The March (25 page)

Talking and imbibing, the men did not appear to be in any rush to rejoin the march. The black people sitting in the carriage talked worriedly to one another. Their faces full of trepidation, they were looking back at the house. It was quiet there, not a sound issued nor any sign that living people were within. And now Pryce, too, began to feel uneasy. He mounted his swaybacked mule and waited.

The door of the house flew open and a black child, a boy, came dashing down the steps. The boy saw Pryce and ran across the gravel road and raised his arms and gestured with his hands, indicating that Pryce should lift him onto the saddle. So that is what Pryce did.

At this point a soldier who had climbed onto the dray held up one of the plantation’s bone-china plates and, calling for everyone’s attention, scaled the plate into the air, an inspiration as far as the others were concerned, for as the plate made its parabola and fell, shattering, on the ground, they grabbed their rifles and urged him to repeat the exercise. Shortly they were having target practice with the house china, though who was hitting the flying target and who was missing was not possible to know, the shooting coming from several rifles at once.

The boy, in a fearful state, had taken the reins from Pryce and was attempting to snap them over the swayback to get it going. The mule, already frightened by the gunfire, balked and turned in a circle, whereupon Pryce saw a woman coming toward them from the house, a whip in her hand. His impression in the brief glimpse he had was that she was a younger woman in a gray dress, one of the planter’s daughters, perhaps, or a niece, pale, thin-lipped, with her hair tightly pulled across her skull, and those sharp cheekbones and narrow familial plantation eyes that now intended no good. He heard from the porch another woman calling, Martha, Martha, get back inside, Martha! The whip in the woman’s hand was not a horse whip, it was a shorter thong at the end of a stick, a slave whip, and she was brandishing it at the child. But somehow a soldier coming over to retrieve a plate that had not shattered got in her way, and all at once in her rage, silent and white faced, she raised her whip and struck him. And at this moment whatever minimal controls of civilized behavior still prevailed on this February morning were burst as if from a bomb.

The soldier, a bloody slash across his face, caught the whip in his hand, pulled it to him, and knocked the woman to the ground. And now he began to beat her, shouting and raising the whip high and bringing it down on her as she screamed and attempted to crawl away. You’d whip me? he shouted. You’d whip me! But as she crawled so he struck, her cries inflaming him. This seemed even more of a diversion to the others than shooting at dishes and within moments several of the troops were gathered around the action, obscuring Pryce’s view. His urge was to step in and try to stop what was happening, but he knew he wouldn’t. This is not your country, he told himself. This is not your war. The Sergeant had come running over, shouting, She’s white, goddamnit, this is a white woman! It seemed a matter of urgency for Pryce to get the boy out of there, this awful business not for a child’s eyes. The woman’s screams had given way to wails. They were tearing off her clothes, and over the backs of huddled troops, hanks and shreds of the garments flew into the air.

The Sergeant, having been ignored, now made a determination that what was going on was evolved to a military event. He called to some men who were still at the wagon train and deployed them as pickets facing the house. Pryce, turning his mount to ride off, saw that the lord of the realm, having come out on the porch, stood there unmoving and impassive, as if what he was suffering at this moment must not be expressed lest it give satisfaction to the enemy. So to Pryce, riding away through the rose and azalea gardens with the pitiable shrieks and wails of the woman in his ears, the old man, too, subscribed to a war that conformed such things as this into military events.

HUGH PRYCE DIRECTED
the animal down the long greensward, across the road, and over the fields to the opening in the stone wall. Some three hours had passed since he had ridden out of camp with the bummers. The line of march of a corps extending for miles, he assumed that by going back the way he had come he would find the column even if it had set off at dawn. And so he entered the woods, trusting to his sense of direction to guide him.

The boy had calmed down and, riding in front of Pryce, bent his little back and peered ahead. He was dressed in livery—tan knee pants and stockings, black buckled shoes, and a tan jacket with yellow piping. Pryce let him hold the reins, which seemed to please him. The dark woods were warm now and in their hush the mule proceeded at a leisurely pace. The boy’s name was David. He said he didn’t know his age. He could not remember a mother or father. He had been the household’s brush-fly boy, charged with standing behind the Massah’s chair and waving a big feathered fan. That was his main duty. He said sometimes he sat up in the carriage beside Cassius.

