Soldier of the Queen (7 page)

Colby went back to his thoughts.

His sympathies were mixed. He liked the forthright attitude of the Northern soldiers he had met but, because the South was less hostile to Britain and had been so successful against the odds, there was the romantic aura about the Confederates of a lost cause.

More than anything else he had noticed the changed methods. Precision weapons and long-range artillery had ended the old habit of advancing in close order, and it looked as though this would be the pattern for the future. And while, once, an army a long way from its base was finished when it had lost ten thousand men, here in America they had discovered armies could be reinforced by rail and stay in the field. Soldiers had become moles and the movement of cavalry was as strange to Colby as it was mysterious. Its use was not for shattering infantry but for marauding expeditions, cutting railways, destroying crops, capturing wagons; as far as a pitched battle was concerned, it didn’t seem to be of much use at all because it was invariably employed as mounted infantry, never using the sabre and only utilising its horses to get at speed from one part of the field to another. His father, Colby decided, would have been horrified.

Magruderville was typical of the small towns of Maryland. One or the other of the two armies had recently passed through it and it was a ruin of blackened chimneys and fire-scarred walls.

As they moved down the main street, a hound with a voice like a trumpet came out from under a porch, yelled at them for a moment or two then slunk back, and a few children stared at them from doorways. The hotel had been shattered, the lounge a ruin, the mirrors starred by bullets, the stuffing ripped from the chairs. A torn portrait of Abraham Lincoln taken from a magazine and tacked to a wall had been punctured by a dozen revolver shots.

The owner’s wife was a large woman with red hair and a bosom like a frigate under full sail. ‘Sure,’ she said in reply to Colby’s question. ‘We can give you a room.’

The landlord gestured with the whisky jar he held. ‘Good, light and plumb airy,’ he grinned. ‘Window got knocked out.’

Colby was staring round him. ‘What happened?’

‘Them goddam Rebs. Came through here raidin’ and burnin’, toot-tootlin’ on their bugles and stealin’ everythin’ they could lay their hands on. We ain’t had time to get things straight yet.’

Maryland and South Pennsylvania had been scoured clean as Lee had swept up to Gettysburg and they were scared sick in case he came again. The whole area had been cleared of shoes by the barefooted men – even women’s and children’s shoes had been snatched up for their families back home – and there had been uproar all along the Mason–Dixon line, with burned townships, fresh graveyards, ruined farms and shattered homes.

The landlord gestured at his wife. ‘Flora there wrapped the Stars and Stripes across her front and stood on the porch to show ’em what she thought of ’em. But one of them there Texicans saw her and yelled out ‘Lady, take care! We’re good at storming breastworks when the Yankee colours is on ’em! She took ’em off right quick and went inside.’

Grinning at his wife’s blushes, he studied Colby’s clothes. ‘You English?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Your goddam Queen better not recognise them Rebs! What you payin’ with?’

‘Yankee money.’

The proprietor grinned again. ‘Better’n Confederate notes,’ he said. ‘Ain’t much to eat, but we druv the chickens and shoats into the woods. We could do fried pig-meat or chicken.’

Colby shrugged. ‘Shan’t complain,’ he said. ‘Two of us.’

‘Only one bed. And you take your spurs off before you lie down. Got any arms?’

‘Just a couple of Colts for our own protection.’

‘Don’t wear ’em around. Guy gets at the whisky he likes to shoot the chandeliers down. Stables round the back. Advise you not to stay in Magruderville. There’s somethin’ brewin’ up.’

‘What sort of something?’

The landlord shrugged. ‘Battle, I guess,’ he said. ‘A big one. The army’s just passed through.’

‘Which army? Yours or theirs?’

‘Depends where your sympathies lie. Northern, matter o’ fact. They say the hills is full of Rebs.’

Ackroyd brought the saddlebags upstairs. He accepted the cigar Colby offered and, pulling the coverlet of the bed down, indicated the grubby sheets.

‘’E said the Northern army just passed through. I think they all slept in this ’ere bed.’ He grinned. ‘Considering ’ow big this bloody country is, sir, it’s thoughtful of ’em to fight their battle so ’andy.’

