Caleb (27 page)

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” said Caleb. He knew that once he signed up, he belonged to them. He feared that the army might be a bit like slavery. “How long would I have to sign up for?”

“We’re looking for three-year volunteers, but Lord only knows how long this damned war will last. Personally, I had a very snug little job out in Ohio when this blew up, but I doubt that I’ll ever get back to it.” He paused and looked at Caleb. “Damn, I’d conscript you if I could, but instead I have to convince you. I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Rivers, if you sign up, you won’t need this anymore.” He waved Caleb’s paper at him.

“I have to keep it,” Caleb said hurriedly.

“Of course you do,” Rogers said. “If I were you, I’d have it framed. But you won’t
need
it.” He reached awkwardly into the inside pocket of his many-buttoned jacket, delved into a wallet, and then threw a small printed card onto the table between them. “That’s my army identification card. Once you have one of
these
, nobody in this man’s world is going to question your free status again. It would take a very brave and foolish slave catcher to even look cross-eyed at you once he saw one of these.”

Caleb looked at the card and thought that the major was probably right.

“I can’t make any guarantees,” Rogers said hastily, “but from what I’ve seen of you, you’re going to make a splendid soldier, and if there is anything I—and the Union army—need right now, it’s more of them. You’ll train right here until the unit is fully formed, and then you could go anywhere and do anything. Hell,” Rogers laughed, “once you learn to read and write you might even become a sergeant.”

“I can read and write,” Caleb said, trying not to sound boastful.

“Can you, by damn?” Rogers looked at Caleb as if he’d found a diamond in his breakfast oats. “Can you? Then you
have
to join up. Damn it, Mr. Rivers, your country needs you. And if that doesn’t get you, do it for your own benefit. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that the rebs can beat us, but where do you think you would be if they did?”

“Back on the plantation,” Caleb said.

“The odds are strong,” said the major. “What do you say?”

Caleb ran everything through his head and made a decision. “I’ll do it, sir.” He held out his hand.

The major clasped it awkwardly. His grip was unusually strong. “Done!” he said. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Rivers. I swear it.”

Just then, a corporal knocked on the door frame and stepped into the office. “Formation, sir,” he said.

“I’m on my way,” Rogers said.

Rogers and Caleb got up. “I’ll walk you to the orderly room on my way to inspect those rascals,” said Rogers. “When can you report?”

“Next Monday morning?” Caleb said.

“Fine. Bright and early,” Rogers said as they walked. “Treat yourself to a good breakfast somewhere. The food here is appalling.” He caught himself. “I didn’t tell you about that, did I?” He laughed. “Well, you have to remember, I
am
recruiting. You don’t cook, by the way, do you?”

“Some,” said Caleb, “but I don’t plan to.”

“I don’t blame you. Filthy job. I suppose that’s why the food is so bad.”

At the orderly room, Rogers led Caleb to Garrison’s tiny office, where the sergeant was struggling with a stack of paperwork. Garrison jumped to attention.

“At ease,” Rogers said easily. “Sergeant Garrison, this man has agreed to enlist for three years. He will report ready for duty next Monday morning. He will be assigned to C Company under Sergeant Henkins. I’ve checked his paperwork, and all is perfectly in order. Do you have any questions?”

Garrison looked at Caleb and then at the major. “No, sir,” he said.

“I’ll leave him in your capable hands then,” Rogers said. The blare of a bugle split the air outside. “I hear someone calling me.” He offered his hand to Caleb again. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Caleb.

When Rogers was gone, the sergeant glared at Caleb. “So, you’ve
agreed
to join us, have you?”

“I’m joining,” said Caleb shortly.

“And we’re damned grateful,” the sergeant said.

Caleb did not answer. His expression was calm and unchallenging.

Breaking off his penetrating stare, Garrison pushed the stack of paperwork to one side and took out a blank form. “Well, you’d better sit down then,” he said. “Name?”

“Caleb.”

“Family name?”

Though it should not have, the question once again caught Caleb by surprise. He hesitated for a moment.

“Come on,” said Garrison. “I haven’t got all morning. The war will be over if we don’t get a move on.”

Caleb made up his mind.

