November 20, 1862. General Lee, riding through a rising storm— the first of winter—has arrived at the little city of Fredericksburg, at the fall line of the Rappahannock. His decision to concentrate his army here to meet the Federal advance exemplifies yet again his remarkable ability to foresee and anticipate the intentions of the enemy.
During the past two months, since the savage battle of Sharpsburg and the return from Maryland across the Potomac, the Army of Northern Virginia has taken full advantage of the enemy’s dilatory caution to rest, refit, reorganize and make up lost numbers. Although Lee’s grand design to march to Harrisburg and threaten Washington from the Susquehanna was perforce abandoned as a result of sheer misfortune (McClellan’s chance acquisition of a copy of a general order setting out Lee’s dispositions and intentions), nevertheless the morale of his troops (most of whom felt little enthusiasm for the Maryland campaign, reckoning it to be nothing to do with the defense of their homeland) remains very high. Two months of fine fall weather have not only made easy their march back to the Rapidan, but also done much for the business of rest and re-equipment. At Sharpsburg, the army numbered fewer than 35,000. Now, thanks to recruitment and the rounding up of the large number of stragglers lacking enthusiasm for the Maryland campaign, it has increased to twice that size. There is, however, a serious shortage of horses—a deficiency that will continue until the end of the war.
During the mainly fine and sunny weather of late September, of October and early November, General Lee’s strategy has been to avoid any further engagement with the enemy and await the arrival of his ally, winter. Yet Richmond is still never so safe as when its defenders are absent, and there is no retreat from the Rapidan and Rappahannock. As the late October leaves fall in windblown golden showers from the birches, sycamores and maples of the Blue Ridge and the Shenandoah, General McClellan, ever wary and deliberate, crosses the Potomac and heads slowly south, under vigilant observation by Stuart’s cavalry. A week into November and his army is at Warrenton, a few miles north of the Rappahannock. Then follows an unexpected pause, shortly explained by the news that McClellan has been superseded by a newcomer, General Ambrose Burnside. What will he make of the Federal initiative, and how does he propose to set about attacking Lee’s army, which at Sharpsburg showed itself able to daunt, if not defeat, more than twice its numbers?
Studying reports of the enemy’s movements and weighing one factor with another, General Lee has concluded that the Federal army will move southeastward down the Rappahannock towards Fredericksburg.
For him personally this is a sad and difficult time. His hands, badly damaged by the accident on August 31st, are still painful and of little use. Although he can now dress himself with his left hand and sign his name with his right, he is obliged to dictate all correspondence, and for a horse he must rely for the most part on the quiet, manageable mare Lucy Long. He has received news of a bitter bereavement—the death from illness of his beloved twenty-three-year-old daughter, Annie. The hardship and strain of active campaigning upon a man nearly fifty-six years old are beginning to tell. Yet his greatest achievements still lie ahead. Like leader, like army. “I never saw an army,” wrote the visiting British General Sir Garnet Wolseley, “composed of finer men, or one that looked more like work.”
Well, all the young fellas gone away for the rest of the summer, Tom; guess Marse Robert’s told ‘em what they got to do ‘tween now and fall. They’ll be mighty busy, I ‘spect, up and down on his affairs. As for me, I’m taking it easy and cool in stables and out on the lawn. This is the life, ain’t it? Seems quite a while since you and I was settled down together in the straw. It’s a good time of year for horses, and for cats, too, I reckon. Sassafras leaves all green on the trees. Did y’ever try sassafras? No, neither did I. No manner of good—you can smell that.
I knowed you’d get a whole sight more chipper, you and Baxter, soon as Miss Life come back. That’s a real nice girl—best out’n the three, I figure. This little jaunt we’ve been on—Marse Robert and me and her and Lucy—that was real good, all six days of it. Mostly fine weather, good roads, no hurry, plenty to eat, everyone mighty glad to see us—well, after all, what would you expect? But everyone taking it easy—no fuss, no bands, no folks crowding round Marse Robert. Yeah, sure, Tom, if you like I’ll tell you something ‘bout it. Curl up, make yourself comfortable.
The four of us started out—I reckon it’s been a week now. It was real midsummer weather, warn’t it? Not too hot, not too dusty neither. No flies, no soldiers, no wagons a-stirring up the dust: flowers ‘longside the road, birds a-singing. I could have gone forever, and so could Lucy. Once or twice on the hills Marse Robert’d let me light out for a breather, and when we got to the top he’d turn in the saddle and call “Come along, Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy, Lucy Long!” It was jest his fun, you know, Tom. Miss Life’d catch up with us, face flushed, eyes bright; she was delighted to be out on her own with Marse Robert. I felt jest like we was a little headquarters on the march again. I wisht Jine-the-Cavalry could ‘a showed up. He always had a way of showing up unexpectedly, you know.
It was lonely country we was riding through, and I could tell Marse Robert was pleased as punch to be out o’ town and no business to ‘tend to. As for me, I was prancing round like a colt in a hayfield. When Marse Robert stopped so’s they could eat by the road, the grass I nibbled was fresh and sweet as a meadow in springtime. Aw, Tom, you cain’t imagine what that’s like—a beautiful march like that—for an old soldier like me that’s slogged through heat and thirst and flies, and dust so thick you couldn’t see three lengths ahead of you.
