Bernard Cornwell - The Bloody Ground

Martha uttered an exclamation and Starbuck had to remind her of the promise to say nothing. “And stay here,” he went on, “both of you.” Then he turned and walked back toward the house.

It was Captain Dennison who had called and who now jumped down the verandah steps. The captain looked as if he had just risen from his bed, for he was in his shirtsleeves and was pulling bright red suspenders over his shoulders as he hurried toward Starbuck. “I want you, Potter,” he called.

“Looks like you found me,” Starbuck said as he confronted the angry captain.

“You call me ‘sir.’” Dennison was standing close to Starbuck now and the smell of the ointment the captain had smeared on his diseased face was almost overpowering. It was a peculiarly sour smell, not kerosene, and suddenly Starbuck placed it, and the memory of his time in the Richmond prison came flooding back in a wave of nausea. “You call me ‘sir’!” Dennison said again, thrusting a finger hard into Starbuck’s chest.

“Yes, sir.”

Dennison grimaced. “You threatened me last night, Potter.”

“Did I, sir?”

“Yes you damn well did. So either you come into the house, Potter, right now and apologize in front of the other officers, or else you face the consequences.”

Starbuck pretended to consider the alternatives, then shrugged. “Guess I’ll take the consequences, Captain, sir.”

Dennison gave a grim smile. “You are a miserable fool, Potter, a fool. Very well. Do you know Bloody Run?”

“I can find it, sir.”

“You find it at six o’clock tonight, Potter, and if you have trouble just ask anyone where the Richmond dueling grounds are. They’re by the Bloody Run under the Chimborazo Hill at the other end of the city. Six o’ clock. Bring a second if you can find anyone stupid enough to support you. Colonel Holborrow will be my second. And one other thing, Potter.”

“Sir?”

“Try and be sober. I don’t relish killing a drunk.”

“Six o’ clock, sir, sober,” Starbuck said. “I look forward to it, sir. One thing, sir?”

Dennison turned back. “Yes?” He asked suspiciously.

“You issued the challenge, sir, so I get to choose weapons. Ain’t that the way it’s done?”

“So choose,” Dennison said carelessly.

“Swords,” Starbuck said instantly and with sufficient confidence to make Dennison blink with surprise. “Swords, Captain!” He called airily as he turned and walked away. The smell of the medicine had betrayed Dennison’s secret and Starbuck was suddenly looking forward to the day.

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL SWYNYARD STOOD AT THE RIVER’S edge and thanked his God that he had been spared to witness this moment. A small breeze rippled the water to splinter up a myriad of bright sparkles reflected from a sun that blazed in a cloudless summer sky. At least three bands were playing and in this place, on this day, there was only one tune that they would ever play, though the colonel thought it was a pity that they did not play in unison, but instead competed merrily as they celebrated the momentous event. Swynyard’s maimed left hand beat against his sword scabbard in time to the closest band, then, almost unaware of it, he began to sing. “Dear mother,” the colonel sang softly, “burst the tyrant’s chain. Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland!” His voice became louder as the emotion of the hour embraced him. “She meets her sister on the plain; Sic semper! ’tis the proud refrain that baffles minions back amain, Maryland, my Maryland.”

A burst of clapping sounded from the nearest company of the Faulconer Legion and Swynyard, oblivious that he had raised his voice loud enough to be heard, blushed as he turned and acknowledged the ironic applause. There had been a time, and not long before either, when these men cursed the very sight of Griffin Swynyard, but they had been won over by Christ’s grace, or rather by the workings of that grace inside Swynyard, and now the colonel knew that the men liked him and for that blessing he could have wept this day, except that he was already weeping for sheer joy at this moment.

For the Southern army of Robert Lee, which had fought again and again against the Northern invaders of its country, was crossing the Potomac.

They were going north.

The Confederacy was taking the war into the United States of America. For a year now the Yankees had marched on Southern soil, had stolen from Southern farms, and boasted of sacking the Southern capital, but now the invaded had become the invaders and a great dark line of men was crossing the ford beneath the battle flags of the South. “I hear the distant thunder-hum,” Swynyard sang and this time the Legion sang with him, their voices swelling beside the river in wondrous harmony. “Maryland! The old line’s bugle, fife and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzzah! She spurns the northern scum! She breathes, she burns, she’ll come, she’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland!”

“They’re in good voice, Swynyard, good voice!” The speaker was Colonel Ned Maitland, the Legion’s new commander, who spurred his horse to Swynyard’s side. Swynyard was on foot because his horse, the one luxury he possessed, was being rested. A man like Maitland might need three saddle horses and four pack-mules loaded with belongings to ensure his comfort on a campaign, but Swynyard had forsworn all such fripperies. He owned a horse because a brigade commander could not do his job without one, and he had inherited a tent and a servant from Thaddeus Bird, but the tent belonged to the army and the servant, a half-witted soldier called Hiram Ketley, would return to Bird’s service when Bird was recovered from the wound he had taken at Cedar Mountain.

“What will you do, Maitland, when Bird comes back?” Swynyard asked, needling the self-satisfied Maitland, who rode to war with two tents, four slaves, a hip bath, and a canteen of silver cutlery with which to eat his scumbled vegetables.

“I hear he won’t return,” Maitland said.

“I hear he will. His wife wrote to Starbuck saying he was mending well, and when he does come back I’ll have to give him the Legion. He’s their proper commander.”

Maitland waved the problem away. “There’ll be plenty of other vacancies, Swynyard.”

“You think I might be killed, eh? You reckon you’ll be brigade commander? You look the part, Maitland, I’ll say that for you. What did that uniform cost?”

“Plenty enough.” Maitland was a placid man who rarely rose to Swynyard’s baiting, perhaps because he knew that his connections in Richmond would ensure his smooth rise up the army’s senior ranks. The trick of that rise, Maitland reckoned, was to have just enough battle experience beneath his belt to make it plausible; just enough and no more. He took a pair of field glasses from a saddlebag and trained them on the distant Maryland shore while Swynyard watched a squadron of Stuart’s cavalrymen spur into the river. The troopers reached down with their hats to scoop up water that they flung at each other like children at play. The army was in a holiday mood.

“I wish the Legion still had a band,” Swynyard said as the nearest musicians launched into “My Maryland” for the umpteenth time. “We did have one,” he said, “but it got lost. At least, the instruments did.”

“A lot of things seem to get lost from the Legion,” Maitland said airily.

“What on earth does that mean?” Swynyard asked, trying to disguise his irritation at Maitland’s condescension. Swynyard was not certain that Maitland intended to give the impression he did, but that impression was of a superior man who observed and disapproved of all he encountered.

“Officers, mainly,” Maitland said. “Most of the officers seem to have come up from the ranks in the last few weeks.”