The Bloody Ground

“What now?” Moxey asked him.

“Your men can stand picket,” Starbuck said. “Coffman? Go and find the Colonel, tell him we’re across the cornfield.” There were the dead to bury and the wounded to patch up.

The intermittent sounds of battle died utterly, leaving the field to rain and thunder and the cold east wind. Night fell. A few feeble fires flickered in the depths of woods, but most men lacked the skill to make fires in such rain, so instead they shivered and wondered just what they had done and why and where the enemy was and whether the next day would bring them warmth, food, and rest.

Colonel Swynyard, lean, ravaged, and ragged bearded, found Starbuck after nightfall. “No trouble crossing the cornfield, Nate?” the Colonel asked.

“No, sir, no trouble. No trouble at all.”

“Good man.” The Colonel held his hands toward Starbuck’s fire. “I’ll hold prayers in a few minutes. I don’t suppose you’ll come?”

“No, sir,” Starbuck answered, just as he had answered every other evening that the Colonel had invited him to prayers.

“Then I’ll pray for you, Nate,” the Colonel responded, just as he had every other time. “I surely will.”

Starbuck just wanted sleep. Just sleep. Nothing but sleep. But a prayer, he thought, might help. Something had to help, for he feared, God how he feared, that he was becoming a coward.

Starbuck took off his soaking clothes, unable to bear their chafing any longer, and hung them to take what drying warmth they could from the remains of his fire, then he wrapped himself in the clammy embrace of his blanket and slept despite the rain, but the sleep was a wicked imitation of rest for it was a waking sleep in which his dreams were mingled with rain and dripping trees and thunder and the spectral figure of his father, the Reverend Elial Starbuck, who mocked his son’s timidity. “Always knew you were rotten, Nathaniel,” his father said in the dream, “rotten all the way through, rotten like decayed timber. No backbone, boy, that’s your trouble,” and then his father capered unscathed away through a gunfire that left Starbuck dreaming that he was clinging to damp soil. Sally was in his dream too, yet she was no comfort for she did not recognize him, but just walked past him into nothingness, and then he was woken as someone shook his shoulder.

At first he thought the shaking was a part of his dream, then he feared the Yankees must be attacking and rolled quickly out of his wet blanket and reached toward his rifle. “It’s all right, Major, ain’t the Yankees, just me. There’s a man for you.” It was Lucifer who had woken him. “Man for you,” Lucifer said again, “a real smart man.” Lucifer was a boy who had become Starbuck’s servant; an escaped slave with a high opinion of himself and an impish helping of sardonic humor. He had never revealed his true name and instead insisted on being called Lucifer. “You want coffee?” he asked.

“Is there any?”

“I can steal some.”

“Then get thieving,” Starbuck said. He stood, every muscle aching, and picked up his rifle that he remembered was still loaded with its useless charge of damp powder. He felt his clothes and found them still damp and saw that the fire had long gone out. “What time is it?” he called after Lucifer, but the boy was gone.

“Just after half past five,” a stranger answered and Starbuck stepped naked out of the trees to see a cloaked figure on horseback. The man clicked shut his watch’s lid and drew back his cloak to slip the timepiece into a fob of his uniform jacket. Starbuck glimpsed a braided smart coat that had never been blackened by powder nor soaked in blood, then the scarlet lined cloak fell back into place. “Maitland,” the mounted man introduced himself, “Lieutenant-Colonel Ned Maitland.” He blinked a couple of times at Starbuck’s nakedness, but made no comment. “I’ve come from Richmond with orders for you,” Maitland added.

“For me?” Starbuck asked dully. He was still not awake properly and was trying to work out why anyone in Richmond should send him orders. He did not need orders, he needed rest.

“You are Major Starbuck?” Maitland asked.

“Yes.”

“Good to meet you, Major,” Maitland said and leaned out of his saddle to offer Starbuck his hand. Starbuck thought the gesture inappropriate and was reluctant to take the offered hand, but it seemed churlish to refuse and so he stepped over to the horse and clasped the Colonel’s hand. The Colonel withdrew his hand quickly, as though fearing that Starbuck might have soiled it, then pulled his glove back on. He was hiding his reaction to Starbuck who, Maitland thought, looked an atrocious mess. His body was white and skinny while his face and hands were burned dark by the sun. A clot of blood scarred Starbuck’s cheek, and his black hair hung long and lank. Maitland was proud of his own appearance and took care to keep himself smart. He was a young man for a Lieutenant-Colonel, maybe thirty, and boasted a thick, brown beard and carefully curled mustaches that he oiled with a scented lotion. “Was that your mess boy?” He jerked his head in the direction Lucifer had disappeared.

“Yes.” Starbuck had fetched his damp clothes and was pulling them on.

“Don’t you know blacks ain’t supposed to carry guns?” Maitland observed.

“Ain’t supposed to shoot Yankees either, but he killed a couple at Bull Run,” Starbuck answered ungraciously. He had already struggled with Lucifer over the Colt revolver the boy insisted on wearing and Starbuck had no energy to refight the battle with some supercilious colonel come from Richmond. “What orders?” he asked Maitland.

Colonel Maitland did not answer. Instead he was staring through the dawn’s wan light toward the mansion beyond the stream. “Chantilly,” he said wistfully. “I do believe it’s Chantilly.”

“What?” Starbuck asked, pulling on his shirt and fumbling with its remaining bone buttons.

“That house. It’s called Chantilly. A real nice place. I’ve danced a few nights under that roof, and no doubt will again when we’ve seen the Yankees off. Where will I find Colonel Swynyard?”