In the afternoon we come to a river. There was a ferry to take folks acrost. And do you know who was there, Tom—who was the ferryman, I mean? It was the pig fella—yes, ‘twas—the one Marse Robert had caught stealing the pig in the middle of that there battle! So he hadn’t been shot after all! Cap-in-His-Eyes must ‘a let him off— well, to get on and fight, I guess. After all, Cap-in-His-Eyes must ‘a realized Marse Robert had lost his temper, and after all, what’s the use of shooting a fella when there’s a passel o’ soldiers falling all round and those people a-coming on like snow showers in midwinter? I knowed him all right—I remembered him the moment I spied him—but Marse Robert didn’t. Natcherly, though, he knowed Marse Robert, and he knowed me, too.
“You still got Traveller, then, General?” he says. “There’s a horse to go forever!”
Marse Robert said him howdy real friendly, and they chatted for a while. Then he says Miss Life and hisself was wishful to go acrost the river.
“I’ll be mighty proud to take you over, General,” says the fella, “but I ain’t taking none of your money, not nohow.”
Marse Robert, he outs with his money and tries to put it in the fella’s hand, but the fella wouldn’t have none o’ that. Then he gets all teary-eyed and says, “I ain’t taking no money from you, Marse Robert. I’ve followed you in many a battle. Never took no money for that, did we?”
He never said nothing bout the pig, though. No, no. In the end we went acrost on the ferry with the old soldier a-talking all the time. Did Marse Robert remember this and that and t’other thing? Natcherly, Marse Robert didn’t want to show him no hurry-up, so we was a good while getting back on the road.
I remember something else that happened that afternoon, too. We was a-riding up through the mountains—there’s mostly rough folks live up there, Tom, you know—and it was a real steep stretch o’ road, and round a bend we come on a bunch of young ‘uns playing catch-me-if-you-can. They was jest as dirty an’ ragged as soldiers after a day’s march. ‘Course, like I’ve told you over and over, Marse Robert always stops to speak to young ‘uns he meets ‘long the roads; so he smiles at this lot and asks ‘em if’n they’d ever tried washing their faces. They jest stared a moment or two and then scampered off real quick. Well, Marse Robert, he shrugs his shoulders, says a word to Miss Life and off we go. But we hadn’t gone more’n two hundred yards round the bend, walking easy, when we come to a little cabin and out come all these young ‘uns— clean aprons, faces washed, hair combed—you’d hardly knowed they was the same. “We know you’re General Lee,” says one of the little girls. And there they stood, all waving and calling out, “General Lee! God bless General Lee!”
Stables was good that night, at a big house up in a gap ‘tween the hills. And then next day we-all rode up a mountain—what they call the Peaks of Otter, Tom, you know—real high up. There’s two of ‘em, side by side, and a big lake below—it’s mighty pretty. I was half-expecting Old Pete to be waiting for us at the top, but there warn’t no Pete, and no Blue men in the distance, neither. ‘Course there wouldn’t be—not no more. Lucy and me kept right on up through the woods, ‘far’s a horse could get. There was them little white lilies everywhere—reminded me of the woods beside the big field at Andy’s, when I was a foal. Marse Robert and Miss Life left us hitched and climbed on—right up to the top, I reckon. When Marse Robert come back down, though, he seemed sad. He never said a word at all. Coming back down, I could feel he was real melancholy in his spirits. It’s thinking of all our dead soldiers, Tom, you know. I reckon he never forgets ‘em for long—the dead soldiers. Nor the dead horses, neither.
In the afternoon it come on to raining real heavy. We stopped off so Marse Robert and Miss Life could take shelter in another cabin where the hill folks live. I somehow felt the lady warn’t what you’d call ‘thusiastic ‘bout our visit. We was muddy, and she didn’t know it was Marse Robert, you see—leastways, not until we was jest fixing to leave. I think Miss Life must ‘a told her while Marse Robert was gone to fetch me and Lucy out’n the shed. She seemed all a-flustered when we rode off—wondering what her husband would say when he come home, I reckon. She hadn’t recognized General Lee!
We stopped off a couple of nights at one place and then another— friends o’ Marse Robert’s. Lucy and me was treated real good. I couldn’t help remembering all the nights in the past when things hadn’t been so good. It’s a great thing, Tom, to feel that times are changed for the better—gives a real sense of satisfaction. The day we rode home I was feeling grand; so was Lucy. We did forty miles back yesterday, and I could have done a durned sight more, too.
Hush, Tom! Listen! Hear that? That gnawing? That’s no mouse. That’s a rat, if’n I’m any judge. Tom, that rat must be suppressed. Go and get a-holt of Baxter. He’d best make a flank movement outside, round behind the straw stack, and then you can move forward soon as he’s distracted the rat’s attention. That’ll fix the varmint. Try to live off’n our supplies, would he?
Good work, Tom! Well done! Big ‘un, ain’t he? He made the mistake of coming on and walked right into you. It’s not the first time I’ve seed it. The Blue men in the snow—that there little town in the snow! Marse Robert and the children in the mud! They was dirty right ‘nuff, poor little critters. You want to hear ‘bout it? Settle down, then, You can both chew up your rat whiles I tell you what happened.
