inspection. The younger boy ran it through his fingers wonderingly.
"General Forrest's!" From it he looked to the faded weatherworn hat Drew
had left on a chair by the door. Boyd caught it up and pulled off the
leather string banding its dented crown. Carefully he fitted on
Forrest's gift and studied the result critically. Drew laughed.
"Like puttin' a new saddle on Croaker; it doesn't fit."
"Yes, it does," Boyd protested. "That's right where it belongs."
Drew, standing by the window, felt a pinch of concern. He found it
difficult nowadays to deny Boyd anything, let alone such a harmless
request.
"The first lieutenant comin' along will call me for sportin' a general's
feathers on a sergeant's head," he protested. "Nothin' from Cousin Merry
yet? Maybe Hansford didn't make it through with my letter. He hasn't
come back yet.... But--"
"Think I'd lie to you about that?" Boyd's eyes held some of the old
blaze as he turned the hat around in his hands. "And what I told you is
the truth. The surgeon said it won't hurt me any to ride with the boys
when you pull out. General Buford's ordered to Selma and Dr. Cowan's
sister lives there. He has a letter from her sayin' I can rest up at her
house if I need to. But I won't! I haven't coughed once today, that's
the honest truth, Drew. And when you go, the Yankees are goin' to move
in here. I don't want to go to a Yankee prison, like Anse--"
Drew's shoulders hunched in an involuntary tightening of muscles as he
stared straight out of the window at nothing. Boyd had insisted from the
first that the Texan must be a prisoner. Drew schooled himself into the
old shell, the shell of trying not to let himself care.
"General Buford said I was to ride in one of the headquarters wagons. He
needs an extra driver. That's doin' something useful, not just sittin'
around listenin' to a lot of bad news!" The boy's tone was almost raw in
protest.
And some of Boyd's argument made sense. After the command moved out he
might be picked up by a roving Yankee patrol, while Selma was still so
far behind the Confederate lines that it was safe, especially with
Forrest moving between it and Wilson.
"Mind you, take things easy! Start coughin' again, and you'll have to
stay behind!" Drew warned.
"Drew, are things really so bad for us?"
The scout came away from the window. "Maybe the General can hold off
Wilson ... this time. But it can't last. Look at things straight, Boyd.
We're short on horses; more'n half the men are dismounted. And more of
them desert every day. Men are afraid they'll be sent into the Carolinas
to fight Sherman, and they don't want to be so far from home. The women
write or get messages through about how hard things are at home. A man
can march with an empty belly for himself and somehow stick it out, but
when he hears about his children starvin' he's apt to forget all the
rest. We're whittled 'way down, and there's no way under Heaven of
gettin' what we need."
"I heard some of the boys talkin' about drawin' back to Texas."
"Sure, we've all heard that big wishin', but that's all it is, just
wishin'. The Yankees wouldn't let up even if they crowded us clear back
until we're knee-deep in the Rio Grande. It's close to the end now--"
"No, it ain't!" Boyd flared, more than a shade of the old stubbornness
back in his voice. "It ain't goin' to be the end as long as one of us
can ride and hold a carbine! They can have horses and new boots, their
supplies, and all their men. We ain't scared of any Yankee who ever rode
down the pike! If you yell at 'em now, they'd beat it back the way they
came."
Drew smiled tiredly. "Guess we're on our way now to do some of that
yellin'." The end was almost in sight; every trooper in or out of the
saddle knew it. Only some, like Boyd, would not admit it. "Remember what
I say, Boyd. Take it slow and ride easy!"
Boyd picked up Drew's hat again, holding it in the sunlight coming
through the window. The cord was a band of raw gold, gleaming brighter,
perhaps, because of the shabbiness of the hat it now graced.
"You don't ride easy with the General," he said softly. "You ride tall
and you ride proud!"
Drew took the hat from him. Out of the direct sunbeam, the band still
seemed to hold a bit of fire.
"Maybe you do," he agreed soberly.
Now Boyd was smiling in turn. "You carry the General's hatband right up
so those blue bellies can get the shine in their eyes! We'll lam 'em
straight back to the Tennessee again--see if we don't!"
