The smoke was lifting into the sky in a brown rolling column and the din was tremendous as excited men yelped with glee or fired off their pistols into the air. Then the yells changed to laughter as a load of champagne was found, and corks began to pop until Love dashed among the yelling men, swinging his fists.
‘Cut that out,’ he roared. ‘Any man who gets drunk gets left behind!’
But there was no stopping them where the fruit and vegetables were concerned, or among the canned meat, oysters, lobsters, cases of beer, barrels of sugar, and eggs packed in salt, all in danger of being roasted. There was clothing, too, and the siding was converted in a moment into a vast dressing-room as yelling, laughing men supplied themselves with overcoats, blue trousers, woollen socks and boots, dragging them on, one on top of another, so that there would be spares not only for themselves but also for their friends.
A man with a beard and long hair was hopping about one-legged, trying to heave a pair of trousers over the grey rags he already wore. An officer was smashing kegs of spirit and soldiers on their knees were trying to lap it up, indifferent to the whacks delivered across their backs by the flat of the officer’s sword. More ragged men were swallowing pickled oysters and potted lobster, others were hacking at an enormous cheese or emptying bottles of wine, while still more were snatching up blankets and even lowering and rolling tents to carry them away. Yelling like madmen, the officers were trying to preserve order and a whole flood of captured horses was being driven up the slopes to the trees, ridden bareback by ragged riders leading their own mounts.
As the ammunition and powder went up in a colossal explosion, they all ducked and ran, clinging to rearing, frightened, white-eyed horses. Planks, wheels and timbers soared into the air with pieces of metal, sacks and boxes of food, to come thudding down in a shower. By a miracle nobody was hurt.
Love, his face blackened by smoke, grinned at Colby. ‘You-all sure found somethin’ here to write about!’ he yelled.
Many of the Federal soldiers who had bolted for the woods had tossed down their weapons and Love’s men were picking them up in armfuls. Baggage, wagons, newly-slaughtered and dressed sides of beef lay around in confusion, and Love’s men were rounding up blue-coated soldiers in dozens. Then scattered shooting started from the woods but Sigsbee had brought his guns round the trees at the gallop and, swinging round, the iron-shod wheels carving the turf into great black swathes, they came into line. Men jumped off at the run and within a moment one of them banged out in a puff of white smoke. As it rolled back, bouncing on its wheels, they saw the shell strike the trees, bringing two of them down. Two more guns were brought into action and they could see the Federals moving about in the undergrowth searching for shelter. Then a rider burst from the wood and started westwards, low over his horse’s neck.
‘Gone to tell Custer,’ Love commented to Farley as he watched with narrowed eyes. ‘We’d better call the boys off, Ed.’
Gathering the troopers into column, they trotted back up the slope and round the edge of the woods, every man with coats, trousers and boots strung across his saddle, rifles and pistols festooning his figure, and bottles, tins and sacks of food hanging from his belt. Behind them, mounted on captured horses or wagon mules, were the prisoners, sometimes riding two to a mount, and behind them again, driven by troopers whose mounts trotted on lead reins in rear, three dozen wagons loaded with equipment, clothing and food. ‘Reckon we’d better go find Jabez now,’ Love said. ‘Before Custer finds him for us.’
They found Jerkins sitting on a hill near Parks Bridge staring into the distance. It was bitterly cold now and there had been a few flurries of snow, so that he was wrapped in a blanket as he gazed through his telescope. He was a lugubrious-looking man with a dreadful scar, gained at Chancellorsville, stretching down the side of his face.
‘Custer ain’t givin’ up none,’ he said. ‘He’s still heading for Charlottesville. But Curtis came back to say the general was moving between him and Lee. There’s one other thing.’ He gestured into the distance. ‘He’s sent one regiment back towards Marble Stop.’ Jenkins grinned, his thin face crinkling under its fuzz of beard. ‘It’s right there in front, Colonel, all on its ownsome, looking for a fight.’
Love grinned. ‘Maybe we’d better give ’em one,’ he said. ‘That Custer’s goin’ to split his force just once too often.’
Leaving the guns to catch up, Love drove his men as fast as they could ride and came up with the Federal horsemen at noon the following day. Scouting ahead, Jenkins had found a position in the trees across their path and Love sent one of his squadrons to the right under Farley to watch the flank.
