That morning Custer used the lull after battle to cross enemy lines, handed off from a Union picket to a Confederate second lieutenant, who promised to get him safely to his destination. It was risky, madness really. If not taken prisoner, he would be skinned alive by McClellan if found out, but a gentleman’s word was his honor. He treasured his. Besides, it was a thrill to change out of his Union blue for the Rebel gray, even donning the wide-brimmed hat. If things had been slightly different, the Confederacy might have been the side he fought for.
They skirted camps, Custer listening, looking for a glimpse of his old roommates, especially Rosser.
Only a scant two years ago at West Point, Rosser had slapped down his plate at dining hall. It being Washington’s birthday, they had been rewarded with an extra dessert and entertainment by the marching band. The cadets shouted over one another, the Southerners vowed to resign to join the forming Confederate forces. There was talk of secession, but no one believed it would lead to war.
Rosser looked fondly over at Custer and grabbed his hand.
—We’re going to have a war. There’s no use talking. I see it coming.
—Then I’ll fight alongside you.
Rosser pursed his mouth as if he were testing something gone bad.
—No, my friend. You belong to the North, whether you like it or not.
It felt like a rebuke, and Custer swallowed hard to hide his disappointment.
—I suppose.
—One day soon, we will face each other in battle, Rosser said, his eyes filled with a perverse joy.
—That would be the darkest day for me. I would be so sorrowful to defeat you.
With that, Custer banged his hand on the table and ran out to the parade ground, Rosser in hot pursuit.
When the flag had been lowered, the band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Custer led a cheer that the cadets took up. Rosser jumped up on a bench and led “Dixie” to a small but loud subset of men. The moment their cheers went up, Custer jumped on a low wall and led another round of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Back and forth it went, everyone in high spirits.
Leaving barracks at dawn, Custer failed to notice the effigy of Lincoln that hung outside until he almost ran into its dangling feet. He had a country boy’s respect for those in power, especially a president, and he found such an act reprehensible. Of course his Southern brethren were the culprits. Nonetheless, to avoid their being punished, he cut it down before any staff noticed and demanded the perpetrators’ dismissal.
It didn’t matter. In the morning, Rosser and the rest of the Southerners, young men Custer had lived the last three years with, whom he considered brothers and friends worthy of sacrificing his life for, rode away to become his enemy.
Now in the middle of the War of the Rebellion, Custer and his guide were rounding a bend in the path when a Rebel soldier jumped from behind a tree and demanded a password. Custer’s skin tingled at the danger he’d gotten himself into, the possibility the passed message had been a ruse. What a coup to single-handedly apprehend him without a shot fired. They would of course invent circumstances of the capture, portraying it as fierce and demanding of bravery.
But the password was accepted.
His heartbeat slowed. They traveled unmolested and in a few minutes ducked inside a barn where the ceremony was to take place. His friend Forester was now entirely recovered from the wounds that the Southern belle at his side had tended. Months before, while searching a battlefield for survivors, Custer’s attention had been drawn by a young Rebel’s moan. He had personally delivered Forester to the makeshift dispensary, had even given him a pair of warm socks and money.
In the barn a parson somehow had been persuaded to squeeze a wedding among the continual last rites with which he was overwhelmed. The clergyman was exhausted and sick at heart from the waste of war he had the job to bless. The sight of a Union soldier disguised and behind enemy lines hardly fazed him.
—You simply had to be my best man, Forester said.
Custer dusted his uniform off, stood as witness for the couple, and kissed the lovely bride on the lips. He repeated for the umpteenth time that the beauty of Southern women never ceased to ensnare him. When Forester turned his trouser pockets inside out to show how empty they were, he also paid the clergyman’s fee, as well as bought the black-market ale for the small party to toast the nuptials. He was back in camp before McClellan had a chance to notice him missing.