As they rode along, the mule of its own volition slackened its pace. Pryce sat back and looked right and left through the woods. The sunlight came in shafts through the tall trees, momentarily filling his eyes then leaving him in darkness. He would not need notes to remember this day. He was suddenly and uncharacteristically tired. This is not your country and not your war, he reminded himself. So what are you doing with this Negro child in your charge?

How old was David—eight, nine? The lad had made a decision that was beyond the capacity of most of the slaves on that plantation. It was true that at his age he would not think of the future or worry what fate would bring him, he would not have the thoughts that might constrain an adult, that would make an adult prefer the miseries he knew to the hazards he could not foresee. Children were of the here and now. Yet, like all of them, he had heard the lordly speech of the old man. And it hadn’t worked on him, that fearsome address. With his dash from the house the child had asserted his life to be his own. It did not have to be more than a moment’s impulse, but it was enough to set him free.

And now what am I going to do with you, David?

Dunno, suh.

Pryce could feel the boy’s delight to be in command of this animal which, of course, would go only at its own chosen pace regardless of the instructions it received. David didn’t seem to mind, languidly flipping the reins and giggling when nothing happened. And so they ambled along through the woods, Pryce with his hands on the child’s thin arms.

II

C
ROSSING THE PEE DEE RIVER INTO NORTH CAROLINA,
Kilpatrick’s staff rode as his carriage escort. They posted with an élan despite their unshaven faces and bedraggled and battle-worn attire, each of them hoping for a glance from the General’s latest acquisition, the famous eighteen-year-old Southern belle Marie Boozer. And her mother, Amelia Treaster, seated on the other side of Kilpatrick, was not bad, either. The daughter was fair-complexioned, blue-eyed, and with a plump little bow mouth. Her great mass of golden curls pinned upward from her ears was crowned with a charming bonnet the size of a tea saucer. The mother was a brunette, her dark eyes alight with mischief. She was smoking a little cigar. And where Kilpatrick thought Marie’s allure was in the nature of a mystery still to be plumbed, Amelia Treaster’s was in the challenge of a well-loved woman. Their gowns spread out from their persons to fill the carriage like a great plume of rainbowed cloud. The two of them together were driving Judson Kilpatrick out of his mind.

He had found them in Columbia, self-attested as being Union sympathizers. And so of course they had to join the march. Nor were they without resources, the grand Victoria in which Kilpatrick now reclined being theirs, and the wagon directly behind carrying, in addition to the plunder Kilpatrick brought to them, as if the war ahead was to be an extravagant months-long picnic, their clothes and jewels, silver, china, and crystal.

While trying to maintain a conversation to keep the ladies amused—alluding portentously to General Sherman’s plans for the state of North Carolina—Kilpatrick was all the while devising his own strategy for the coming night, for he wanted nothing less than a total conquest, he wanted them both. Sack duty for you, madam, he thought while smiling at the mother. And for you, dear girl, he thought while throwing her a lovesick glance, an introduction to what we in the military call horizontal drill.

What, Kilpatrick wondered, could he do to impress these women? Of course, they appeared to be duly impressed with his rank, his authority, his bodyguard of riders, but he doubted their sincerity, Marie’s especially, who looked away from him every now and then to glance at one of his young officers riding escort. And both women appreciated the foolish puppy-loving competition the cavalrymen were engaged in, each man vying for the favored position at a canter alongside the carriage so as to pose straight of back, one hand loosely holding the reins, the other on his sword.

Kilpatrick was distracted, too, by his nephew, Buster, who was riding in the wagon directly behind. Damn the boy—he had found a sack of dried peas and was standing up beside the driver and blowing peas through a straw in an attempt to hit his uncle. Kilpatrick stood and motioned to the wagoner to stow the boy in the back. For his trouble, he received a pea sting on his defenselessly ample nose.

When Kilpatrick resumed his seat, the ladies were laughing. Amelia Treaster said, You’ve got yourself a sharpshooter, General Kilpatrick. And so he laughed, too. But he was thinking to murder the boy. Peas were all over the carriage, some distributed on the ladies’ skirts. He ventured to brush the peas away. Just like the rice thrown at weddings, he said.

THE CAVALRY, RIDING
vanguard for the Fifteenth Corps, was intending to secure Fayetteville, some forty miles to the northeast. There had been reports that the Rebel force under General Hardee was demonstrating in that direction. Fayetteville was a stepping-stone to Goldsboro and Raleigh, the ultimate objective of General Sherman’s strategy.

