The uneasy conviction had been spreading since Sharpsburg. In March, farther north, Fitz Lee had sent one taunting note too many to Brigadier Bill Averell, a New Yorker whom Charles remembered from the class of '55. Fitz dared Averell to bring his boys down across the Rappahannock and fetch along some coffee to be captured. Averell's division of horse struck south like a thrown spear. The raiders killed Stuart's famed artillery officer, gallant John Pelham.
It appeared a small event, speaking relatively, but it wasn't. The passing of any soldier with the legend of glory on him could scar a Southern mind as whole fields of the fallen could not. Pelham's death and Averell's lightning attack convinced Wade Hampton's troopers of one thing: their Yankee counterparts no longer suffered from a fear of being outmatched.
"Let me see that shoe." Charles snatched the tongs from the farrier. "Heat it and put it back in the vise. It isn't wide enough at the heel. His hoof spreads when he puts weight on it." "I know my job."
Charles stared right back. "I know my horse." "You plantation boys are all —"
Charles stepped forward, handing Sport's bridle to Ab. The farrier cleared his throat and began to pump the bellows. "All right, all right."
Later that day, Charles bid Ab good-bye and rode north. In Richmond he visited Orry and Madeline, who had found larger quarters — four rooms, the whole upper floor of a house in the Court End district. The owner's mother had lived there, and the quarters became vacant when she died. Orry paid the outrageous rent without complaint, happy to be out of the rooming house.
For Charles's visit, Madeline fried up a dozen fresh farm eggs, never saying how she had gotten them. They all declined to discuss Ashton and her husband, and talked till four in the morning. Charles told them about Gus, whom he hadn't mentioned before. Orry reacted predictably when he heard the location of Barclay's Farm. Lee was crouched at Fredericksburg with Jackson, but Hooker was just across the river with twice as many men. Orry said it was folly for Gus to remain in Spotsylvania County.
Charles agreed. They talked further. He slept badly, rolled up in a blanket on the floor, and left the city next morning.
North again through the Virginia springtime. Under blue skies, he rode by lemony forsythia and burning pink azaleas growing wild. Cherry blossoms shone like snowfields. The air smelled of moist earth and, here and there, of something else he recognized: rotting horseflesh. It was getting so you could tell where the armies had been just by seeing or smelling the dead horses.
Late that night, he crouched in a grove and watched a troop of southbound cavalry pass. Jackets and kepis looked black in the starlight. Black translated to blue. Union riders were behind Confederate lines again.
Only one aspect of the incident gave him comfort. The Yankees still rode with what he jeeringly called their fortifications — burdensome extra blankets, tools, utensils — as much as seventy pounds of unnecessary gear. The weight was hard on a horse. Charles hoped the Yankees never learned the lesson.
He reached Chancellorsville, a few buildings and a crossroads unworthy of being called a village. Turning right onto the Orange Turnpike, he continued toward Fredericksburg through the Wilderness, an all but impassable forest of second-growth oak and pine entangled with vines. Even in bright sunlight, the place looked sinister.
Where the Wilderness straggled out, he cut to the northeast. The fragile good cheer generated by the weather left him. He was back in the war zone for fair.
The countryside swarmed with Confederate engineer companies, trains of supply wagons, six-horse artillery batteries, slow-moving herds of scrawny cattle. An officer demanded his pass, then asked whether he had seen any Union cavalry between here and Richmond. Charles said he had. The officer told him it was probably Stoneman, reported to be striking at communication lines to the capital.
Gray-clad stragglers wandered through the freshly turned fields, going where and doing what, God only knew. So many soldiers abroad didn't bode well for a woman living alone, even if the soldiers wore the right uniform. It was proven again when he came within sight of Barclay's Farm. A white-topped commissary wagon stood in the road, and two rough-looking teamsters were eying the house as Charles approached. He put his hand on his shotgun, and they decided to drive on.
As he rode into the dooryard, Boz threw down his ax, leaped over some split logs, and ran toward him. "Hello, hello! Miss Augusta — Captain Charles is here."
Boz sounded more than happy. He sounded relieved.
"Something's troubling you," she said. "What is it?" They lay side by side in the dark. They had supped and talked, hugged and kissed, bathed and made love. Now, instead of feeling a pleasant drowsiness, he was struggling in the web of his own thoughts. "Where shall I start?" he asked.
"Wherever you want."
"It's going badly, Gus. The whole damn war. Vicksburg's threatened — Grant's in charge there. Orry knew him at the Academy and in Mexico. He says the man's like a terrier with a bone. Won't let go even if the pieces choke him to death. Orry wouldn't say it to anyone else, but he thinks Grant will have Vicksburg by the autumn. Then there's Davis. Still coddling second-rate generals like Bragg. And the cavalry can't find enough horses, let alone the grain to feed them."
"The farms around here are stripped bare. The war doesn't help anyone catch up, either. You plow an acre, ten minutes later a battery of artillery gallops across it, and you start over."
"The superstitious boys say our luck's turned bad. Sharpsburg might have been a victory instead of a stand-off if the Yankees hadn't found those cigars wrapped in a copy of Lee's order. Courage doesn't count for much against bad luck — or the numbers the other side can muster."
But Cooper had spoken of the numbers long ago, hadn't he? Warned of them. Charles shivered in the dark. She stroked his bare shoulder, soothing. "I'd say those are all eminently respectable worries."
"There's one more."
"What is it?"
He rolled onto his side, able to see her only as a pale shape.
"You."
"My darling, don't squander a single minute fretting about me.
I can take care of myself." There was pride in the statement, and reassurance. But he heard anger, too.
"Well, I do fret. Can't sleep half the time, thinking of you stuck here by yourself."
And that's why no man should let himself fall in love in wartime. The conviction lay like a rock inside him, unwanted, upsetting — and undeniable.
"That's foolish, Charles."
"Hell it is. Hooker's sure to attack Fredericksburg — maybe within a few days. The Army of the Potomac could overrun the whole county."
"Boz and Washington and I can —"
"Hold out against bluebellies who haven't seen a pretty woman for months? Come on."
"You're being quarrelsome."
"So are you. I have good reason. I can't stop worrying."
"You could stop coming here, then you wouldn't have to worry at all."
Cold and flat, the words fell between them. He flung himself out of bed, crossed his arms, furiously scratched his beard in vexation. She rose to her knees on the bed, touched his shoulder.
"Do you think I don't worry about you? Constantly? Sometimes I think I fell in love just when I shouldn't have — with a man I shouldn't have —"
"Then maybe I should stop coming here."
"Is that what you want?"
A silence. Then he broke, spun, pulled her naked body up in his arms, hugging her and stroking her hair. "God, no, Gus. I love you so much, sometimes it makes me want to cry for mercy."
Trembling, they held each other, he standing beside the bed, she kneeling. Finally, the searing problem had been exposed. Sometimes I think I fell in love just when I shouldn't have — with a man I shouldn't have. She faced the constant threat of loss. He bore a constant concern, one that weighed him down like all the gear carried by the Yankee cavalry. Lord God, Charlie — Ab's voice — you forgotten why we're all here?