“On his knees, probably,” Starbuck answered. “Are you going to give me those orders?”

“Aren’t you supposed to call me ‘sir’?” Maitland enquired courteously, though with an undercurrent of impatience because of Starbuck’s antagonism.

“When hell freezes over,” Starbuck said curtly, surprised at the belligerence that seemed to be an ever more salient part of his character.

Maitland chose not to make an issue of the matter. “I’m to hand you the orders in the presence of Colonel Swynyard,” he said, then waited while Starbuck pissed against a tree. “You look kind of young to be a major,” he remarked as Starbuck buttoned his pants.

“You look kind of young to be a colonel,” Starbuck responded surlily. “And my age, Colonel, only matters to me and the fellow who carves my tombstone. If I ever get a stone. Most soldiers don’t, not unless they do their fighting from behind a desk in Richmond.” After delivering that insult to a man who looked like a desk soldier, Starbuck stooped to tie the laces of the boots he had collected off a dead Yankee at Cedar Mountain. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture and the grass thick with water. Some of the Legion had drifted out of the trees to stare at the elegant Lieutenant Colonel who endured their scrutiny patiently as he waited for Starbuck to collect his coat. Lucifer had come back with a handful of beans that Starbuck told him to take to Colonel Swynyard’s bivouac. He pulled his wet hat onto his unruly black hair, then gestured to Maitland. “This way,” he said.

Starbuck deliberately forced the elegant Maitland to dismount by leading him through the thickest part of the timber where the leaves and brush soaked the Colonel’s silk-lined cloak. Maitland made no protest, nor did Starbuck speak until the two men had reached Swynyard’s tent where, as Starbuck had predicted, the Colonel was at his prayers. The tent’s flaps were brailed back and the Colonel was kneeling on the tent boards with an open Bible on his cot’s blanket. “He found God three weeks ago,” Starbuck told Maitland in a voice loud enough to disturb the Colonel, “and he’s been bending God’s ears ever since.” The three weeks had worked a miracle on Swynyard, turning a drink-sodden wretch into a fine soldier who now, dressed in shirtsleeves and gray pants, turned his one good eye toward the men who had disturbed his morning prayers.

“God will forgive you for interrupting me,” he said magnanimously, climbing to his feet and tugging his suspenders over his lean shoulders. Maitland gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of Swynyard, who seemed even more unkempt than Starbuck. Swynyard was a thin, scarred man with a ragged beard, yellow teeth, and three missing fingers from his left hand.

“Bites his nails,” Starbuck explained, seeing Maitland staring at the three stumps.

Maitland grimaced, then stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Swynyard seemed surprised at the offered gesture, but responded willingly enough, then nodded at Starbuck. “Good morning, Nate.”

Starbuck ignored the greeting, jerking his head toward Maitland instead. “Man’s called Lieutenant-Colonel Maitland. Got orders for me, but says he has to see you first.”

“You’ve seen me,” Swynyard said to Maitland, “so give Nate his orders.”

Instead Maitland led his horse to a nearby tree and tied its reins to a drooping branch. He unbuckled a saddlebag and took out a packet of papers. “You remember me, Colonel?” he called over his shoulder as he rebuckled the bag.

“Alas, no.” Swynyard sounded suspicious, wary of someone from his old, pre-Christian life. “Should I remember you?”

“Your pa sold some slaves to my pa. Twenty years back.”

Swynyard, relieved that one of his old sins was not being revisited on him, relaxed. “You must have been a boy, Colonel.”

“I was, but I remember your pa telling my pa that the slaves were good workers. They weren’t. They were no damn good.”

“In the trade,” Swynyard said, “they always say that slaves are no better than their masters.” Swynyard had spoken equably, though the words made it clear he had taken as great a dislike to Maitland as Starbuck had. There was an assumption of Privilege about Maitland that grated on both men, or perhaps the irritation came from the incursion into their lives of a man who so obviously spent his time far from the bullets.

“Lucifer’s bringing some coffee, Colonel,” Starbuck said to Swynyard.

The Colonel hospitably fetched a pair of camp chairs from his tent and invited Maitland to sit. He offered Starbuck an upturned crate and set another as a table. “So where are these orders, Colonel?” he asked Maitland.

“Got ’em right here,” Maitland said, putting the papers on the crate and covering them with his hat to stop either Swynyard or Starbuck from plucking them up. He took off his damp cloak to reveal a uniform that was immaculately cut and decorated with a double line of brass buttons polished to a high gloss. The twin gold stars on each of his shoulders seemed bright enough to be made of gold, while the braiding on his sleeves appeared to be fashioned from gold thread. Starbuck’s coat was threadbare, had no gold or brass or even cloth marks of rank, but only white salt marks where sweat had dried into the material’s weave. Maitland brushed the chair seat then twitched up his pants with their elegant yellow stripes before sitting. He lifted the hat, put the sealed papers aside, and handed another single sheet to Swynyard. “I am reporting to you as ordered, Colonel,” he said very formally.

Swynyard unfolded the sheet, read it, blinked, then read it again. He looked up at Maitland, then back to the paper. “You done any fighting, Colonel?” he asked in what struck Starbuck as a bitter voice.

“I was with Johnston for a time.”

“That ain’t what I asked you,” Swynyard said flatly.

“I’ve seen fighting, Colonel,” Maitland said stiffly.

“Done any?” Swynyard demanded fiercely. “I mean have you been in the rifle line? Have you shot your piece, then stood to reload with a line of Yankees taking a bead on you? Have you done that, Colonel?”