It took a long time for Marse Robert’s hands to recover from the hurt. The reason he rode me in the battle—even though I had to be led—and then back acrost the river was he figured I’d be steadier under fire than Lucy. You see, Tom, a horse has to have—what can you say?— he has to have faith in his man ‘fore he can be brave hisself. Marse Robert knowed I had faith in him and I’d stand the guns, and that was what he valued, even though he couldn’t use his own hands to guide me. Lucy, she was fine, ‘long as there warn’t too many guns.
I don’t reckon she ever did larn entirely to trust Marse Robert under fire, and I don’t know’s how I altogether blame her. Lucy’s a sensitive kind o’ horse, you know. There’s a durned sight of horses I’ve seed ‘sides her that’s showed theirselves mortally afeared of artillery fire. I’ve seed ‘em lots o’ times—where’s the horse alive that’s been under fire more’n me?—when the shells was flying low, close to their backs; they’d squat down, a-shivering, till their bellies jest ‘bout touched the ground. Strange thing is, there’s a power of horses perfectly quiet in battle, jest so’s their drivers or riders are staying with ‘em. Horses are best in battle when they’re mounted. ‘Makes you feel a sight better to have a steady, unexcited man on your back. I’ve seed men that had to leave their horses—gunners, you know, or wagon drivers—and when they come back you’d hear the horses whinnying out loud to say how pleased they was. I’ve seed wagon horses under fire rubbing their heads agin their driver’s shoulders. Gives ‘em reassurance, you see. They feel the bangs can’t hurt ‘em as long as their own men are there.
Horses love each other, too. Well, I’ve told you over and over, Tom, ain’t I, how much horses depend on friendship? I’ve seed more’n one horse whose mate was killed go off into fits, neighing—terrified—gone mad. I remember one of our headquarters wagon horses—Martlet, he was called. His mate was knocked over by a shell—jest laid low and deader’n mutton. After that, poor Martlet jest refused to eat—he pined away and died.
And then again I’ve knowed some horses seemed to be thrilled rather’n terrified by the guns. Major Talcott’s horse, Joker, was like that. You couldn’t help admiring Joker. However tired he was, under fire he was like a railroad engine on springs. Any man could become a hero riding Joker—an orderly, a nigger—anyone at all. Even wounds didn’t worry him. In that battle I’ve been telling you ‘bout, Joker was wounded two-three times. ‘Didn’t seem to make the least difference to him, and it warn’t like he was stodgy, like good old Ajax. Joker was a bright, sensible horse, who knowed very well what was going on.
Anyway, it must have been—yeah, all of two months after that battle, the time I’m going to tell you ‘bout now. There’d been a few changes of horses in headquarters—not many, though. We was a good bunch on the whole—got on well together. Even the mules warn’t a bad crowd. Everyone was cheerful and most was feeling fresh as daisies—plenty to eat, not a lot of work, and our men in good spirits, too. The Army had marched back to camp by easy stages, and jest for once we’d been lucky with the weather. That was a nice, sunny fall. I remember the smell of the leaves and the little brown toadstools everywhere—mostly on branches and chunks of dead wood long the roads— and the spiders’ webs shining on the hedges. Farriers was plenty busy: most of us was reshod. Needed it, too. Marse Robert was always mighty particular ‘bout shoes. D’you know, Tom, I remember once in the middle of a real bad battle—shells dropping everywhere—we was getting ready to attack—and jest then along comes three-four mules pulling a wagon. “Some of them mules ain’t got shoes,” says Marse Robert. “Please see they’re all shod right away.”
Our Army was in pretty good shape by the time winter commenced to come on. Headquarters was in a pine thicket—nice, soft ground and very little mud as yet. All I had to do was daily exercise with Dave— not ‘nuff for me, neither. Marse Robert used to take Lucy when he went round the camps. Sometimes, in the evenings, he’d take me a ways ‘long the tracks here and there, and we’d stop and talk with the men off duty. Like as not we’d come on a crowd of ‘em going in for that kneeling and singing and all the rest, an’ then Marse Robert’d usually dismount and off with his hat and jine in. It pleased ‘em heaps when he did that.
Well, there come a morning—a dark, stormy morning ‘twas; the first of winter, I reckoned—when Marse Robert called for Lucy and soon’s he was up in the saddle, he looks round like he always did, and orders, “Strike the tent!” Oh, thinks I, so we’re moving at last, are we? Next moment it struck me: He’s on Lucy! We’re off on the march, and he’s on Lucy! I felt real put out. Maybe his hands warn’t right yet (and whose fault was that?), but jest the same I felt if he’d ridden me as a led horse in the battle and then through the big river, he could be riding me now. I began fidgeting and pawing round where Dave was holding me. “Don’t worry, Traveller,” says Joker as Major Talcott came up to jine us. “Didn’t you know? They’re keeping you for a Blue general they’ve took.”
Next minute up comes—who d’you think, Tom? I’ll tell you: it was young Marse Rob! He was a soldier then, and Marse Robert must ‘a sent for him to come to headquarters. He saluted Marse Robert, they talked a few moments and next thing I knowed he was getting up on my back! What’s more, he had his whole load of soldier’s tackle strapped up with him—pack, blankets, the lot—so wherever we was going he was evidently reckoning on riding me all the way. He’d probably asked for me.
I’ll give him a ride! I thought. He’ll be sorry!
Well, the long and short of it was, Tom, that he couldn’t ride me. I warn’t aiming to throw him, ‘course, nor he didn’t fall off. But he jest didn’t have the same control—the horsemanship—that Marse Robert had. Come right down to it, there’s precious few can ride me comfortable. Well, I thought, I’ll jest please myself and he can lump it. So I lit off, with everyone cheering and wishing him a nice ride.
