Over his shoulder he saw a pair of Deacon Follywell's partisans riding down on him. One dropped his rein and fired his carbine. The bullet dug a ditch in front of Sport, who veered with the sureness of an experienced war-horse and left the ditch stained red.
The thin, cool sunshine cast pale shadows of the riders in the field, one ahead, two behind. Charles breathed almost as hard as his horse, wanting the sanctuary of some woods directly ahead yet knowing that every bit of extra exertion pumped more blood from Sport's wound. The gray's mane stood out horizontally, fringe petrified by the wind. The eye Charles could see had the wild cast of battle, pain, both.
Another shot from the pursuers. It thunked a tree as horse and rider plunged into the woods. Abruptly, an ice-covered brook loomed. A shot broke a limb three feet behind, dropping it with a crash. Charles applied spurs. Up and over the stream Sport flew, leaving a misty red ribbon in the air behind him.
Branches whipped Charles's cheeks and laid one open. He could hear the gelding's labored breathing now, sense his strength faltering. Sport couldn't jump Hatcher's Run; they had to gallop through, tossing up fans of water. A moment more, and Charles saw the Confederate works.
He waved his hat, yelled the countersign. He indicated his pursuit, and the boys behind the earthworks began pinking away. The partisans wheeled and retreated. One shook a fist, then both vanished.
Charles reined in, dismounted, wiped his bleeding cheek, and walked Sport past the end of the earthworks, bending to murmur a gratitude so profound he could scarcely find words for it. A lot of men had joshed him about treating a horse as if it were human, but Sport had acted that way these past fifteen minutes, understanding Charles was in peril, giving everything — everything — to save him if he could. He owed as much to the gray as he did to Billy.
Sport stumbled, almost fell. Charles led him into a natural semicircle of bare shrubbery, let the rein drop, and watched as the gray slowly toppled onto his right side and lay there, heaving. Pink lather covered his left side from withers to belly.
A couple of mangy pickets tiptoed up. Without looking around, Charles said, "Find me a blanket."
"Sir, they ain't no blankets out here on —"
"Find me a blanket."
Within five minutes, a piece of sewn-together carpet square was passed over his left shoulder. Charles laid it gently on Sport. The gray kept trying to raise his head, as if he wanted to see his master. Charles knelt, the wet ground soaking his knees. His hand moved up and down Sport's neck, up and down.
"Best horse in the world," he whispered. "Best horse in the world." Twenty minutes later, Sport died.
On his knees next to the gray, Charles pressed dirty palms tight against his eyes. He wanted to cry, but he was unable, as he had been ever since Sharpsburg. He remained motionless a long time. Faces of gaunt, starving boys peeked from the door of a nearby bombproof. There was no comment, no mockery of the tall man with the bleeding cheek kneeling bareheaded by the horse.
Presently Charles struggled to his feet. He put his hat back on. He felt different inside. Purged. Dead. He walked slowly to the bombproof and said to one of the starving boys, "Now I need a shovel."
"So I buried him," Charles told Fitz Lee. "Dug the pit myself, put him in, and covered him. Then I piled up a few stones for a marker. Not a very fitting memorial to the best horse I ever rode."
Fitz had heard of the loss and invited Charles to his tent for whiskey. The burly, bearded general now looked far older than his years. He gestured to the tin cup on the field desk.
"Why don't you drink that? You'll feel better."
Charles knew he wouldn't, but he took some to be courteous. It was poor stuff, scalding to the throat.
"So it was Bunk Hazard who saved you?"
A nod. "But for him, I'd be dead right this minute. I hope he's all right. Looked to me as if he was hit pretty badly."
Fitz shook his head. "You've had one blow after another lately. First your cousin —"
Frozen, Charles repeated, "Cousin?"
"Colonel Main. Pickett's Division. It happened two or three weeks ago. I assumed you knew."
"Knew what?"
"That he came across a wounded Yank in the woods and stopped to help him, but the Yankee had a hide-out gun."
"Is Orry —?"
"Gone. Almost instantly, according to the orderlies who were with him."
Once, at West Point, Charles had fought bare-knuckled. It was a challenge, a contest — no animosity. After twenty minutes, his oppononet, shorter but more experienced and agile, began leaping through his guard time and again to land blows. There had been a point at which every blow hurt exquisitely — and then a sudden crossing into another state in which he could still feel each one but only its weight; he was beyond his own capacity for pain.
So it was now. He stared down between his scarred boots and thought of all he owed Orry, who had seen something worth saving in a scapegrace boy. Orry had urged him to try for the Academy, had even arranged for a tutor to prepare him for the entrance examinations. Charles loved his tall, slow-spoken cousin. Madeline loved him, too. What would they do?
"Charles, I am deeply sorry to break tragic news in such a blundering way. Had I understood —"
A vague wave. "It's all right. Never mind."
After a moment Fitz asked, "Do you have any present plans?"
"I'm not going to the dead-line camp, that I can promise you. I want to get a pass, head south, and hunt for a remount."
"Doubt you'll find one in all of Virginia."
"North Carolina, then."
"There, either."
A listless shrug. "Maybe General Butler will have an extra. He's in South Carolina."
"So is Cump Sherman."
"Yes." It had no power to alarm him. Nothing did. With a sigh and a stretch of his aching bones — he was falling victim to rheumatism — he rose from the camp chair, then picked up the scrap-and-rag cloak, which by now had developed a fringe from heavy wear. He poked his head through the slit in the center and settled the garment on his shoulders. He could still smell horse on it. He wished that tears were not mysteriously locked up inside him.
"Thank you for the drink, Fitz. You be careful now that we're so close to winding things up."
Fitz didn't care for the admission of defeat implicit in the remark. Annoyance flickered in his eyes. But he checked it, shaking Charles's hand and saying, "Again, my most sincere condolences about your cousin. I'm also sorry you lost the gray."
"I'm sorry I lost them both for nothing."
"For nothing? How can you say —?"
Without rancor, Charles interrupted, "Please don't use that superior-officer tone with me, Fitz. We fought for nothing. We lost family, friends — hundreds of thousands of good men — for what? We never had a chance. The best men in Dixie said so, but no one listened. It's a pity."
The friend insisted on being the general. "That may be true. But it remains every Southerner's sacred duty —"
"Come on, Fitz. There's nothing sacred about killing someone. Have you taken a close look at a dead body lately? Or a dead horse? It's goddamn near blasphemy, that's what it is."
"Nevertheless, duty demands —"
"Don't worry, I'll do my duty. I'll do my fucking duty until your uncle or Davis or someone with sense realizes it's time to run up the surrender flag and stop the dying. But there's no way you can make me feel good or noble about it. Good evening. Sir."