Colby put his feet up on the bed, and sat back while Ackroyd produced a flask and poured them both a drink. Leaning back against the soiled pillow, Colby fished out the last letters from home that he’d received via Washington. One of them was from his sister, Harriet, to say that Georgina Markham had at last got married – to Claude Cosgro. Harriet seemed pleased. For some reason she seemed fond of her younger brother and had never liked Georgina; while for Claude Cosgro, who had once tried his tricks with Harriet and got her fist in his eye for his trouble, she had a sheer active dislike. She seemed to think they were well suited and Colby wondered if the union had been the result of another big seduction scene. Judging by the participants, it seemed likely, one way or the other. At least, he decided, it ought to be safe enough now to go home.

The only other worthwhile item of news was that Brosy la Dell was also now in the States. He had returned to the regiment but had taken six months leave and written to Washington to say
he
was going to have a look at the war, too – from the South, passing through the blockade via Mexico.

Because it was Saturday, there were a lot of soldiers in the town, staging a get-together in the lounge of the hotel with fiddlers, hard cider, whisky and girls. They made enough noise to wake the dead but, since they might well be among the dead themselves before long, Colby had a feeling they probably deserved it. Among them was a pale-faced young man in a blue suit that had a military cut to it but was not a uniform.

‘Von Hartmann,’ he introduced himself. ‘Hans-Viktor von Hartmann. 19th Prussian Lancers.’

‘Colby Goff. 19th (Prince Leopold’s Own) Lancers.’

Von Hartmann smiled. ‘We have much in common, I think. Almost we are brothers.’ He spoke excellent English with only a slight accent.

‘You with the Northern troops?’ Colby asked.

‘No.’

‘Newspaper?’

Von Hartmann’s lips tightened. ‘Hardly the profession for an officer. I am a military observer from the Prussian Government. I’m here to find out all I can about American methods.’

The noise was growing louder round the bar so they took their drinks and sat outside on the stoop where they could talk.

‘We take a different view of the army in my country,’ the Prussian said. ‘Ours is a martial capital, and war belongs to the province of social life. We believe in studying other people’s methods. It’s such a help if you have to fight them. Do you do the same?’

‘We have rather more chance of first-hand experience. In Egypt, Africa and India.’

Von Hartmann stiffened.
‘We
are a young army,’ he said. ‘But we have already beaten the Danes.’

‘Beating the Danes is nothing to boast about,’ Colby observed dryly.

‘No, of course not.’ There was a hint of resentment at Colby’s words. ‘But it establishes a principle. “
In Gottes Namen drauf!
” That was what von Wrangel said at Duppel: In the name of God, forward! That’s our policy. We don’t look back. Only forward to the next conflict. There will be greater battles than Duppel. Against Austria perhaps. We are determined that the leadership of the German peoples shall not rest solely in the hands of the men in Vienna. With Austria out of the running, we shall then organise a Federation of North German States, and it will be controlled by Prussia.’

‘And then?’

Von Hartmann shrugged. ‘Perhaps France,’ he said. ‘Few nations have had so bad a neighbour as Germany has had in France. They have invaded our country fourteen times in a hundred and fifty years. Who do you think will win the war here?’

‘The North.’

‘Exactly,’ The stiff smile appeared as the Prussian approved of Colby’s view. ‘They have made it technical and that is what
we
believe in. We too, are perfecting the railway machine. With the railways and the telegraph, a commander-in-chief can handle vast numbers of men and move his troops by mathematical calculations, not guesswork. Everything that can be done before a battle should be done, and this, of course, reduces the question of luck. Our general staff has a plan in the case of a war with Austria or even a war with France.’

‘What about a war with England?’ Colby asked.

Von Hartmann’s eyes flickered. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ he said.

The Northern soldiers were still in the lounge of the hotel when they arrived downstairs the following morning. Sprawled in chairs and corners and on and under the billiard table, most of them seemed incredibly young and Colby wondered if he’d looked that young, too, when he’d had his own first taste of war.

Setting off just as daylight arrived, they passed a group of small wooden houses clustered round a church as though afraid of what the day would bring. Then, with the long ranges of the mountains shouldering their way south-west, they crossed a river by a wooden-roofed bridge, the horses’ hooves thumping hollowly on the planking, and began to come on acres of picket lines occupied by blue-clad men, and slopes dark with mules and horses, vast stacks of fodder, heaped ammunition and kegs of powder. What seemed fields-full of spare wheels for guns and limbers were laid out in rows according to size, and artillery parks were set up in squares, with spare caissons and cannon lined up like hansoms outside a station.