We rode out of camp by ourselves. ‘Parently we was to go on our own and not ride ‘long of headquarters. Well, I hadn’t had a lot of exercise for quite a few days past and I was feeling fretful. I reckon I real hammered young Marse Rob that day, Tom. I refused to walk one single durned step of the way. I went straight into my famous bucktrot, and I kept it up for thirty mile! I tell you, Marse Rob was real glad when that journey come to an end! I figure he could ‘a walked the whole way and felt more comfortable. Add to all the rest, a real nasty storm come up, an’ by the time we reached the little town beside the river—that’s where we-all was bound for—it was jest pelting down as heavy as you please. Lots o’ wind, too—not a leaf left on the trees.
I’d acted up like I did ‘cause the terrible thought had come to me that this was how I was to be got rid of, after all. To be given to young Marse Rob! Thank goodness that turned out to be wrong! What happened was that, later on, Marse Rob was given one of Grace Darling’s fillies for hisself. I’d only been lent to him for that one day—it was a long ride and I reckon Marse Robert figured it would still be too much for his hands.
One more thing ‘bout that day: I’d forgot the difference ‘tween Marse Robert and every other rider you like. Well, you know yourself, Tom, that Marse Robert respects every living critter. He’d even respect that rat if’n he warn’t no thief; and this feeling comes out in riding. It’s real surprising how few horsemen ever bother to encourage a horse or give him praise. They jest stick to using hard words when he’s done something wrong. They never realize a horse likes praise and responds to it jest like he responds to being found fault with. A horse that feels his man’s really his friend’ll work hard for praise and take pleasure in deserving it. I seed horses might’s well be handcarts—you push ‘em, they go—but that’s not riding. Now Marse Robert—right from when we started together, he was always ready with a word of praise when you’d done what he wanted. That made you relax, Tom, you see. I’ve felt relaxed even under fire ‘fore now, jest ‘cause Marse Robert scratched my neck and praised me for doing nothing but standin’ still.
Anyways, I was mighty glad to be ridden to headquarters that night and handed over to Dave.
Now I’d best give you an idea of this place we come to that winter day, Tom, ‘cause we was to do a lot there ‘fore we was through. There was a mighty wide river—broader’n most I’d seed and no bridges neither, ‘ceptin’ for them the Blue men built later on. The town was on our side o’ the river and it looked like a nice place, what I seed of it; neat, clean houses and a spire or two sticking up in the middle. But what I really noticed was the other side of the river. It was hilly—ground sloping up to the hills. And on them hills, Tom, was a whole power of Blue men. You could see their camps, see their fires, see ‘em ridin’ round and setting up their guns and wagons. For goodness’ sake! I thought, no matter how many we kill there’s always lots more. How’re we going to get at ‘em this time, though, without a bridge to cross?
Headquarters was jest the same—nothing you’d call grand. It was a ways out of town: a bunch of tents on the edge of a field, next to a patch of piney woods. There was plenty of timber for fires, and ‘sides that, our soldiers rigged up pine branches to make shelters for the horses. We had blankets, ‘course, but jest the same we was all feeling the cold. I remember some fella come ‘long and give Marse Robert a whole mess of chickens as a present, so we had them cackling and squawking round for a while. Not long, though—they was soon eaten, all but one. That one went everywhere with us best part of a year, on ‘count of she laid eggs so good.
The first thing that happened, a day or two after we got there, was that all the townspeople had to leave their homes. I reckon they must ‘a knowed the Blue men was going to fire on the town. That was a sad sight, Tom. I reckon you’d ‘a been sorry to see it yourself, for there was cats, dogs, ponies—all manner of critters mixed up in it; any critters at all as belonged to the town folks. The worst was the bad weather. That storm was still blowing—terrible wind and rain; bitter cold—and everywhere deep in mud on ‘count of the soldiers an’ all the wagons and horses. Marse Robert rode me as far as the edge of the town, where the crowds was stumbling and trudging along. He kept telling the people how sorry he was for all their troubles, and how much he hoped they’d be able to come back soon. Some of ‘em was able to leave by the railroad, but there was still a chance of ‘em couldn’t do nothing but walk in the rain. You should jest ‘a seed it, Tom—old folks leaning on people’s arms; a few lame folks and blind folks; and women a-carrying babies in their arms, with the young ‘uns tagging along best they could; and all the wind and the mud. There was one or two carriages, but all the horses there was to pull ‘em was jest poor old nags that could hardly stagger. Every horse worth a handful of bran was gone to the guns or the wagons, you see.
Marse Robert—he was almost in tears to see the folks suffering so. He give orders to the teamsters—all our wagons and ambulances— to pick people up and take ‘em out of town easy. I seed our soldiers giving their own food to the old folks and the young ‘uns and goodness knows they had none to spare. The mud was so bad I had trouble myself—over the fetlocks and deeper. Anyways, I don’t believe a lot of them people was headed anywhere special. They’d got nowheres to go, ‘cepting out of town. ‘Had to camp in the woods and fields. I ‘spect some died.