“Jardine,” he said. “Caleb Jardine.”

48

Boyd Jardine had selected his NCOs and nearly recruited all of his troops when, after a few days away in Camden, he returned to Three Rivers with someone sitting beside him in the gig. The visitor was a tall, lean man with a full, biblical beard. He walked with a pronounced limp, but his broad shoulders suggested strength, and his dark, penetrating eyes revealed determination. The two men toured most of the plantation during the morning, and after lunch, Jardine called Drusilla and Big Mose into his study, where he and his visitor were drinking whiskey.

“This,” Jardine told his two most-trusted slaves, “is Captain Plunkett. He has come to Three Rivers with a view to acting as my overseer while I am away serving the Confederacy. I’ll likely be at home for some time to come, but my duties with the county dragoons will increasingly take up my time. Captain Plunkett, this is Drusilla, who runs the house, and this is Big Mose, my chief field hand. He—”

“We know Captain Plunkett, Massa.” Drusilla spoke determinedly with her eyes fixed on the visitor. “At least we know what people say about him. And we don’t like what we hear.”

“Why, you black bitch—” Plunkett started from his chair, but Jardine cut him off.

“Are you aware, Drusilla,” Jardine asked calmly but icily, “that you are speaking disrespectfully of a white man and a guest at Three Rivers?”

“I am, Massa,” Drusilla said, meeting his gaze. “May I speak directly?”

“Go ahead.”

“If Captain Plunkett comes to Three Rivers, I will not work in this house. I will return to the fields or ask to be sold.”

At this, Plunkett jumped from his chair and advanced menacingly on Drusilla with his fist raised, but she did not flinch. Before Plunkett could reach her, Big Mose moved to put his impressive bulk between them. His mild eyes were on Plunkett’s face.

But he spoke to Jardine. “Massa,” he said, “I feels the same. No disrespect to you, suh, but Captain Plunkett comes to Three Rivers, I can’t work for him.”

“I can see, Jardine,” Captain Plunkett said, getting control of himself, “that there’s a big job to be done here.”

“Thank you, Captain Plunkett,” Jardine said coolly, but he addressed Drusilla. “I assume that you have been discussing this with the people?”

“Yes, Massa,” she said firmly, “we have.”

“And can you tell me the basis of your objections to Captain Plunkett?”

“Yes,” she said. “Captain Plunkett is known in the county as a slave beater and a slave murderer. And we know it is true.”

“See here!” Captain Plunkett exclaimed. “I won’t have some goddamned slave wench blackening my name.” He would have struck her, but Big Mose remained steadfastly in his way.

“I beg your pardon, Captain,” Jardine said, “for the rudeness of my people. If you will finish your whiskey, I’ll drive you to the landing to catch the next boat. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”

The men rode to the landing in stony silence, and Jardine’s mood was not much improved on his return. He disappeared into his study and was not seen again until dinner. He ate in silence, waited on by Drusilla and Caesar. When Caesar had gone to the kitchen with a tray load of dishes, Jardine said to Drusilla, “Tell Caesar that he will not be needed anymore today, and bring two coffees to my study.”

When Drusilla came into the study with a tray, Jardine told her to sit down in the chair where Caleb used to sit. Drusilla sat down uneasily and ignored the second cup of coffee. After a long silence during which he lit a cigar, Jardine said, “Might as well drink that cup of coffee, Drusilla. That’s what it is for.” As she sipped warily, he continued, “Don’t think that I underestimate what you did today. Though it angered me, I recognize that it took real courage. Mose wouldn’t have done it without your lead, and I don’t believe that Caleb would have done it, either. Not that he lacked the courage, but it just wasn’t his style. You are a remarkable woman, Drusilla.”

When she did not respond, Jardine went on. “But now that you have chased Captain Plunkett away—oh, don’t deny it,” Jardine said when Drusilla opened her mouth to protest. “You did it as surely as if you had chased him down to the turnpike with a broom. At this very moment he is probably telling all of Camden what a lily-livered slavelover I am and how you rule me with a combination of womanly wiles and obeah. Thanks to you and Mose, my reputation in this county is about shot.”

When Drusilla again said nothing, Jardine asked, “Aren’t you even going to deny it?”