But almost three weeks later the Yankees were not back at the Tennessee;
they were dressing their lines before the horseshoe bend of the
defending breastworks of Selma. Everything which could have gone wrong
with Forrest's plans had done just that. A captured courier had given
his enemies the whole framework of his strategy. Then the cavalry had
tried to hold the blue flood at Bogler's Creek by a tearing frantic
battle, whirling Union sabers against Confederate revolvers in the hands
of veterans. It had been a battle from which Forrest himself broke free
through a lane opened by the action of his own weapons and the
concentrated fury of his escort.
Out of the city had steamed the last train while a stream of civilian
refugees had struggled away on foot, the river patrolled by pickets of
cavalry ordered to extricate every able-bodied man from the throng and
press him into the struggle. Forrest's orders were plain: Every male
able to fight goes into the works, or into the river!
Now Drew and Boyd were with the Kentuckians, forming with Forrest's
escort a small reserve force behind the center of that horseshoe of
ramparts. Veterans on either flank, and the militia, trusted by none, in
the middle. Thin lines stretched to the limit, so that each dismounted
trooper in that pitiful fortification was six or even ten feet from his
nearest fellow. And gathering under the afternoon sun a mass of blue, a
vast, endless ocean....
The enemy was dismounted, too, coming in on a charge as fearless and
reckless as any the Confederates had delivered in the past. With the
sharpness of one of their own sabers, they slashed out a trotting arc of
men, cutting at Armstrong's veterans in the earthworks to be curled
back under a withering fire, losing a general, senior officers, and men.
But the rebuff did not shake them.
A second Union attack was aimed at the center, and the militia broke.
Bugles shrilled in the small reserve, who then pushed up to meet that
long tongue of blue licking out confidently toward the city. This time
there was no stopping the Yankee advance. The reserve neither broke nor
followed the shambling panic-striken flight of the militia, but were
pushed back by sheer weight of numbers to the unfinished second line of
the city's defenses.
Blue--a full tidal wave of it in front and wedges of blue overlapping
the gray flanks and appearing here and there even to the rear--
Having thrown away his rifle, Drew was now firing with both Colts, never
sure any of his bullets found their targets. He stood shoulder to
shoulder with Boyd in a dip of half-finished earthwork when the bugle
called again, and down the ragged line of gray snapped an order unheard
before--
"Get out! Save yourselves!"
Boyd fired, then threw his emptied Colt into the face of a tall man
whose blue coat bore a sergeant's stripes. His own emptied guns placed
in their holsters, Drew caught up the carbine the Yankee had dropped. He
gave Boyd a shove.
"Run!"
They dodged in and out of a swirling mass of fighting men, somehow
reaching the line of horse holders. Drew found Croaker standing stolidly
with dragging reins, got into the saddle, and reached down a hand to aid
Boyd up behind him. In the early dusk he saw General Forrest--his own
height and the proportions of his charger King Phillip distinguishable
even in that melee--gathering about him a nucleus of resistance as they
battled toward the city. And Drew headed Croaker in the General's
direction.
Boyd pawed at his shoulder as they burst into a street at the
bone-shaking gallop which was the mule's fastest gait. A blue-coated
trooper sat with his back against the paling of a trim white fence, one
lax hand still holding the reins of a horse. Drew pulled Croaker up so
Boyd could slip down. As he pulled loose the reins the Yankee slid
inertly to the ground.
A squad of blue coats turned the corner a block away, heading for them.
Somewhere ahead, the company led by the General was fighting its way
through Selma. Drew was driven by the necessity of catching up. The two
armies were so mingled now that the wild disorder proved a cover for
escaping Confederates.
Twilight was on them as they hit the Burnsville road, coming into the
tail end of the command of men from a dozen or more shattered regiments,
companies, and divisions, who had consolidated in some order about
Forrest and his escort. These were all veterans, men tough enough to
fight their way out of the city and lucky enough to find their mounts or
others when the order to get out had come. They were part of the
striking force Forrest had built up through months and years--tempered
with his own particular training and spirit--now peeled down to a final
hard core.
In the darkness their advance tangled with a Union outpost, snapping up
prisoners before the bewildered Yankees were aware that they, too, were
not Wilson's men. And the word passed that a Fourth United States
Regulars' scouting detachment was camped not too far away.
"We can take 'em, suh." Drew caught the assurance in that.
"We shall, we certainly shall!" Forrest's drawl had sharpened as if he
saw in the prospect of this small engagement a chance to redeem the
futile shame of those breaking lines at Selma.
"Not you, suh!"