Marse Robert and me, we was watching the folks go by when ‘long come a bunch of kids on their own, getting by best they could. The biggest one yells out “Hurrah for General Lee!” and they was all a-waving to us. Marse Robert calls up the nearest cavalrymen—I remember the wind blowing the horses’ manes—and tells ‘em to pick up the young ‘uns and carry ‘em wherever they was going. “I never seed no finer folks,” he says to Major Taylor. “They’re an example to us all. Those people”—he points acrost the river— “those people should be ‘shamed to cause sech suffering to women and children.” “Yes, sir,” says Major Taylor. It was ‘bout all he could say, his teeth was a-chattering so with the cold.
Well, a few days after that, Tom, it began to snow. I recollect a bitter cold night with the snow driving hard in the dark. Like I said, our headquarters warn’t in the town. We was downstream, ‘longside a railroad at the foot of the hills ‘bout a mile from the river, and most of us horses had been got into some old sheds. It was poor shelter—the walls had planks missing everywhere and the wind was driving the snow through in drifts. I was a-blowing and stamping to try and keep warm, when all of a sudden in comes Dave with a storm lantern, and another soldier leading Little Sorrel. I was surprised to see Sorrel, ‘cause I hadn’t seed Cap-in-His-Eyes nor any of his men since before that thirty-mile ride of mine with young Marse Rob.
Sorrel was rubbed down and given a bit of a feed. You could see he was as cold as the rest of us. After a while he looked round in a cloud of his own breath and recognized me.
“Howdy, Traveller,” he said, “Is this the best they can do for headquarters horses?”
“‘Pears so,” I said. “There’s a lot of others in the open, I believe. Where’s your man?”
Stonewall’s talking to Marse Robert,” says Sorrel. “We rode ahead of our soldiers—to get some orders, I s’pose.”
After a little he went on, “Our fellas are putting up with the cold better’n you’d figure. Well, they know it’s to our advantage, after all.”
“To our advantage?” I said. “How’s that?”
Why, the Blue men have got to attack us,” said Sorrel, “and they’ve got to cross that river first. They’re not going to find it easy in this weather.”
And so it seemed, ‘cause the days went by and still the Blue men stayed where they was on t’other side of the river. Marse Robert and me, we was out every day, getting things ready to give ‘em a hot reception. Several mile of the railroad track was tore up and the wood come in useful for fires. Marse Robert spent a good deal of time up on the hills, a mile or so our side of the river, mostly saying where he wanted the guns put. In spite of the cold, our fellas was in fine spirits. There was a lot of snowball fighting and tobacco-spittin’ contests, jest to pass the time. We certainly was a tough crowd. I seed plenty of men in the snow with no boots—’didn’t ‘pear to bother ‘em none. But since the Blue men warn’t in no hurry, we had time to get more boots and warm clothes up by the railroad. I remember going with Marse Robert to watch ‘em being given out, right off’n the railroad cars.
And then, in the very middle of one night—a dark ‘un, too—Marse Robert called for me to be saddled up, and off we went, stumbling through a thick mist. I remember Major Taylor and Major Talcott was with us, but I don’t recall who else. I could hear muskets firing from the town ahead of us, but we didn’t go down there. We went along a ways and then up a little hill, so that when it come light Marse Robert could see what was happening way out by the river.
Sorrel had been right, as usual. I’d s’posed those people, when they started, would come acrost in boats, but ‘stead they was doing their best to build bridges by laying flat timber on top of boats, one behind t’other. This was what all the musket fire was about. We had fellas down in the town, Tom, you see, doing their best to stop ‘em. After a while Marse Robert rode me down towards the town, but what with the mist and the battle smoke, it was hard to see ‘zackly what was going on, ‘ceptin’ that the Blue men seemed to be in plenty of trouble from our fellas holed up in the houses.
During the morning the haze lifted some, and pretty soon the enemy’s guns was firing into the town. I could see ‘em a-blazing away all along the hills on t’other side of the river—jest one thick mass of smoke and flame. The houses was still covered with mist, but you could see the spires sticking up and the shells bursting down there. I was hoping to goodness Marse Robert wouldn’t take it into his head to go right down into the town. It was jest the sort o’ thing he’d be likely to do. The noise of the guns was as bad as I’d ever heared, and pretty soon you could see that a lot of the houses was on fire. Nothing come near us, though, and after a time Marse Robert rode me back to the hilltop.
It was afternoon ‘fore the Blue men began crossing—in boats, after all; they couldn’t finish no bridges. The fighting went on all day. In the end they took the town and finished building their boat-bridges, but not before our fellas had given them a whole passel o’ trouble.
We stayed where we was all night; and I’ll tell you, Tom, that was cold. No one could sleep and the horses was ridden every hour or so, jest to try to keep ‘em warm. It was thick fog again the next morning; plenty of gunfire from t’other side the river, but nothing more’n that— no Blue men moving out of the town. It must ‘a been nigh on to midday when Marse Robert rode me off along the hills and we met Sorrel and Cap-in-His-Eyes. There was another man with us: one of Jine-the-Cavalry’s officers—they called him Bork or Pork or something. He was a huge great fella—one of the biggest men I’ve ever seed—and all dressed up, with a big horse to match. I’d come acrost him before, ‘cause he often used to bring messages to Marse Robert from Jine-the-Cavalry. I always used to call him “Vot-you-voz,” from the funny way he had of talking.
