Uncomfortable about the invitation, Charles spent the next couple of hours cleaning his uniform. At least he had the gift sword to smarten his appearance. Presently he mounted Sport and rode down a lane flanked by fields where bees hummed in the white clover blossoms. The sun was sinking. Northward, the I heights of Fleetwood swam in blue haze.
Wish I could get out of here and see Gus, he thought. Something's mighty wrong about this campaign.
"Glad you accepted the invitation, Bison. I've been feeling I poorly of late. Rheumatism. I need some good company."
Fitz did indeed look pale and unhealthy. His beard was big and bushy as ever, his uniform immaculate, but he lacked his customary vigor; he talked and moved lethargically.
He expressed surprise that his old friend didn't intend to enjoy the company of the ladies gathering at Culpeper. To which Charles replied, "I have a lady of my own now. I'd have invited her, but I couldn't get a message to her soon enough."
"Is it a serious affair of the heart? Going to settle down when this muss is over?"
"Could be, General. I've been thinking about it."
"Let's dispense with general and captain for one evening," Fitz said. He gestured his friend to a camp chair. "The old names will do."
Charles smiled and relaxed. "All right."
The fireball of the sun rested on the low hills in the west. The open tent was breezy and comfortable. One of Fitz's officers joined them for whiskey served by a Negro body servant. Colonel Tom Rosser, a handsome young Texan, had been ready to graduate in the class of May '61 when he resigned to fight for the South. The three cavalrymen chatted easily for fifteen minutes. Rosser twice mentioned a cadet in the later, June, class of '61 who was with the Union.
"Name's George Custer. He's a lieutenant. Aide to Pleasonton. I used to consider him a friend, but I reckon I can't any longer."
Thinking of friendships and Hampton, Charles cast an oblique glance at the general. Why had Fitz invited him? For the reason he gave — company? Or another?
On the subject of Custer, Fitz said, "I hear they call him Crazy Curly."
"Why's that?" Charles asked.
Rosser laughed. "You'd know if you saw him. In fact, you'd recognize him instantly. Hair down to here —" He tapped his shoulder. "Wears a big scarlet scarf around his neck — looks like a damn circus rider gone mad." Softly, more reflectively, he added, "He doesn't lack courage, though."
"I've also heard he doesn't lack for ambition," Fitz remarked. "On the peninsula they called him Pleasonton's Pet."
In the universal fashion of cavalrymen, the three officers fell to discussing the strong and weak points of other opponents. Pleasonton got poor marks, but Fitz and Rosser were impressed by the exploits of a heretofore unknown colonel, Grierson, of Illinois. In late April, to divert attention from Grant at Vicksburg, Grierson had led seventeen hundred horse on a daring ride from LaGrange, Tennessee, to Baton Rouge, tearing up railroad tracks and killing and imprisoning Confederate soldiers along the way.
"Six hundred miles in slightly more than two weeks," Rosser grumbled. "I'd say they've been reading our book."
As the evening went on, Charles found himself growing depressed. He said little and watched his friend Fitz with a feeling amounting to envy. For a young man, Fitz had indeed come a long way — and not solely because of family connections. He had a reputation as a good officer, and he had certainly changed his style since Academy days, when he delighted in thumbing his nose at the rules.
Presently Rosser stood up, putting on his dress hat. "I must go. Pleasure to meet you, Captain Main. Heard good things about you. Hope we'll see you again."
Rosser's final remark seemed to pass some coded message to Fitz. As the general's Negro put tin plates of beef and spoon bread before them, Fitz said, "You're wasting your time with old Hampton, you know. I lost a colonel to gangrene a week ago. His regiment's yours if you want it."
Caught short, Charles stammered, "Fitz, that — well, that's very flattering."
"The devil with that. There are too many problems in this war, right down to and including my rheumatism, for me to squander a minute on flattery. You're a fine cavalryman, an able leader, and if I may say so, you're serving with a commander who is not all he should be — now wait. Don't bristle."
"But I've been with General Hampton for two years. I signed on with him when he raised his legion in Columbia. He has first claim on my loyalty." "Rightly so. However —"
"He's a competent officer and a brave one."
"No one doubts Wade Hampton's courage. But the man is — well — not young. And on occasion he has displayed a certain timidity."
"Fitz, with all due respect, please don't say any more. You're my friend, but Hampton is the best officer I've ever served under."
Fitz cooled noticeably. "Do you include General Stuart in that statement?"
"I'd sooner not elaborate, except on one point. What some call timidity, others call prudence — or wisdom. Hampton concentrates his forces before he attacks! He wants a victory, not casualties or headlines."
Fitz practically bit the spoon bread off his fork. "Amos? Get in here with the whiskey." As the servant poured, Fitz eyed his visitor with disappointment and annoyance. "Your loyalty may be commendable, Charles, but I still insist you're wasting your talents." No more nickname; the reunion had soured. "Most every officer who graduated from West Point when we did is a colonel or a major — at minimum."
That hurt. Charles took a breath. "For what it's worth, I was in the promotion line two years ago. I made some mistakes."
"I know all about what you term your mistakes. They're not as serious as you may imagine. Grumble Jones and Beverly Robertson are disciplinarians, too. Both lost elections to colonel because of it. But new commands were found for —"
"Fitz," he interrupted, "haven't I made myself clear? What I'm doing suits me. I don't want or need a new command."
Silence fell in the tent. Outside, the black servant could be heard pottering at his camp stove. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Charles. If you won't go where you can be most useful, why fight for the South at all?"
The faint scorn angered Charles. "But I'm not fighting for the South if that means slavery or a separate country. I'm fighting for the place where I live. My land. My home. That's why most of the men joined up. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Davis understands that."
Fitz shrugged and began to eat quickly. "Sorry to hurry you, but I must make an attempt to get to the ball. By the way, General Lee has announced himself available on Monday. General Stuart has ordered a review."
"Another one? What's he thinking of? Today's review tired the horses and put the men in bad temper. We should be watching for Yankees north of the river, not expending more energy on military foppery."
Fitz cleared his throat. "Let us agree those remarks were never uttered. Thank you for coming, Charles. I'm afraid you will have to excuse me now."
The evening taught Charles a gloomy lesson. He and Fitz could no longer be friends. They were divided by rank, by opinion, and by all the political pulling and hauling of command. Next day an incident near Kelly's Ford deepened his gloom. Scouting northeast of the Rappahannock, beyond the picket outposts, he and Ab stopped at a small farm to water their horses and refill their canteens. The householder, a skinny old man, struck up a conversation. With a bewildered air, he told them that his two elderly slaves, husband and wife, had run off the day before yesterday.
"Couldn't get over it. Still can't. They was always so nice. Smiling, biddable darkies — been that way ever since I bought 'em six years ago."