Soldier of the Queen (11 page)

Stuart was still studying Colby speculatively. ‘You have a cavalryman’s eye, I think,’ he said. ‘Why not join us? We could do with good men. I could find you a place on my staff and arrange with Richmond to grant you a major’s rank.’

Colby shook his head. ‘I was only helping, sir. The
Morning Advertiser
might object if they found their correspondent getting too involved.’

Stuart sighed. ‘I have to accept your decision,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, you’d better ride to Neese Ford. Colonel Love has relations there who’ll probably wish to be with him until he’s recovered.’

The road south was rutted by wagons and caissons, and occasionally they came across wrecks with shattered wheels and the whitened skeletons of mules and horses. Virginia creeper had already half covered them, its flaming colours fading. In a hollow in the trees they passed a wrecked gun and, in a clearing in a cornfield, the grave of a group of Northern soldiers killed in a raid south during the summer. There were no names, just regimental buttons tied to the crude crosses and the single message – ‘Nine Northern Soldiers. Rest in God.’

The wild pawpaws had been opened by the frost and the rhododendrons and mountain laurel were busy with feeding quail. Behind, mountains like gigantic wagons marched southwards into infinity.

Neese Ford rested in a valley below the curve of a hill, and a river ran in the shadows where withered frosty grass lay among the dead remains of the summer’s flowers. On top of the slope was a farm building that had been built of clapboard as if it had originated in Kent. It was painted white with dark green shutters, and hanging over it were leafless oaks. Beyond it, the winter fields were white with rime.

Colby stared about him. Ackroyd and the two troopers who had accompanied them were tethering their mounts to the rail and hitching at their trousers.

‘Give ’em a shout,’ Colby said.

‘Anybody to home?’ One of the troopers threw back his head and yelled.

There was no sound.

‘Guess they’ve gone to Richmond, or mebbe Atlanta or Charleston,’ the trooper said. ‘It’s a mite safer down there.’

The house appeared to be empty, though everything was in order, the antimacassars neat on the chairs, the family photographs in rows on a sideboard. Then Colby saw a glass of tea with the steam still curling above it.

‘Somebody’s home,’ he said. ‘Give ’em another yell.’

The silence after the trooper’s shout seemed deeper than before and Colby frowned. There were no cattle or horses in the fields, no negro workers, and no indication of life. Yet the house didn’t look neglected, despite the peeling paint. Suddenly wary of marauders, he laid his hand on the gigantic LeMatt revolver Love had given him. Then, in the silence, he heard a shot, and, dashing round the house, saw one of the troopers just pushing his carbine back into its saddle bucket. Twenty yards away a turkey lay kicking in the roadway, a few feathers still floating down.

‘Came out as cool as you please,’ the trooper said. ‘Thought at first it was a Yankee.’

He picked up the turkey and, using his knife to bare the tendons of a leg, threaded the other through it and hung the bird over the pommel of his saddle.

The shot had brought no reaction from the house and, finally convinced nobody was at home, Colby was standing near the closed doors of the stable when he heard a faint clink inside. Swinging round, he put his eye to a crack in the door. Inside he could see a big chestnut horse. As he began to open the door, a female voice stopped him.

‘You-all! Hold hard!’ The voice was firm, strong and unhesitating. ‘You’re not havin’ my horse! It’s the last we’ve got and we need it!’

‘Look–!’

‘I’ve got an axe in my hand,’ the voice came again. ‘You just open those doors and I’ll sink it in your head. I mean it. I aim to keep this horse.’

‘For God’s sake –’ Colby’s voice rose ‘– who wants to steal your damned horse, Ma’am? I’ve come from General Stuart with a message for you.’

There was a long silence, then he heard chains being moved and a bolt being pushed back. Slowly the door opened and through the gap a girl emerged.

‘Who’re you?’ she asked.

‘I’m from the cavalry.’

‘I can tell that – from the smell of the horses! Whose cavalry?’

‘General Stuart’s. I’ve been sent to find you.’

For a moment she didn’t speak. She was very young, tiny with a heart-shaped face and enormous slanting violet eyes under a fringe of dark hair. Her mouth was too wide, though it curved upwards at the ends as though she enjoyed laughter, and her body was slender to the point of skinniness, lacking the rich curves of Hannah-May Burtle, her wrists so thin they looked brittle, though he noticed that she held the restive horse without trouble.

