stood on open ground about twenty feet from the cottonwood grove where Bent sat drinking, hidden by shadows as the night deepened. After two long drinks from his flask, he felt more relaxed. He savored the smell of firewood, the sounds of insects and of the men conversing softly. He drank again. His mind drifted into colorful visions of Alexander, the Mongol Khans, Bonaparte.

He had already excused his own behavior at the farm, placing the blame on other factors: A shortage of men. The unfortunate killing of the troopers sent for reinforcements. The hostility of his lieutenants.

Well, he’d eliminated one of the traitorous officers, and he’d soon get rid of the other. He imagined the effect on Orry Main when he heard that his relative had been cashiered.

Chuckling, Bent again raised the flask. The sound of voices at the Lantzman lean-to attracted his attention. He remained motionless in the concealment of the trees, watching.

“Why do I have to lie there when I can’t sleep, Mama? Let me walk a little while.”

Carrying the long Augustin musket, Mrs. Lantzman followed her daughter out of the lean-to. “All right, but don’t go far. And take this.”

“I don’t need it,” Martha retorted. “There’s no more danger. The Delaware scout said so.”

Cross-legged beside the dying fire, her older brother laughed and flung his arms wide. “With all these soldiers around, Martha wants to be defenseless.”

“Take it back!” She fisted her hand.

“Walk if you must, but let’s have no more of that kind of talk,” Mrs. Lantzman said, unsmiling. She planted the stock of the musket on the ground and watched her full-bosomed daughter walk through the rustling grass. She let Martha go three steps before she softly called:

“Not that way. You’ll disturb the captain.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

The girl changed direction, moving toward the perimeter of the cottonwoods rather than straight into them. She was grateful for her mother’s warning. She didn’t like the captain, with his coarse, fat face and his small eyes that watched her so closely. She knew the reason he watched her. She was old enough to be vaguely titillated by it, yet still young enough to be frightened.

Her new course took her past another small fire. There, the lieutenant—dashing, good-looking—sat with his shirt off. He was struggling to tie a clean bandage around a nasty cut in his shoulder. Martha paused to help him with the knot. He thanked her in that courtly Southern way of his. Thrilled, she went on.

Charles reclined on his elbows and kept track of her, almost like a watchful parent, until she faded into the darkness.

Elkanah Bent lay with his hand between his thighs, surprised at his sudden strong reaction. The Lantzman girl, whom he had been watching from the concealment of the cottonwoods, was a mere child.

Ah, but not above the waist, he thought, licking his lips.

It had been a long while since he had slept with a woman or even touched one. Naturally no officer dared lay a hand on one so young. But he still had an urge to speak to her. With luck, maybe he could even contrive to touch her.

The mere existence of that impulse proved things were once again moving in his favor. He lifted the flask, shook it, then drank until it was empty. Still quite timid, he lurched to his feet and slipped through the grove, away from the light of the campfires.

Following her mother’s instructions, Martha didn’t walk far, only to the creek bank on the other side of the cottonwoods. She was surprised at how much she could see by the light of the rising moon. She folded her arms across her breasts, tilted her head back, and sighed with contentment.

The night breeze soothed her, stirred a pleasant rustling in the grass. Softly, she began to hum “Old Folks at Home.” Then all at once she heard a noise in the grove. She whirled.

“Is someone there?”

“Only Captain Bent, my dear.”

He came lumbering from the trees, hatless and not very steady on his feet. Martha’s heart began to race. She called herself a ninny. Surely she had nothing to fear from an Army officer.

“I thought I heard movement out here,” he continued as he approached. “I’m glad to know it’s someone friendly.”

The false cordiality alarmed her. He smelled of whiskey mixed with sweat. With his back to the moon, he resembled a grotesque two-legged elephant. He moved closer.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yes. I must go back—”

“So soon? Please don’t. Not yet.”

How kind and gentle he sounded. His voice, pitched low, was that of a trustworthy uncle. And yet she heard something else in it. Something that confused her, made her momentarily indecisive.