“No, sir,” Drusilla said. “But even white people know what that man is.”

“Yes, they probably do,” Jardine admitted. “I must admit that he does not come without reputation. But damn it, Drusilla, I’m on call from week to week. This time next month, I could be in the field with my troop, far from Three Rivers. Do you really think that you and Mose can run this place without me?”

“Yes, Massa,” Drusilla said.

“Well, Drusilla,” Jardine said, “that’s not very flattering, but my ego is not the important thing here. You read all those newspapers I gave you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you know that the Yankees are serious about bringing us back into the Union. Unlike some of our neighbors, I don’t underestimate their chances. The North is very powerful. If they win this war, you and all of the rest of the people on this farm will probably be freed. The Yankees, most of them, anyway, probably don’t want to do it, but events seem to have got ahead of common sense. And, in the meantime, this place has to be held together or none of us will have a home once the war is over. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Massa.”

“Well, you’re one up on me then, but I won’t try to bring in another white overseer. I’ve always had my own doubts about the species, and I’ll have to trust you and Mose. But mostly you, Drusilla. Are you aware that you will probably be the only black woman in charge of a plantation in this county, if not the entire South?”

“Yes, Massa.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“Yes, Massa,” Drusilla admitted. “I am. But we can do it.”

49

Dressed in his best and freed of the dead weight of the revolver, but not of the reassuring presence of his money belt, Caleb said good-bye to Elmore at seven o’clock on Monday morning. Then, mindful of the major’s advice, he ate the best steak he could find at that hour and headed for the West Side Armory. Everything he owned was in the worn carpetbag. He was sitting in the outer office when Sergeant Garrison passed by him on his way to the orderly room, picking his teeth.

“You,” said Garrison without halting.

Caleb didn’t say anything. He’d already learned at this early stage in his army career that the less you said, the better.

He was still waiting half an hour later when a small, worried-looking private came out of the orderly room and said, “Sarge wants you.” Caleb followed him in.

Garrison did not look up. “That precious paper of yours,” he said, holding out his hand. Caleb gave him a true copy of the paper he’d had made the week before. Garrison got up and ostentatiously walked out of the office with the paper. Caleb just stood there.

When he came back into the office, Garrison said, “This is not the original.”

“No, sir.”

Garrison looked at him for a long moment and then sat down, pulled a form out of a desk drawer, and silently began writing. In a few moments, he stopped, turned the paper around, handed Caleb a dipped pen, and said, “Put your mark there at the bottom.” He pointed at the spot with a tobacco-stained finger.

Caleb took the pen. “I believe, sir,” he said, “that there is a five-dollar bounty for the soldier who recommended that I enlist.”

“So?”

“I’d like to be sure that he gets the money,” Caleb said.

“I’ll take care of that.” Garrison jabbed the form with his finger. “Make your mark.”

“His name is Private Henry Todd,” said Caleb.

“I’ll fill it in later.”

“I believe that’s T-o-d-d,” said Caleb.

“I know how to spell his goddamned name, Private,” Garrison bellowed. When Caleb again did not respond, Garrison shifted his finger up to another part of the form.

“Okay, if you want Todd to get the money,
you
write his name.”

Caleb quickly found the blank line and printed “Henry Todd.” He then signed “Caleb Jardine” at the bottom of the form, as he had practiced the night before, handed Garrison the pen, and sat back.

Garrison didn’t waste any time being astonished that Caleb could write. Neither was he pleased. “Orderly!” he shouted and, grabbing a piece of paper, scrawled a note. When the panting orderly arrived, he said, “Take him to Sergeant Henkins, C Company, and give the sergeant this.”

“Yes, Sarge,” said the orderly. “Follow me,” he added to Caleb. Caleb could feel Garrison’s eyes on his back as they left the office.

“You didn’t make any friend there,” the orderly said to Caleb as they walked across the parade ground.

Sergeant Henkins, a white-haired old man who had been yanked out of happy retirement by the declaration of war, looked at Garrison’s note and then at Caleb.

“You’re late,” he said simply. “You’ve missed breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” said Caleb.