‘Battle coming all right, sir,’ Ackroyd observed. ‘They’re loading ammunition, not rations.’

Like everyone else except the civilians well behind the lines, the soldiers were sick of the war and when the military band that was playing started on ‘Home Sweet Home’ there was a derisive cheer. From the cavalry camp there was a lot of whinnying and a squadron of blue-coated men was making the ground tremble as it moved off. The high sweet notes of trumpets shrilled and the guidons cracked in the wind as the horsemen formed into column. It made Colby feel homesick.

Infantrymen were also on the move, some of them munching hard tack and cold beans as they waited for orders by fires where coffee was brewing at the sides of the road. Escorting cavalry had broken out nosebags but stood ready to snatch them away in the event of an alarm, while other men carried buckets of water from the river, slung on poles cut from the woods. Here and there a deserted regimental camp stood with tents flapping.

There was an air of excitement everywhere. It was obvious everybody was expecting a battle and they seemed to be expecting to win it, too. The armies had passed through this stretch of country before and there wasn’t a house left standing. Even the birds seemed to be wary, flocks of crows flying from one patch of woodland to another, cawing loudly as they went. There was no foraging and no looting because the farms were heaps of ashes.

The colonel of a regiment of Maine infantry looked up as they were ushered into his tent. He was staring at a map spread on a camp bed, frowning deeply and making notes in the margin. He was young and tired-looking but he showed no surprise as Colby announced himself. The Americans were growing used by this time to the interest shown by Europeans in their war. Half the British army had contrived to cross the Atlantic to have a look.

The colonel was far from happy with the disposition of his men. He was a lawyer by profession and, with his lawyer’s instinct, he clearly wasn’t prepared to take things at their face value.

‘I got some problems, you see, Captain,’ he said. ‘This war’s brought some queer types over here. We’d got some queer types of our own, mind: generals who make political speeches and politicians who make battle plans. But this guy they’ve put in command here’s different. He’s a Frenchman. Name of Cluseret. Gustave-Paul Cluseret. Know him?’

Colby shook his head and the colonel went on. ‘Sonofabitch’s nothing but a common soldier of fortune. Commissioned at St Cyr but got himself involved in the revolution in Paris in 1848. Said he was wounded in the Crimea and promoted captain with the Legion of Honour. Maybe he did. I don’t know.’ He was obviously worried by his disloyalty but clearly had little time for his commanding officer. ‘I guess, as a captain in the British army, you’ve maybe got more experience than me.’

‘Well,’ Colby agreed, ‘It takes longer to get to be a colonel.’

‘Yeah. Sure. Well, I was a lieutenant when this war started and I’m still only just beginning to find my way about.’ The colonel offered a long black cigar and lit one himself. ‘I asked around in Washington. I have friends there practising law and they’d heard of him. The goddam man was cashiered. In Algeria, for stealing stores. Well, that’s none of my business, but it seems when the war started he got himself a job as an aide to some political general and now we’ve got him shoved on to us.’

The colonel sighed. ‘I’m sure worried. I even heard the guy fought for the other side originally. Maybe their politicians aren’t so goddam interfering as ours and he could get nothing out of ’em and came north to try his luck.’ He shrugged. ‘You go talk to him. I guess he’ll see you. He likes newspapermen.’

As they moved westwards again, a last troop of horsemen thudded past in the dust trying to catch up the infantry. They moved swiftly, their equipment jingling, different from European soldiers, horsemen without grace, a squadron of light cavalry in active operation against the enemy, troops without the polish of peacetime or any of the glitter of the parade ground.

They wore blue blouses with brass buttons, trousers with yellow stripes and heavy spurred boots. Carbines sat in leather buckets on their saddles and blue metal Colt revolvers hung from rings, while their sabres were carried under their left legs where they didn’t slap against the leathers.

Cluseret’s headquarters had a Gallic air about them. A glee club was singing somewhere in the darkness and they could hear a violin going. Cluseret himself was tall with a pale skin, black hair and beard, and he possessed the sort of coarsely-handsome face that must have made him a favourite with women.