He took her inaction for consent. “There, that’s better. I only want to demonstrate my high regard for you.”

Drunk, she thought. That’s what it is. She had seen her poor dead father drunk many times and knew the signs.

“You’re a charming girl. Exceptionally lovely for one so young.” His big round head hid the moon. He took another step toward her. “I’d like for us to be friends.”

His hand stretched toward her hair, picked up the strands that lay gleaming on her left shoulder. All at once she was immobilized, terrified.

He petted her hair, rubbed it between thumb and fingers. Slowly he increased the tension until he was pulling it. Pulling
her.
His puffy breathing sounded like the noise of a steam engine.

“Let go of me.
Please.”

He stiffened, no longer friendly. “Keep your voice down. You mustn’t attract attention.”

To emphasize that, he seized her forearm. She cried out softly.

“Damn you, don’t do that,” Bent exclaimed, panicking. “Don’t, I tell you.” This time her outcry was louder, and so was his. “Stop it! Stop it, do you hear?”

Shaking her, expostulating, he didn’t know anyone else was there until he saw the sudden look of relief in her moonlit eyes. He pivoted like a man turning to face a firing squad. He stepped back when he saw Charles Main—

And beyond him, bursting from the trees, the older Lantzman boy followed by the mother. The moon flashed on the long barrel of the jaeger musket in her hands.

Together, Bent’s face and that of the girl told Charles all he needed to know. Mrs. Lantzman rushed to her daughter’s side. Voices began to overlap.

“Martha, did he hurt you?” The brother.

“I knew it wasn’t safe for you to go walking.” The mother.

Bent, hoarse and upset: “I did nothing to her. Nothing!”

And the girl: “Yes, he did. He put his hands on me and started playing with my hair. He wouldn’t stop—”

“Quiet,” Charles said. “Everyone keep quiet.”

They obeyed. He saw a sentry hurrying toward them, several troopers not far behind. He stepped around Mrs. Lantzman, wigwagged his arm.

“Go back to camp. Everything’s all right.”

The sentry and the others turned and moved away again. Charles waited until they were out of sight beyond the cotton woods, then gave Bent a fierce look. The captain was perspiring heavily, weaving on his feet. He avoided Charles’s eye.

“Martha, are you hurt?” Charles asked.

“N-no.”

“Take her back to your lean-to, Mrs. Lantzman. Keep her there the rest of the night.”

Small fists clenched on the musket, the woman stood her ground. Her glance bayoneted the captain. “What kind of men do they send to serve in Texas? Men with no morals?”

“Mrs. Lantzman, this won’t help,” Charles interrupted. “Your daughter’s all right. The incident is unfortunate, but we’ve all been under a lot of strain. I’m sure the captain regrets any accidental indiscretion—”

“Accidental?” The girl’s brother snorted. “He’s drunk. Smell him!”

Bent blurted, “Damn you for an impertinent—” Charles seized the captain’s upraised arm and thrust it down. Bent gasped, opened his fist, let his arm fall to his side.

Charles grasped Martha’s shoulder lightly and her brother’s. He turned them both toward the trees. “Stay in the lean-to and try to forget about this. I’m sure Captain Bent will offer his apology to all of you.”

“Apology?
Under no circumstances will I—”

Again Bent stopped. He whispered, “Yes. Consider it tendered.”

Mrs. Lantzman looked as if she wanted to shoot him. Charles spoke softly to her. “Go. Please.”

The woman passed the musket to her son. She put her arm around Martha’s waist and led her away. Bent pressed both palms against his face, kept them there for about ten seconds, then lowered them.

“Thank you,” he said to Charles.

Charles didn’t reply.

“I don’t understand why you helped me, but I am—grateful.”

“Nothing would be accomplished if she shot you. And she’d only regret it later. If there’s to be any punishment for what just happened, it should come from the proper quarter.”

“Punishment? What do you mean?”

Again Charles was silent. He turned and stalked away through the wind-tossed grass.

Five miles from Camp Cooper, Bent galloped to the head of the column where Charles was riding. They had been traveling in a drizzle since shortly after breakfast. Charles’s spirits felt as bedraggled as his men looked.