Though her appearance was undramatic, her face a curious mixture, as though it had been put together haphazardly, her straight back and her wary expression indicated a firm will, a strong mind and a no-nonsense attitude to handsome strangers appearing on her land. Wondering what Georgina would have done if she’d been faced with a Northern cavalryman, Colby decided she’d probably have had a fit of the vapours and got herself raped for her trouble.

Small as she was, the girl was staring at him hostilely. ‘How do know you’re not Yankees?’ she asked.

‘Do I sound like a Yankee? I’m English.’

‘Then why’re you wearing blue?’

‘It’s not a uniform.’

‘Your men are wearing blue pants.’

‘Taken from Yankee cavalrymen, Ma’am. Two days ago. At Marble Stop. We gave ’em a bloody nose.’

‘You a Southern officer?’ She wasn’t intending to relax without good reason.

‘No, Ma’am,’ Colby said. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then what were you doing at Marble Stop with Southern soldiers?’

‘Mere accident, Ma’am. I’m supposed to be a correspondent for the
Morning Advertiser
in London.’

The blaze went out of her eyes and she dropped her gaze and blushed. ‘Everybody wants to steal our horses,’ she said. ‘We’ve only got one left to pull the buggy. I’m Augusta Burtle Dabney.’

‘Handsome name, Miss Augusta.’

‘Big,’ she agreed. ‘Important. Maybe because I’m so small. Most people call me Gussie. Who’re you?’

‘Colby Goff, Miss Gussie.’

She gave a sudden grin that changed her whole face, melting the stern expression and setting her mouth in a long curve.

‘Guess I’d better call Ma,’ she said. ‘She’s upstairs hiding with her head under a pillow.’ She was about to turn away when she stopped again, frowning. ‘You said you’d got a message from General Stuart,’ she went on. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Yes, Miss Gussie. I don’t bring the best of news. Your cousin, Micah Love, was hurt at Parks Bridge and the General thought you might like to come to his bedside.’

For a second she gaped at him then the violet eyes blazed again. ‘Land’s sakes!’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Here, get this animal into the buggy while I go get Ma.’

They left within the hour, Mrs Dabney, a plump, pink-faced woman who clearly hadn’t her daughter’s straightforward courage huddled in rugs alongside Ackroyd, who was driving the carriage. The troopers rode as vanguard, and Colby trotted behind with the girl, who sat astride Ackroyd’s horse, her skirts carefully draped to cover her legs. Despite its size, she had it well under control.

‘Born in the saddle,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Did a few laps before breakfast every mornin’ on Pa’s back. ‘We all ride ’cept Ma, who came from Atlanta and only saw a horse when it was between shafts.’ She ran her hand over the pommel of the saddle. ‘Ought to be a side saddle, by rights. Pa’d have fits if he saw me like this.’

Colby eyed her curiously. ‘Don’t all that horse-sweaty leather come a bit hard on your – er–’

‘My unmentionables?’ She gave him a quick smile and lifted the edge of her skirt. Underneath it, he saw a pair of boots and cord trousers. ‘Belonged to my brother Marston. He was a bit younger then. They fit me fine.’

‘There was talk of a ball. You’ll find ’em a bit warm for dancing, won’t you?’

She flashed him another smile. ‘I got other unmentionables,’ she said. ‘With frills and lace and all on ’em. Packed in the trunk. I also got a hoop skirt. Still has the white roses of 1860 on it. It was my cousin Louie’s. She married a boy from Memphis and gave it to me when she went down there to live. It’s right handsome, but it looked better on her, I guess. I haven’t the shape.’

‘Where’s your brother now?’

Her face tightened. ‘He was killed at Gettysburg. I’ve got another with a Philadelphia regiment.’

‘A Northerner?’

‘It’s not all that odd,’ she retorted sharply. ‘You ask General Stuart. His wife’s father’s a Northern general and her brother’s fightin’ for the South.’

‘Where do
your
sympathies lie?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘With the boys who do the fighting,’ she said quickly. ‘Of both sides. It’s a politicians’ war.’

‘I suspect they
all
are.’

‘And the South’s going to lose it, I think.’

It was the first cold logical appraisal of the situation he’d heard from anyone and it startled him, coming from a girl.

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’

There was no point in beating about the bush. She seemed strong-minded enough to look harsh facts in the face.

‘Yes, Miss Gussie, I do.’