Initially, Henkins had planned to follow Garrison’s advice to make Caleb’s life miserable, but in practice this turned out to be hard to do. Aside from looming over most of the rest of the recruits like a cypress tree in a swamp and being in superb physical condition, Caleb followed orders, learned quickly, seldom spoke unless spoken to, and showed all the signs of becoming an excellent soldier. However, one morning Garrison was watching C Company drill. He’d dropped a reminder in Henkins’s ear at the sergeant’s mess the night before, and Henkins thought he had better put on a show.

“Jardine!” his old voice shouted.

“Sir!”

“Fall out!”

Caleb stepped out of ranks.

“Give Jardine a rifle.” McMann, his fat, lazy corporal, went to the rack, selected one of the heavy old muskets used for training, and thrust it into Caleb’s arms.

“Port arms,” Henkins commanded, and Caleb brought the ancient weapon up, its muzzle at the height of his left shoulder, its butt at his right hip. “Forward march!” Caleb began moving. “Double time, march!” Just before Caleb ran into the high black-stained brick wall, Henkins shouted, “Column left!” and Caleb found himself running all by himself just inside the wall while Henkins stood in the middle of the parade ground shouting orders. The rest of the training units watched, feeling very grateful that they weren’t Caleb.

For five, ten, fifteen minutes, Caleb ran mindlessly. The musket was beginning to weigh seriously on his arms, but other than that he felt very little pain. To pass the time, he imagined that he was ahead of a pack of Kershaw County hounds, running for his life. Caleb could see out of the corner of his eye that Garrison was enjoying the spectacle and made up his mind that he would not give the sergeant the satisfaction of seeing him stop running before the order came.

There’s no way of telling how long Henkins would have made Caleb run if he hadn’t looked up and seen Major Rogers watching from his window. Then Henkins recalled that Rogers, the battalion’s executive officer, had made it clear that he would be keeping a close personal watch on Caleb’s training and progress. The next time that Caleb came around, Henkins halted him, relieved him of the rifle, and ordered him to fall back in ranks.

“What was that all about?” whispered Hellewell, a scrawny recruit from Pennsylvania.

“You tell me,” said Caleb.

“Silence in the ranks!” ordered Henkins and went back to drilling his company.

About a month after Caleb enlisted, things started looking up. The company was coming to the end of basic training, and Henkins had the men out drilling as usual when a brawny cavalry sergeant came striding onto the parade ground carrying a pair of blunt-edged training sabers. Henkins turned the company over to the visitor, who faced the trainees.

“My name is Sergeant Blanchard,” he told them, speaking slowly as though to a group of foreigners. He held the sabers at arm’s length. “Does anyone know what these are?”

No one answered.

“Are you deaf?” he roared.

“No, sir,” came the ragged response. Blanchard surveyed them with disgust. His eye caught on Caleb.

“You—Big Boy,” he shouted, pointing a saber at Caleb. “Do
you
know what this is?”

“Yes, sir,” said Caleb. “It’s a saber.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Blanchard sarcastically. “In fact, it
was
a forty-two-inch scimitar type known popularly as a ‘wrist breaker.’ That’s why we cut it down to thirty-six inches. Get your black butt out here.” A sigh of relief went up from the other recruits.

Caleb stepped out of ranks and approached the sergeant, who looked him up and down.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jardine, sir. Caleb Jardine.”

Caleb had at least two inches on the sergeant. “Big as you are, Jardine,” Blanchard said, “you might be excused for mistaking this for a razor.” The recruits laughed, as they were expected to. Suddenly, Blanchard threw one of the blunt training sabers at Caleb, who caught it by the hilt.

Without a pause, Blanchard followed up with a broad stroke that Caleb parried noisily with the side of his blade. Instead of waiting for the sergeant’s next move, Caleb let the force of Blanchard’s thrust spin him halfway around and took advantage of the momentum to launch a chopping blow that caught Blanchard’s saber solidly just above the hilt. The sound of steel on steel rang out over the parade ground. Blanchard clutched his right hand in his left and waited for the pain to subside. Caleb stood at the alert.

The recruits held their breath as they waited for Blanchard’s reaction. Instead of exploding, he looked at Caleb and said, “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, why don’t we show these boys what a saber is for.”