They waited in silence as the first file of blue-coated men breasted the hill where they had halted. As they paused on the summit, they seemed to suspect something was wrong, then they began to move warily forward again.
‘Classic ambush,’ Love observed calmly. ‘Get out your little notebook, Coll.
These
aren’t lines of supply troops, and we’ll show you how we deal with ’em.’
The Union soldiers still seemed uncertain and Jenkins was rocking back and forth in his saddle as if trying to urge them on. ‘We got ’em,’ he breathed. ‘Come on, Bluebellies. A bit further. Just a bit further.’
As he spoke, however, a shot brought their heads round and Colby saw a Union vedette go tearing along the fringe of the trees towards the column, pointing back to where Love’s men waited.
‘Goddam!’ Love snapped. ‘Where did he come from?’
‘The sonofabitch saw us!’ Jenkins wailed as the Federals immediately began to open out into line, and an officer came tearing up the slope to place himself in front.
‘Guess this is it,’ Love said, and the Confederates moved out of the trees at a trot across the long slope towards the waiting Union troops.
The Federal cavalry had halted again, as if uncertain what they were facing, and for a while there was a lot of manoeuvring and waiting. Then the column of Union soldiers came over the summit of the hill in line of battle, drawing slowly nearer until they were within four hundred yards of the Confederates. The officer in front waved his sword to order a charge and it looked for a moment as if the whole line was going to crash into the Confederate ranks. But Colby noticed that a number of the blue-coated horsemen were reining in and he knew immediately what it meant. The untrained Russian cavalry at Balaclava had shown the same hesitation when faced by the Heavies, and the British, leaping at once to a charge as their forward momentum stopped, had routed twice their own number. These men in front of him were inexperienced and as uneager to advance as the Russians.
‘Now,’ he said to Love. ‘Now!’
Love gave him a fleeting grin and a nod, then turned to order a charge. As he did so, there was a crackle of firing from the blue line and he was flung back, his spine bending over the crown of the saddle. Two more saddles were also emptied and as Love recovered his balance and huddled, bent double over his horse’s neck, Colby heard him groan.
‘Jesus Christ and all His pink angels,’ he moaned. ‘The bastards have hit me!’
His face had gone grey and he was already swaying. As a sergeant appeared alongside and held him upright, he lifted his head, slowly as if it weighed a ton, and held out his sword to Colby.
‘You rode at Balaclava?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then go to it. Show the boys how to do it.’
Colby gazed at him for a moment then he took the sword and spurred to the front of the line. Federal pistols were still crackling away and two more men rolled from the saddle and a horse went down with a crash. Ackroyd had joined him, no longer mounted on his ridiculous little horse but on one of the splendid Union chargers captured at Marble Stop. He, too had seen the opportunity that had been presented and was settling himself in the saddle and reaching for the sabre he had acquired.
As the Union firing died, Colby sensed that the blue-coated men had all discharged their weapons in the surprise of seeing the Confederates and, now feverishly trying to reload, were virtually defenceless.
‘Sabres!’ he roared. ‘While they’re hesitating!’
It was against all the rules of the game as played on this side of the Atlantic but he sensed he was right. Then, as he set off up the slope followed by Ackroyd, it occurred to him that, since he wasn’t a Confederate officer, he might be heading for the enemy alone. But, glancing round, he saw that the grey line was following him, not exactly with the precision of a line of highly-drilled British cavalry, but well enough. Here and there it ballooned as the men watched their front rather than their neighbours, and in parts where men had better mounts it had even edged in front of him so that he could see the bobbing rumps and floating tails and the clods of turf kicked up by iron-shod hooves. A wild yell broke out and he could see several of the men, caught by the elation of the charge, swinging their swords.
‘Points,’ he screamed. ‘Give points!’
A Union battery had appeared over the crown of the hill and was trying to swing into line. The guns had already been unhitched and the teams were being trotted back down the slope as the two lines came together. Colby was several lengths ahead of his nearest men, with Ackroyd just on his quarter, and seeing the screaming horsemen coming towards them, the Bluecoats had started to edge backwards so that the shock of the collision sent the whole line recoiling on itself. Horses reared and fell as they were barged backwards and several went down, their riders flung under the flashing hooves.