Periodically scouts were reining up to Kilpatrick’s carriage and leaning over to report sotto voce that Hardee’s cavalry, under General Wade Hampton, was actually to Kilpatrick’s rear, shadow-riding and looking for a chance to attack. Hampton had ambushed him at Aiken and was looking do so again. Over my dead body, Kilpatrick thought. But he found it hard to plan for a contest while enswathed in the perfumed presence of Marie Boozer. Again and again, as she chattered away, and gave him sidelong glances that revealed the perfect conformation of her tiny ear, he imagined her gasp of surprise when for the first time in her sheltered life of gallant Southern courtiers and elegantly phrased compliments she would find herself on her back and attaining, from one powerful thrust, revelation of the true nature of a man.

Kilpatrick halted his column at a clearing, ordered up some refreshments for the ladies, and, excusing himself, sat down among the pine trees with maps and his staff and plotted his strategy. He would lie in wait for Hampton and intercept him. If General Hardee in Fayetteville sought to make a stand, he would find himself deprived of cavalry. Kilpatrick ordered deployments of one brigade each to the two roads upon which Hampton was said to be moving, and a third brigade to a road farther north in the event Hampton chose the more roundabout route.

For his camp, Kilpatrick chose Solomon’s Grove, a swamp-bordered village several miles from the road he thought Hampton was most likely to take, and after he had given orders for the troops’ encampment, with genuinely sincere regrets he ordered that the ladies be taken there forthwith under escort, in command of his portly gray-haired adjutant, Brevet Colonel Melrose Mortimer, who was said to be the oldest active officer in the Army of the West.

Kilpatrick called for his horse. And, Melrose, he said, as he mounted, for he wanted personally to oversee his deployments and get a better idea of the terrain, tell Jean-Pierre I want a wham-bang dinner for three this evening. Tell him this is a Grand Cru night. Grand Cru, you hear me? This Solomon’s Grove will surely be a sorry excuse for a village, but take the best house and see to the ladies’ comfort. I’ll be along presently. You’re to keep my nephew quiet. Put him to bed. And, Melrose, this above all. If, at war’s end you hope to live out your life in receipt of a full colonel’s pension, do not let the women out of your sight.

Kilpatrick trotted his horse over to the carriage. Marie, Mrs. Treaster, you will forgive me if I attend for a moment to this nuisance of a war. I’ve arranged for your safety and will join you for dinner. And raising his cockaded hat from his head and spurring his horse, he galloped off through the woods with two dozen of his escort thunderously following.

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON
as this reconnoiter was made, but under the canopy of tall North Carolina pines it might have been evening. Kilpatrick was irritated by the gloominess. This was early March, and he thought it typical of the damn South to rush to darkness just when the days were lengthening. In New Jersey, where he was born a few miles from the ocean, there was normally brilliant sunlight and all the foul miasmas of the earth were lifted away by the ocean breezes. It was on the Jersey beaches that, as a boy, he had first discerned the natural shapes of women when they rose from their ocean baths with their skirts clinging to them.

Here it smelled of pine resin and the moldy hairless plant life of toadstool and lichen. All the more reason not to die here. The bed of pine needles was composted so thick that if you turned up a spade of it you would find moles and worms and beetles and squiggly eyeless things that had no name. Where were the birds in this forest? There were none. It was too damn quiet for his taste.

The trees now became thicker in number, and he led his men single file as they wound their way, snakelike, in a westerly direction until, according to the maps, they would come out two or three miles from the first of the roadblocks he had called for. They found a lumber trail to follow. A mist was rolling in, gauzy layers of it wrapping around the trees, and within moments Kilpatrick felt his face as wet as if he had just washed it. Drops of water landed with a thunk on his hat brim. He heard the rumble of thunder. It went on awhile and grew louder. Then, as if to assure him that his glorious plans for the night were under review by a higher authority, the forest was illuminated in a blinding blue light. There was an ominous sizzling sound of a running fuse, and a spattering crack of tree trunks splitting, and then a deafening boom, as if the whole earth were a blown munitions dump. The horses went wild, and for several moments the men had all they could do to maintain their seat. Kilpatrick, not the best of horsemen, found himself hanging by one leg from the stirrup as his mount dragged him bumping over the gnarls of tree roots. He heard himself shouting. He came loose and slammed against a tree. For some moments the air was filled with the shouts of men and the whinnies of frightened mounts, until all sound was drowned out by a torrential downpour.