Vot-you-voz ‘peared very excited. He kept pointing down towards the river, and after a while Marse Robert and Cap-in-His-Eyes rode with him down the hillside till we come to a barn. Then they dismounted and left us with Dave and another soldier, while the three of them went creeping real cautious downhill in the fog.
Sorrel an’ me—all the horses, in fact—we could tell there must be a lot of Blue men nearby, this side of the river. We could smell ‘em through the fog and we could hear ‘em, too—the hollow noise of boots on bridges and all the racket of hooves on planks, and guns and wagons rumbling up. You could hear picks and shovels going, too.
“There must be a powerful lot of ‘em coming acrost the river, says Sorrel. “All sorts—men, horses, guns. Jest listen! What in the world d’you s’pose your man and mine think they’re up to?”
“I reckon they want to have a look at ‘em close up,” I said. “Let’s hope none o’ the Blue men spot ‘em. I don’t want to lose Marse Robert after all this.”
“You won’t,” replied Sorrel. “It all feels safe ‘nuff to me. What I figure is, he jest wants to see whether the most of ‘em are crossing here or back in the town. He wants to find out where their attack’s coming from.”
Sorrel always knowed so much more ‘bout soldiering’n I did. I’d never have thought o’ that, but once’t he’d said it I could see it was plain sense. After a while the three of ‘em come creeping back jest the way they’d gone. As Marse Robert was mounting up, he said to Cap-in-His-Eyes, real quiet, “I shall try to do them all the damage in our power when they come on.” Cap-in-His-Eyes jest nodded and we-all rode off.
It was even colder that night—the coldest night I’ve ever knowed in all my born days. I was wondering all night whether there mightn’t be men—and horses, too—a-dying of the cold. There was no fires on our lines for fear of the Blue men ranging their guns on ‘em. Good old Dave had somehow found me an extra blanket or I’d ‘a come near dying myself. Cold’s not really a question of courage, Tom, you see. A horse can bear only so much cold and no more. Our picket lines was real silent—not a nicker to be heared, only jest the blowing and stamping of hooves in the snow. The wind was terrible keen, and whichever way on you tried to stand, it only seemed worse. After what ‘peared like about three days of darkness it died away, and with the first light of morning there come back the thick, freezing fog.
That was a thick fog, too—thicker’n anything you can imagine. You couldn’t hardly see no distance at all and every sound—harness, hooves, men’s voices—was muffled and soft. Marse Robert took me out onto the lines and ‘cepting for the cussin’ everywhere they was jest like ghost lines. The fellas was almost too cold to cuss, even. But a lot of ‘em had lit fires, now that it was getting light—or next thing to light in the fog—and they was cooking. Marse Robert, he kept talking to ‘em, cheering them up and telling them we was going to win a great victory. Everyone was slapping theirselves to keep warm, seeing to their guns and ammunition and getting into place. The Blue men must be doing the same, we knowed that. You couldn’t see ‘em ‘way off in the mist, but you could hear ‘em—their voices, their drums, their bugles. D’you know, Tom, I heared a band playing that morning, too? Jest plain’s could be, a band coming up out of that thick mist ‘tween us and the river.
Marse Robert and the rest of headquarters was drawn up on that same little hill—Marse Robert’s hill, I called it—with the whole Army stretching away on either side. All our guns was ready. There was two extra big guns in position jest behind us, and some smaller ones, too. I could imagine how much noise they’d make when they began firing and I remember thinking, Well, at least they’ll make it warmer where we are. All the usual headquarters comings and goings began. Vot-you-voz come up—I s’pose with a report from Jine-the-Cavalry—and then Old Pete come a-riding out of the fog on Hero. We nuzzled each other’s necks as our men saluted.
“Colder’n I’ve ever knowed,” says I to Hero, blowing hard.
Hero was seldom what you’d call talkative. “It’ll get a lot warmer soon.”
Then all of a sudden up come Cap-in-His-Eyes on a new horse— a stranger to me. My goodness, you never seed sech a change in a man! I reckon I’ve given you a pretty good idea, Tom, haven’t I, of jest how drab and kinda dingy Cap-in-His-Eyes looked in the usual way? He’d never ‘peared to anybody in the Army as what you’d call a smart soldier. I can see him now—stiff, gaunt figure, real sharp way of looking at you; big, firm mouth, hardly ever smiled. Often there’d be something loose ‘bout him somewhere—a bootstrap undone, maybe, or some buttons adrift—something Marse Robert would have corrected sure ‘nuff if he’d seed it on someone else. But this morning, here he comes turned out almost smarter’n Jine-the-Cavalry hisself. He was wearing a new coat with bright buttons, gold braid all round his new black hat, creases in his pants, shining boots and a fine, new sword. And that horse, whoever he was—I wisht it had been Sorrel—he was all got up in tackle picked out in red and silver. You never seed sech a sight! As Cap-in-His-Eyes dismounted, all the officers, from Marse Robert downwards—well, they commenced to laughing; but all the same, they told him he looked jest fine. As for Cap-in-His-Eyes, he said that ‘twarn’t none o’ his doing at all. It had all been fixed by Jine-the-Cavalry, he said. That explained everything, for as I’ve told you, Tom, Jine-the-Cavalry was always dressed up so fine hisself you’d think he was off to dinner at some big house.