Colby found himself facing the officer who had taken command. He was a big man with a black beard, but he hadn’t the slightest idea how to use a sabre. As he slashed, Colby parried and, as he thrust under his guard, the officer vanished over the tail of his horse. There had been no time for Colby to bind the sword knot of the weapon round his hand and it was wrenched from his hand. As he swung away, reaching for his pistol, he saw the grey line surge among the Federals, fighting hand-to-hand in a din of clashing sabres, the rattle of small arms, frenzied curses and appeals for mercy. A sergeant on a bay horse broke from the mêlée and headed for Colby, swinging a rifle by its barrel. Grabbing for Love’s LeMatt, Colby cocked it with his thumb. The kick as he pulled the trigger almost knocked him off his horse but the sergeant’s face disappeared in a bubbling mask of red, and he crashed past, both the reins and the rifle dropped, to claw at his face. As he brushed by, spraying Colby with blood, a thin high shriek came from the hole where his mouth had been.
‘Christ, sir,’ Ackroyd said, appearing alongside. ‘What the ’ell was in that thing?’
The blue line was beginning to fray now as the outside riders drew back, and finally the whole lot began to turn their horses and swing away, the Confederates in pursuit. There was a pell-mell rush, and Colby saw a second smaller column of blue-coated riders coming up the slope to the rescue.
But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Farley’s squadron coming across the field flat out, crouching over the necks of their horses, the animals at a stretch gallop, manes and tails flying. There was a distinct crash as they smashed into the side of the fresh squadron. Horses and men went down, bowled over by the impetus of the charge and Colby found himself with Ackroyd and several others swirling round the battery. Guriners jabbed at him with sponge staffs and one of the guns actually fired. Men went down as the shell tore through the crowded riders, then a sword smashed down on the head of the gunner and he rolled between the wheels, screaming, blood pouring through his fingers as they clutched at his scalp.
There was no longer any leadership on either side. Farley’s men were boring in from the flank, mingling with the rest of the grey-coated riders, then abruptly, the Federals broke and fell back, the Confederates still locked with them in a confused battle.
‘Rally,’ Colby roared. ‘Rally on me!’
He swung his horse in circles, his pistol high in the air. At first he thought the wild Confederate horsemen hadn’t enough discipline to obey, but gradually the fighting died and they swung away in ones and twos and groups to line up behind him. The Federal cavalry were streaming away through the woods now, followed by infantry who paused from time to time to fire a volley.
Farley appeared, grinning, his face dripping sweat despite the cold. ‘Guess we’d better vamoose, son,’ he said. ‘Before that Custer finds out. That sure was a neat bit o’ work.’
As the smoke slowly drifted away, the field was littered with blue-clad figures, one or two of them trying to crawl to safety on hands and knees. A sergeant appeared alongside Colby carrying two guidons.
‘Thought these here would look right nice in your boudoir, sir,’ he said, saluting.
‘You don’t salute me,’ Colby said. ‘I’m not your officer.’
The sergeant grinned. ‘Sure looked like you was, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s the first time I ever seen anybody win a battle with cutlery.’
‘According to Micah Love, Mr Goff, you distinguished yourself near Parks Bridge.’
With Love safely established in bed, Colby, still haggard with weariness, his clothes daubed with mud, waited as Stuart rolled up the map he had been studying. With generations of horsemen behind him, Love’s sortie had been meat and drink to him.
With Custer’s remaining half-column quartering the countryside for the men who had destroyed his supplies, it had been Colby who had got the regiment on the road again. The river had been high when they had regained it and, with the horses exhausted and the weary riders’ heads hanging almost to the pommels as they dozed in the saddles, there had been a danger that they would be trapped, until Colby, riding up and down the bank, found the abutments of an old bridge. Jenkins’ skill as a builder had been clear as he had dragged down a deserted barn and used the ancient timbers to reconstruct it, and, as Colby and Sigsbee’s guns had waited with the rearguard, the wagons had trundled across. Smoke was already curling from the timbers as the last man reached safety and, as they had turned their horses at the top of the far bank to watch the flames, they had seen the first of Custer’s troopers galloping down to the river.