Bent cleared his throat. Charles could predict what his superior was going to say.

“I appreciate your actions on my behalf last night. I attempted to convey my feelings then, but you were in no mood to listen. I thought I should try again.”

Charles gazed at Bent from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. He could barely contain his disgust. “Captain, believe me, I didn’t do it to help you personally. I did it because of the uniform you’re wearing. I did it for the sake of the regiment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, surely. I—I don’t expect you to feel kindly toward me. What I want to ask—that is—since we’ll soon be back in camp—what do you think Mrs. Lantzman will say?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

How sickeningly hopeful Bent looked then. Charles leaned over the other way and spat.

“She’ll say nothing. I spoke to her at breakfast. She understands that an accusation would serve no purpose. Perhaps Martha even learned a valuable lesson. Mrs. Lantzman’s point of view is simple and eminently decent. Since no real harm was done, why should she ruin you?”

Now came the insidious part. If his method was less than admirable, his purpose could hardly be faulted. He held Bent’s eyes, continuing:

“But I know she’d be glad to come back to Camp Cooper or even travel to Fort Mason, if I asked. She would do it if I needed her at my court-martial. To testify to my character and the character of others.”

Bent’s brows flew up. He understood. He realized he had escaped one trap only to be forced into a more humiliating one. His face grew hostile again.

“Your tactics are worthy of a criminal.”

“Bullshit, Captain. While I save my career, I’m handing you a chance to save yours. To do it is easy. Just keep your mouth shut. If you don’t like that idea, however, we’ll put the entire matter in front of Major Thomas. He’s sat on plenty of courts-martial down here. I’m willing to trust his judgment.”

“No, no—” Bent raised one of his fancy gauntlets; it was torn across the back. “I accept your terms. There will be no charges.”

Charles couldn’t help a sudden, cold smile.

“Thought that was what you’d decide.”

He touched his hat brim, reined to the left, and went galloping back along the line, mud flying up behind him. A big gob struck the yellow cloth-and-gold embroidery of Bent’s left shoulder strap.

T
HE LANTZMANS RESTED OVERNIGHT
at Camp Cooper, then left for their farm with an escort. Bent disappeared in his quarters, violently sick with dysentery again. Charles knew little about medicine, but he suspected the recent turmoil had precipitated the captain’s illness.

In General Orders from Washington, Charles and the captain received commendations for the rescue of the Lantzman family. Lafayette O’Dell received his posthumously. His body was never found.

Bent requested and was granted medical leave in San Antonio. It fell to Charles to write letters to the families of O’Dell and the three other men lost in the action at the farm. He had no talent for the task, disliked it intensely, but got it out of the way in a single evening.

By the time he finished the last letter he was able silently to put words to a feeling that had been stirring in his mind for the past couple of days. He was not the same officer, not the same person, who had set out with the relief detachment.

Oh, things were just about the same on the surface. He was still flamboyant, and he smiled about as much as he had before. Yet all of that concealed a profound inner change, a change born of everything he had seen and been forced to do while on the rescue mission. The West Point cadet was a pleasant but not very real memory. The romantic amateur had become a hardened professional.

A boy had died and given rise, phoenixlike, to a man.

“I heard a mail sack arrived this morning,” Charles said on the fourth day after his return.

“Yes, sir. These came for you.” The noncom passed him a packet of three letters tied with string, adding, “The sack sat in a warehouse in San Antonio for a month and a half.”

“Why?” Charles snapped, leafing through the packet. The letter on top was nearly a half inch thick. On all three he recognized Orry’s handwriting.

“Can’t say, sir. Reckon it’s just the Army way.”

“The Army way in Texas, at any rate.”

Charles went outside and headed for his quarters, ripping the thick letter open as he walked. He noted the April date, then the first sentences:

Your inquiry about your commanding officer prompts my immediate and concerned reply. If he is the same Elkanah Bent I know from the Academy and Mexico, I warn you most urgently that you could be in great danger.