She seemed satisfied that he had agreed with her. ‘I think all we can do now is go on fightin’ until we can finally give up with honour.’ She managed a wry smile. ‘Maybe it’s the best thing, anyway, because peace will be awful.’

She seemed so small and slight, and at the same time so realistic and courageous, he found he was concerned. ‘What’ll happen to you?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll be all right. Pa has business interests in Washington. They’re bein’ looked after. That’s how my brother, Tom, came to join the Northerners. Marston stayed in the south. He was here when it started and he and Micah Love were friends.’

‘It’s a strange position.’

She gave him her quick grin. ‘It couldn’t be more neutral, though, could it? I expect it’ll be all right whoever wins. My father knows Abe Lincoln. Either way, we shan’t sit and weep. Ma might, but not Pa and me. We’re not that kind. If we win, that’s fine. If God should decide it goes the other way, I for one shan’t walk about with my heart on my sleeve cryin’ for the old days.’ She paused. ‘Last year it was easier. I guess we’re beginnin’ to see it different now.’

The skies were heavy as they stopped at an inn along the road. The place was in a state of disrepair and run entirely by a worn-looking woman whose husband was with Lee. There was little to offer but bacon, coffee and potatoes.

‘It’s like this all over the state now,’ Mrs Dabney said sorrowfully. ‘They tell me there are women and children and old folk who never taste anythin’ but boiled oats and corn meal mess.’

‘Even the Yankees have to bring their own provisions when they come south,’ Augusta went on. ‘It’s better in Atlanta, of course, but even
they’ve
not got much to laugh about, with all the luxuries stopped by the blockade and all the boys with the army.’

It was still bitterly cold when they went outside again and the sky seemed full of crows that moved from one clump of trees to another, cawing dismally, like a flock of evil omens. Augusta watched them with her huge slanting eyes, her thick dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

‘There’s nothing to fear from the Yankees down here,’ Colby said.

‘It isn’t the Yankee troops I’m thinkin’ of,’ she said. ‘It’s the end of the war.’ She watched the crows for a little longer. ‘It was excitin’ at first,’ she said slowly. ‘Even to me. There were even times when I wished I could be with the armies and Ma once slapped me when I said I ought to go and work in the hospitals. But you got swept along. Everythin’ was so wonderful. There was victory after victory and everybody said the Yankees were cowards.’ She stopped again. ‘I guess they weren’t really. Then when General Lee took the army north last year we were all wild with excitement and began to say the Yankees would know what it was like to have the war fought over
their
countryside. We wanted to see Pennsylvania a sheet of flame. I guess
I
did anyway, and we all said with one more victory the war would be over.’

Colby listened quietly. In her words was a nation’s agony.

‘But then in July all the news stopped.’ Her voice had grown quieter. ‘It was slow in comin’ because it had to come a long way. And when nothin’ arrived we began to dread what had happened. It was not knowin’ was the worst. While we waited, we heard that Vicksburg had fallen and the Confederacy was cut in two. That was bad enough, but just then we hardly noticed. I was in Richmond at the time visitin’ with my kinfolk and everybody knew somethin’ dreadful had happened. People waited in groups and stood on porches in the sun, tryin’ to say no news was good news when they knew it wasn’t anythin’ of the kind. Then we started gettin’ rumours that a big battle at Gettysburg had been lost.’ She sat in the saddle stiff and straight, her face blank, as though reliving a nightmare. ‘People began to wait at the railroad where the telegraph was, but nothin’ came so everybody went to the newspaper office. They brought out casualty lists. My brother’s name was in them. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it.’

Abruptly she relaxed and managed a twisted smile. ‘But, I have, Mr Goff. I have. Most times, anyway.’

Her cheeks grew a little pink, as if she’d talked too much, and she looked hard at the crows again. Then she turned to Colby. ‘You-all have learned a lot about me, Mr Goff,’ she said. ‘What about you? Why are you in America writin’ for the papers?’

‘Because I’m a soldier, Miss Gussie.’

‘
Why
?’

‘Because my father was. And he was because
his
father was, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. I think we were soldiers when Boadicea fought off the Romans. We’re too stupid to be parsons or go into business, but too honest to be politicians. It only leaves the army. My father was at Waterloo. My great-grandfather raised the regiment I’m in. It’s a good regiment. Nineteenth of the Line. Only cavalry regiment in the British army to wear green.’