“You’ll be afraid of getting them clothes dirty!” shouts Old Pete. “You’ll never get down to any work today!” He waved his hand down the hill, towards the Blue men in the fog. “What you going to do with those people over there?” “Sir,” answers Cap-in-His-Eyes, “we will give ‘em the bayonet! ” Cap-in-His-Eyes always loved talking ‘bout bayonets.
Soon after that Marse Robert rode all along the hills, together with Cap-in-His-Eyes, Vot-you-voz and Jine-the-Cavalry. Our fellas was in high spirits, and everywhere we went they was laughing, and cheering Cap-in-His-Eyes. “Come on, General—come on down out’n that hat! No use sayin you ain’t in thar! See your legs a-hanging down!” I wonder how often I’ve heared that joke, one way or t’other?
‘Course, knowing Marse Robert, ‘twarn’t long ‘fore we come under fire. He rode out a long ways beyond our downstream flank, and by that time the fog was jest starting in to lift. You could make out there was a lot of Blue men out there. I began to hear the bullets dropping, but this time I felt like I was a new horse. I jest didn’t care. I could feel Marse Robert’s hands still warn’t right, and I thought, I’ll show him! I’ll show Skylark, too—him and his fancy ways! When a bullet hit a rock and went whizzing off to one side, it was Skylark who jumped— only a fraction, but he did—and not me. I felt completely at one with Marse Robert, ready to do whatever he wanted before he even gave me a signal.
We galloped back four mile to headquarters at Marse Robert’s hill; the fellas was a-cheering us all the way. They knowed we was going to win and so did I. The fog was burning off now, and pretty soon the enemy’s guns opened up—jest a few here and there. First you could see the spires sticking up out of the mist in the town and then the long line of the hills on t’other side of the river. Still we stood waiting around, and then suddenly there come a little wind and blowed away the last of the fog.
Oh, my, Tom! You never seed sech a sight in all your born days! All ‘long below us, down on the flatland ‘tween the hills and the river, there was the Blue men—thousands and thousands of ‘em—I’ve never seed an Army like it! It stretched from the town on one side, all ‘long our side of the river as far as you could see—men, horses and guns. There come a kind of gasp from the fellas nearest to where we was, but Marse Robert, he never moved a muscle. I could feel him entirely still, where he was a-sitting on my back.
Then the Blue men began to advance to the attack. It was Red Shirt’s fellas they started in on, ‘way over beyond me. From where we was, we could see ‘em plain as day. Red Shirt let ‘em come on, right up the slope, real close, and then all his guns fired on ‘em together. I don’t remember ‘zackly what happened after that, ‘cause jest at that moment the big guns back of our hill began firing, too. They shook the ground, Tom, I’ll tell you—and like to cut a hole right through your head from one side to t’other! And on top of that come the battle-smoke. I pranced here and there a little—I couldn’t help it—and as I recovered myself I seed a teamster and his mules go dashing off to the rear.
The next thing I knowed there was masses of Blue men pouring out of the town and coming straight up the slope towards us. A little ways down below, on my nearside, was a lane with a stone wall running all ‘long in front of it. That lane was full of our fellas, and they was taking ‘vantage of that wall; yet that was ‘zackly where the Blue men seemed to be fixing to get to. The slope was steepest there, too. I jest couldn’t believe what I seed, but on they came.
Our guns didn’t fire till they was near’bouts up to the wall. Then they simply blowed ‘em into screaming, yelling, running crowds. They warn’t soldiers no more! That was a terrible sight, Tom, but better’n if it had been our own fellas.
All day long the enemy kept attacking us where we stood tight on them hills. In the early afternoon they tried again, over where Cap-in-His-Eyes was. It looked bad for a while—we couldn’t see ‘zackly what was going on. It was jest ‘bout that time that one of the enemy’s shells buried itself in the ground right under the parapet where we was. I felt the thud when it hit, but it didn’t explode. A minute or two later, when Marse Robert and Old Pete and some others was a-talking together, the big gun right next to us blowed up. It bust all to bits— fragments a-flying every which way—and yet nobody was hurt. Nobody at all! You wouldn’t believe it, would you?
Well, Tom, if’n I was to try to tell you and Baxter everything that happened that day you’d fall asleep even quicker’n what you are doing. The Blue men kept on coming at us, but we kept on beating ‘em back every time. Now and then I’d hear our fellas raising the Yell, and then I knowed we was on top. The ground on the hillside below us was covered all over with Blue men. I couldn’t imagine how them that was left could still keep a-coming on, but they did.
“Well, there’s one good thing ‘bout all this,” mutters Joker to me, jest as he was fixing to set off on some errand Marse Robert had given to Major Talcott. “I don’t feel so durned cold now, do you?”
Actually, it warn’t so much a matter of not feeling cold as of forgetting ‘bout the cold. It stayed bitter cold all that day.
I don’t reckon more’n a handful of the Blue men ever got close ‘nuff to that wall of ours to have been able to throw a rock over it, even. In places, the dead was laying in great heaps, so’s you couldn’t even see the snow. I began to feel sorry for ‘em—yes, I did. ‘Twarn’t really fighting, Tom, it was jest killing. I never felt half the fear I’d felt that day when the Little General’s poor Chieftain had his legs blowed off. Of all the battles we ever fought, that was the easiest won.
It was dark—it had been dark for an hour or two—by the time the Blue men’s last attack failed. Our gunners couldn’t even see; I reckon they was jest shooting at the flashes from the enemy’s muskets down the hill. At last all firing died away on both sides and it growed quiet, ‘ceptin’ for the crying of the wounded.
