Long hair flying, he laughed again. In this wrong-colored, unhandsome little animal, he just might have discovered a remarkable war horse.
"I'll take him," he said when he returned to the fence by the road. He reached for a wad of bills. "You said a hundred —"
"While you was frolicking with him, I decided I can't let him go for less than a hundred and fifty."
"The price you quoted was a hundred, and that's all you get." Charles fingered the shotgun. "I wouldn't argue — you know us boys from the buttermilk cavalry. Thieves and killers."
He grinned again. The deal was concluded without further negotiation.
"Charlie, you were flummoxed," Ambrose declared five minutes after Charles got back to camp with the gray. "Any fool can see that horse has nothing to recommend it."
"Appearances don't always tell the tale, Ambrose." He ran a hand down Sport's slightly arched nose. The gelding nuzzled in a determined way. "Besides, I think he likes me."
"He's the wrong color. Everyone will take you for a damn cornet player instead of a gentleman."
"I'm not a gentleman. I quit trying to be one when I was seven. Thanks for the loan of your horse. I've got to feed and water this one."
"Let my nigger do it for you."
"Toby's your manservant, not mine. Besides, ever since I attended the Academy, I've had this peculiar idea that a trooper should care for his own mount. It is his second self, as the saying goes."
"I detect disapproval," Ambrose grumbled. "What's wrong with bringing a slave to camp?"
"Nothing — until the fighting starts. No one will do that for you."
Ambrose found the remark irksome. He stayed silent for some seconds, then muttered, "By the way, Hampton wants to see you."
Charles frowned. "About what?"
"Don't know. The colonel wouldn't confide in me. Maybe I'm not professional enough to suit him. Hell, I don't deny it. I only signed up because I love to ride and I hate Yankees — and I don't want a bundle of petticoats left on my doorstep some night to tell everybody I'm a shirker. I thought I'd earn the respect of my friends by taking a legion commission, and instead I've lost it." He sighed. "Remember we're dining with old princey-prince this evening?"
"Thanks for reminding me. I forgot."
"Tell Hampton not to keep you, because his highness expects us to be prompt."
Charles smiled as he led Sport away. "That's right, in this army it's dinner parties before duty. I'll be sure to remind the colonel of that."
Though Camp Hampton was the bivouac of an elite regiment, it was still succumbing to familiar afflictions, Charles noticed on his way to regimental headquarters forty minutes later. He saw human waste left on the ground instead of in the sinks dug for the purpose. The smell was worse because the late afternoon was windless.
He saw a pair of privates stumbling-drunk from the poisonous busthead sold by the inevitable sutler in the inevitable tent. He saw three gaudily dressed ladies who were definitely not officers' wives or laundresses. Charles hadn't slept with a woman in months, and he could tell it. Still, he wasn't ready to take up with beauties like these; not with so many complaints of clap in the encampment.
In contrast to the busy sutler, the gray-bearded colporteur had no customers at all and made a forlorn sight seated against the wheel of his wagon reading some of his own merchandise. One of the Bibles he sold? No, it was a tract, Charles observed; possibly A Mother's Parting Words to Her Soldier Boy, eight pages of cautionary moralizing in the form of a letter. It was a hot seller throughout the army, though most of the better-educated legionnaires jeered at it.
He passed two young gentlemen whose salutes were so brief as to border on insulting. Before Charles finished returning the salutes, the men were once again arguing over the price to pay a substitute when it was inconvenient to stand guard. Twenty-five cents per tour was the customary rate.
The next unpleasantness he came upon was a large pavilion with its sides raised because of the sweltering heat and dampness after the rain. Inside lay those already felled by the shotless war. Sickness was everywhere; bad water made men's bowels run and constrict with ghastly pain; balls of opium paste did little to alleviate the suffering. Surviving dysentery in Texas had not kept Charles from spending another week with it in Virginia. Now there was a new epidemic in the army: measles.
He hated to wish for combat but, as he entered the headquarters area, he couldn't deny he was sick of camp life. Mightn't be long before he got his wish, at that. Some old political hack, General Patterson, had pushed Joe Johnston and his men out of Harpers Ferry, and word was circulating that McDowell would shortly move at least thirty thousand men to the strategic rail junction of Manassas Gap.
Barker, the regimental adjutant, was finishing some business with the colonel, so Charles had to wait. He scratched suddenly. God, he had them, all right.
About six, the captain came out and Charles reported to the colonel he greatly admired — Wade Hampton of the Congaree: a millionaire, a good leader, and a fine cavalryman in spite of his age. "Be at ease, Captain," Hampton said after the formalities. "Sit if you like."
Charles took the stool in front of Hampton's neat field desk, one corner of which was reserved for a small velvet box with its lid raised. In the box stood an easeled frame, filigreed silver, containing a miniature of Hampton's second wife, Mary.
The colonel rose and stretched. He was a man of commanding appearance, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, obviously possessed of immense strength. Though a splendid rider, he never indulged in the kind of equestrian pranks that were common in the First Virginia, commanded by Beauty Stuart, whom Charles had known and liked at the Academy. Jeb had dash, Hampton a forceful deliberateness. No one questioned either man's courage, but their styles were as disparate as their ages, and Charles had heard their few meetings had been cool.
"I'm sorry I was gone when you sent for me, Colonel. Captain Barker was aware of the reason. I needed a remount."
"Find one?"
"Luckily, yes."
"Very good. I wouldn't care to lose you to Company Q for too long." Hampton drew a paper from a pile on the desk. "I wanted to see you about another discipline problem. Earlier today, one of your men absented himself without leave. He was present for morning roll call but gone by breakfast call a half hour later. He was apprehended ten miles from here, purely by change. An officer recognized the legion uniform, hailed him, and asked where he was going. The young idiot told the truth. He said he was on his way to participate in a horse race."
Charles scowled. "With some First Virginia troopers, perhaps?"
"Exactly." Hampton brushed knuckles against his bushy side whiskers, dark as his wavy hair; the whiskers met and blended into a luxuriant mustache. "The race is to be held tomorrow, within sight of enemy pickets — presumably to add the spice of danger." He didn't hide his scorn. "The soldier was returned under guard. When First Sergeant Reynolds asked why he'd gone off as he had, he replied —" Hampton glanced at the paper —" 'I went to have some fun. The First Virginia are a daring bunch, with good leadership. They know a trooper's first responsibility is to die game.'" Chilly gray-blue eyes fixed on Charles. "End of quote."
"I can guess the man you're talking about, sir." The same one who had wanted to kill the Union prisoner they took some weeks ago. "Cramm?"
"That's right. Private Custom Dawkins Cramm the third. A young man from a rich and important family."
"Also, if the colonel will forgive me, an aristocratic pain in the rear."
"We do have our share of them. Brave boys, I think, but unsuited to soldiering. As yet." The addition declared his intent to change that. He slapped the paper with the back of his other hand. "But this foolishness! 'To die game.' That may be Stuart's way, but I prefer to win and live. Regarding Cramm — I'm empowered to convene a special court-martial. He's your man, however. You deserve the right to make the decision."