That protest was picked up, echoed by every man within hearing. Finally
the General yielded to their angry demands that he not expose himself to
the danger of the night attack.
They moved in around the house, and somehow confidence was restored by
following the old familiar pattern of the surprise attack--as if in this
small action they were again a part of the assured troops who had fought
gunboats from horseback, who had tweaked the Yankees' tails so often.
Drew and Boyd were part of the detachment sent to approach the
fire-lighted horse lot, coming from a different angle than the main body
of the force. It was the old, old game of letting a dozen do the work of
fifty. But before they had reached the rail fence about that enclosure,
there was a ripple of spiteful Yankee fire.
"Come on!" The officer outlined against one of the campfires, lurched
and caught at the rails as the men he led crawled over or vaulted that
obstruction, overrunning the Union defenders with the vehemence of men
determined to make up for the failure of the afternoon. It was a sharp
skirmish, but one from which they came away with prisoners and a renewed
belief in themselves. Though they did not know it then, they had fought
the last battle of the war for the depleted regiments of cavalry of the
Army of the Tennessee. The aftertaste of Selma had been bitter, but the
small, sharp flurry at the Godwin house left them no longer feeling so
bitter.
"Where're we goin'?" Boyd pushed his horse up beside Croaker as they
swung on through the dark.
"Plantersville, I guess." But something inside Drew added soundlessly:
On to the end now.
"We're not finished--" Boyd went on, when Drew interrupted:
"We're finished. We were finished months ago." It was true ... they had
been finished at Franklin, their cause dead, their hopes dead,
everything dead except men who had somehow kept on their feet, with
weapons in their hands and a dogged determination to keep going. Why?
Because most of them could no longer understand any other way of life?
There was that long line of battles General Forrest had named.... And
marching backward through weeks, months, and years a long line of men,
growing more and more shadowy in memory. Among them was Anse--Drew tried
not to think about that.
Now, out of the dark there suddenly arose a voice, singing. Others
picked up the tune, one of the army songs. Just as Kirby had sung to
them on the big retreat, so this unknown voice was singing them on to
whatever was awaiting at Plantersville. The end was waiting and they
would have to face it, just as they had faced carbine, saber, field gun
and everything else the Yankees had brought to bear against them.
Drew joined in and heard Boyd's tenor, high but on key, take up the
refrain:
"On the Plains of Manassas the Yankees we met,
We gave them a whipping they'll never forget:
But I ain't got no money, nor nothin' to eat,
I'm afraid that tonight I must sleep in the street."
The Army of the Tennessee hadn't seen the Plains of Manassas, maybe, but
they had seen other fields and running Yankees in their time.
Drew found himself slapping the ends of his reins in time to the tune.
"I'm a poor Rebel soldier, and Dixie's my home--"
Croaker brayed loudly and with sorrowful undertone, and Drew heard a
laugh, which could only have come from General Forrest, floating back to
him through the dawn of a new morning.
18
_Texas Spurs_
The soft wind curled languidly in through the open church window,
stirring the curly lock which Boyd now and then impatiently pushed away
from his eyes ... was a delicate fingertip touch on Drew's cheek. A
subdued shuffle of feet could be heard as the congregation arose. It was
Sunday in Gainesville, and a congregation such as could only have
gathered there on this particular May 7, 1865. Rusty gray-brown,
patched, and with ill-mended tears, which no amount of painstaking
effort could ever convert again into more than dimly respectable
uniforms, a sprinkling of civilian broadcloth and feminine bonnets. And
across the church a smaller block of once hostile blue....
As the recessional formed, prayer books were closed to be slipped into
pockets or reticules. The presiding celebrate moved down from the altar,
his surplice tugged aside by the wandering breeze revealing the worn
cavalry boots of a chaplain.
"For the beauty of the earth,
For the beauty of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies."
Men's voices, hesitant and rusty at first, then rose confidently over
the more decorous hum of the regular church-goers as old memories were
renewed.
"Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our Hymn of grateful praise."
The hymn swelled, a mighty, powerful wave of sound. Drew's hard,
calloused hands closed on the back of the pew ahead. Hearing Boyd's
voice break, Drew knew that within them both something had loosened. The
apathy which had held them through these past days was going, and they
were able to feel again.
"Drew--" Boyd's voice quavered and then steadied, "let's go home...."