Now I’ll tell you, Tom, ‘bout something real strange that happened that night, after all the guns and the yelling had stopped—something the likes of which I’ve never seed before nor since. It began with a sort of shining, right away on the horizon, and that jest growed and growed. It was like looking at the freezing cold all a-glowing in the night. And then that glow turned into great, separate beams rising up into the sky from far off. They was moving all the time, too—flashing bright, sort of twisting and then disappearing and coming back again. It was ‘nuff to frighten you—and nary a sound with it at all. Our soldiers was pointing up at the sky and calling out to one another. Some of ‘em was getting down on their knees, like they used to back in camp. But Marse Robert ‘parently didn’t like ‘em doing that, not this time. Anyways, he didn’t jine in.
Him and me rode round a good ways, down to that there sunken road our fellas had defended, and back along the hills. We hadn’t many dead at all. Everywhere we went the soldiers cheered him. The plain truth was we’d whupped the Blue men again, and bad this time.
‘Course, it wouldn’t have been like Marse Robert not to make folks dig. All ‘long the hills we’d been holding there was men digging all night—hard work in the frost. I guessed Marse Robert was expecting another attack next day, but he reckoned that if only we was dug in, we could stop anything. Our fellas had so much faith in Marse Robert, there warn’t hardly no grumbling—’spite of everyone being wore out with the cold and the fighting all day.
Next morning the air was clear, and jest a little warmer, though not much. Marse Robert rode ‘long the hills again, ‘bout three mile, and him and Cap-in-His-Eyes talked for a good long while. There was still huge numbers of Blue men camped down below us, but ‘far as I could see they didn’t want no fight. They was busy burying the dead and bringing in the wounded. And as it turned out nothing happened all that day—hardly a gun fired, even.
That same night, soon as it got dark, a whole lot of our fellas went creeping out to get theirselves boots and warm clothes. You couldn’t see a thing—the moon was clouded over—but you could hear ‘em crawling and stumbling ‘bout in the dark an’ cussing up a storm. The dead Blue men warn’t all that far away from us, you see—and every now and then there’d be screaming and crying from some poor fella as warn’t dead, that felt his coat or his boots being pulled off’n him.
Jest the same, all us horses was getting ‘long easy ‘nuff. The strain and tightness was far less—the stress had eased up considerable—and old Dave had somehow found a good feed both for me and Lucy. I had these two blankets, so I was as warm as any horse could expect to be that night.
Next day, ‘far as I could make out, there ‘peared to be some sort of agreement ‘tween our fellas and the Blue men to stop fighting while things was cleaned up. It sure was needed, too. Marse Robert and me, we went down the hill to where our men was working at burying the dead and fetching in any wounded still left alive. In spite of the cold, I could smell that same nasty smell I’d gotten used to back in the summer. There was Blue men laying dead by the hundreds. Close up, they looked lots worse—all swollen up and puffy, lot of ‘em turned black as niggers, with big, bulging eyes a-staring up at the sky. Yeah, and some with no heads, no legs, all tore to pieces, pools of blood frozen on the ground. You could see the holes where the bullets had gone in. I remembered what the President’s horse had said to me before that battle I was in, back in the summer. “Killin’ each other? That’s what men do. You might as well ask why the sun goes crost the sky.” Well, I thought, I guess I’ve come to take it for granted now. But I’m still durned if’n I can see why they do it. You wouldn’t find horses or any other animals doing that to each other. I can’t see no sense to it. All the same, my feeling mostly was ‘bout Marse Robert and me, how we was still doing fine together—better’n any horse and man in the Army— so I jest settled for thinking he likely knowed more ‘bout it than what I did. Anyway, I thought, seeing as how you ain’t got much choice, you might’s well be content with a good master. Yet I still wished, somehow, that Jim and me could have got to that there War he’d told me we was going to when we started out.
‘Course, there was plenty of pulling off’n enemy boots and stripping off’n coats and breeches and everything. I seed piles of Blue men left naked on the ground, frozen stiff and all turned black. They didn’t get much burying, neither. In that hard ground the fellas didn’t want to dig no more’n they had to. I seed a power of dead men shoveled under in heaps, hardly covered at all, arms and legs left sticking out. Well, arms and legs turn that stiff, Tom, you see, they won’t go under. Wherever there was a shed or an old barn, they throwed ‘em inside, jest to get ‘em out of the way.
That night was warmer, and it began to rain. Next morning it was still raining, and the mist was so heavy that no one could make out what the Blue men was up to. But later on, when Marse Robert was out ‘long the railroad talking to Red Shirt and Cap-in-His-Eyes, they told him that all the Blue men had snuck back acrost the river in the night. Marse Robert couldn’t hardly believe it, but it turned out to be true. He was disappointed, I could tell. He’d been hoping to do ‘em a lot more damage—kill a sight more, maybe even finish ‘em off for good this time. He was kinda disheartened all day. But me, Tom, I’ll tell you, I was jest tickled we hadn’t got to do no more fighting for a while. Not till next time, I thought, and that’s good ‘nuff for me. So you see, I was beginning to turn into some sort of a soldier, after all. That’s how us soldiers reckon things: day to day, and a day alive’s a good ‘un.
Now why don’t you take what’s left of that rat out of here, and let’s get some sleep?