For fifteen minutes, he and Caleb showed the recruits the variety of thrusts, blows, blocks, and parries available to the skilled
sabreur
. Finally, both running with sweat, they stopped, and Blanchard told the recruits, “Though it can be used on foot, the saber is essentially meant to be employed on horseback.”

Raising two fingers to his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle. There was a whistle in response, and a corporal of cavalry came galloping onto the parade ground leading a big bay. He dismounted and handed the reins of the second horse to Blanchard.

Pointing with his saber at Caleb, the sergeant said, “Pritchard, lend your mount to this recruit.” Though clearly not happy, the corporal obeyed. Without even inquiring whether Caleb could ride, Blanchard swung aboard the big bay and rode thirty yards to the front left of the formation. Caleb mounted and rode thirty yards in the opposite direction. Then he wheeled the dappled gray around so he was facing Blanchard. The saber was in his right hand, its blade vertical and resting lightly on his right shoulder.

Holding his saber high overhead, Blanchard bellowed at the recruits, “Your friend Private Jardine and I will now demonstrate some of the basic equestrian tactics with the saber. Since I am a sergeant in the United States Army, for the purposes of this demonstration, Jardine will represent the rebel cavalry. He looks pretty fierce, does he not?” The recruits laughed. “However, do not expect him to win this engagement. Johnny Reb never wins.” Extending his arm and saber fully toward Caleb, Blanchard spurred his horse into a trot. So did Caleb.

“On this first pass,” shouted Blanchard, “I shall thrust, and Private Jardine will parry my thrust.” He spurred the bay into a canter. Caleb did the same. As the two horsemen converged, Blanchard hit the bay hard with his spurs, causing it to cannon toward Caleb. At the same time he thrust the blunt saber directly at Caleb’s chest.

Patiently, Caleb maneuvered the gray at a slight angle from the charge of the bay and waited for the thrust, his saber close to and across his body, right to left. His eyes never left Blanchard’s face. At the last moment, Caleb spurred the gray, meeting the bay’s charge shoulder to shoulder and checking Blanchard’s progress. Leaning to the left, he let the sergeant’s saber pass his body and then immediately swept his own saber across his body and tied up Blanchard’s sword arm. The two horsemen remained locked like this for perhaps twenty seconds, a tableau of frustrated energy. Blanchard struggled—he hoped not too obviously—to free his sword arm but could not. Finally, he relaxed and so did Caleb. The two horses danced apart with a clatter of metal and a groan of leather.

“You see,” Blanchard told the recruits. “Jardine managed to successfully parry my thrust and tie me up long enough for an infantryman to shoot us both. There is a lesson in that. The cavalry saber is a shock weapon. Once the horseman loses forward momentum, its value is greatly decreased.”

The recruits—and Sergeant Henkins—tried to look as though they understood this.

“And now,” Blanchard shouted, spurring his horse, “we will reverse that last exercise. Jardine will thrust, and I will parry.” The two again rode thirty yards in opposite directions and wheeled to face each other. “In your own time, recruit,” Blanchard shouted.

Caleb patted the neck of the nervous gray and imitated the horse-settling noise he had often heard Jardine make. He gathered the gray under him as Blanchard waited impatiently. Then, wishing that he were wearing spurs, Caleb used his heavy army boots to viciously jolt the gray in the ribs on both sides. The shocked horse rocketed toward Blanchard, eyes flaring and tail streaming straight out. Caught sitting back in the saddle, Blanchard barely had time to raise his saber halfway before Caleb’s blade knocked it aside and passed between the sergeant’s left arm and body. As Caleb’s shoulder hit his chest, Blanchard rocked back in the saddle, and for a minute it looked as though he would fall to the dusty brick parade ground.

Finally, Caleb reined back, and Blanchard regained his balance. The two horses backed off. “As the result of that charge, gentlemen,” Blanchard told the recruits with a forced smile, “I am officially what we in the cavalry call
dead
. Your friend Jardine has killed me. You see what I meant when I said that the cavalry saber is a shock weapon. That marks the end of today’s demonstration. They’re all yours, Sergeant—except Private Jardine.”