They had shared the talk at camp, the discussion about slipping away to
join Kirby Smith in Texas, and some had even gone before the official
surrender of Confederate forces east of the Mississippi three days
earlier. But when General Forrest elected to accept Yankee terms, most
of the men followed his example. Back at camp they were making out the
paroles on the blanks furnished by the Union Command, but so far no
Yankee had appeared in person. The cavalry were to retain their horses
and mules, and whole companies planned to ride home together to
Tennessee and Kentucky. Drew and Boyd could join one of those.
As they moved toward the church door now three of the Union soldiers who
had attended the service were directly ahead of them in the aisle. Boyd
caught urgently at Drew's arm.
"Those spurs--look at his spurs!" He pointed to the heels of the middle
Yankee. Sunlight made those ornate disks of silver very bright. Drew's
breath caught, and he took a long stride forward to put his hand on the
blue coat's shoulder. The man swung around, startled, to face him.
"Suh, where did you get those spurs?" Drew's tone carried the note of
one who expected to be answered promptly--with the truth.
The Yankee had straight black brows which drew together in a frown as he
stared back at the Confederate.
"I don't see how that's any business of yours, Reb!"
Drew's hand went to his belt before he remembered that there wasn't any
weapon there, and no need for one now. He regained control.
"It's this much my business, suh. Those spurs are Mexican. They were
taken from a Mexican officer at Chapultepec, and the last time I saw
them they were worn by a very good friend of mine who's been missing
since February! I'd like very much indeed to know just how and where you
got them."
Lifting one booted foot, the Yankee studied the spurs as if they had
somehow changed their appearance. When his eyes came back to meet Drew's
his frown was gone.
"Reb, I bought these from a fella in another outfit, 'bout two or three
weeks ago. He was on sick leave and was goin' home. I gave him good hard
cash for 'em."
"Did he say where he got them?" pressed Drew.
The other shook his head. "He had a pile of stuff--mostly Reb--buckles,
spurs, and such. Sold it all around camp 'fore he left."
"What outfit are you?" Boyd asked.
"Trooper, any trouble here?" A Yankee major bore down on them from one
side, a Confederate captain from the other.
"No, suh," Drew replied quickly. "I just recognized a pair of spurs this
trooper is wearin'. They belonged to a friend of mine who's been missin'
for some time. I hoped maybe the trooper knew something about him."
"Well, do you?" the major demanded of his own man.
"No, sir. Bought these in camp from a fella goin' on furlough. I don't
know where he got 'em."
"Satisfied, soldier?" the officer asked Drew.
"Yes, suh." Before he could add another word the major was shepherding
his men away.
"I'm sorry." The Confederate captain shook his head. "Pity he didn't
have any more definite information for you." He glanced at Drew's set
face. "But, Sergeant, the news wasn't all bad--"
"No, suh. Only Anse never would have parted with those while he was
alive and could prevent it--never in this world!"
"Where was your friend when he was reported missin'?"
"We were on scout in Tennessee, and both of us were wounded. I was found
by our men, but he wasn't. There was just a chance he might have been
taken prisoner."
"Men'll be comin' back from their prisons now. What's his name and
company, Sergeant? I'll ask around."
"Anson Kirby. He was with Gano's Texans under Morgan, and then he
transferred with me into General Buford's Scouts. He's about nineteen or
twenty, has reddish hair and a scar here--" With a forefinger Drew
traced a line from the left corner of his mouth to his left temple. "He
was shot in the left shoulder pretty bad when we were separated."
The captain nodded. "I'll keep a lookout. A lot of Texans pass through
here on their way home."
"Thank you, suh. Should you have any news, I'd be obliged to hear it. My
name's Drew Rennie, suh, and you can address a message care of the
Barrett's, Oak Hill. That's in Fayette County, Kentucky."
But the chance of ever receiving any such news was, Drew thought, very
improbable. That afternoon when he tried to find Boyd, he, too, was
missing and none of the headquarters company knew where the boy had
gone.
"Ain't pulled out though," Webb assured. "Said as how you two were
plannin' to head north with the Kaintuck boys right after the old man
says good-bye. Guess I'll trail 'long with you for a spell. You gotta
cross Tennessee to git to Kaintuck."
"Goin' home, Will?"
"Guess so. Heard tell as how they burned out m' old man. Dunno, that
theah's sure hard-scrabble ground; we never did make us a good crop on
it. Maybe so, we'll try somewheah's else now. Sorta got me an itchin'
foot. Maybe won't tie down anywheah for a spell."
"What about you, Injun?" Drew turned to Croff.
"Goin' back to the Nations. Guess they had it hard there too, General
Watie and the Union 'Pins' raidin' back and forth. They'll need schools
though, and someone to teach 'em--"
"You a teacher, Injun?" Webb was plainly startled.
"Startin' to be one, before the bands started playin' Dixie so loud,"
Croff said, smiling. "Maybe I've forgotten too much, though. I have to
see if I can fit me in behind a desk again."
"Heah's th' kid--"
Drew looked up at Webb's hail. Boyd walked toward them, his saddlebags
slung over one shoulder, under his arm the haversack for rations which
normally hung from any forager's saddle horn. He dropped them by the
fire and held two gleaming objects out to Drew.
"Anse's spurs! How did you get them?"
"Sold m' horse to the sutler at the Yankee camp. Then bought 'em. That
trooper gave 'em to me for just what he paid: five dollars hard money.
Said as how he could understand why you wanted to have them--"
"But your horse!"
Boyd grinned. "Looky here, Drew, more'n half of this heah Reb army is
footin' it home. I guess I can cross two little states without it
finishin' me off--leastwise I reckon anyone who has toughened it out
with General Forrest can do that much."
Drew turned the spurs around in hands which were a little shaky. "We got
Croaker, and we'll take turns ridin'. No, two states ain't too far for a
couple of troopers, specially if they have them a good stout mule into
the bargain!"
* * * * *
A hot copper sun turned late Kentucky May into August weeks ahead of
season. Thunder muttered sullenly beyond the horizon. And a breeze
picked up road dust and grit, plastering it to Croaker's sweating hide,
their own unwashed skin.
"Better ... ride...." Licking dust from his lips, Drew watched the
weaving figure on the other side of the mule with dull concern. They
were steadying themselves by a tight grip on the stirrups, and Croaker
was supporting and towing them, rather than their steering him.
Boyd's head lifted. "Ride yourself!" He got a ghost of his old defiance
into that, though his voice was hardly more than a harsh croak of
whisper. "I ain't givin' in now!"
He leased his stirrup hold, staggering forward a step or two, and would
have gone face-down on the turnpike if Drew had not made a big effort to
reach him. But the other's weight bore him along, and they both sprawled
on the road. Croaker came to a halt, his head hanging until he could
have nuzzled Drew's shoulder.
They had made a brave start from Alabama, keeping up with the company
they joined until they were close to the Kentucky-Tennessee border. Then
a blistered heel had forced Drew into the rider's role for two days, and
they had fallen behind. The rations they had drawn had been stretched as
far as they would go. Even though there were people along the way
willing to feed a hungry soldier, there were too many hungry soldiers.
The farther north they traveled there was also a growing number of
places where a blue coat might be welcome, but a gray one still
signified "enemy."
Drew moved, and raised Boyd's head and shoulders to his knee. If he
could summon enough energy to reach the canteen hanging from Croaker's
saddle.... Somehow he did, recklessly spilling a cupful of its contents
on Boyd's face, and turning road dust into flecks of mud which freckled
the gaunt cheeks.
"Ain't goin' t' ride--" Boyd's eyes opened and he took up the argument
again.
"Well," Drew lashed out, "I can't carry you! Or do you expect to be
dragged?"
Boyd's face crumpled and he flung up his arms to hide his eyes.
"All right."
With the aid of a sloping bank and an effort which left them both weakly
panting, Boyd was mounted and they started their slow crawl once more.
"Drew!"
He raised his head. Boyd had straightened in the saddle and was pointing
ahead, though his outstretched hand was shaking. "We made it--there's
home!"
Beyond was the green of trees, a whole line of trees curving along a
gravel carriage drive. But somehow Drew could not match Boyd's joy. He
was tired, so tired that he was aware of nothing really but the aching
weariness of his body.
They turned into the drive, the gravel crunching into his holed boots
while the tree shadows made a green twilight. Croaker came to a stop,
and Drew's eyes raised from the gravel to the line of one step and then
another. His gaze finally came to a broad veranda ... to someone who had
been sitting there and who was now on her feet, staring wide-eyed back
at the three of them. Then the gravel came up in a wave and he was
swallowed up in it and darkness--