Battle Flag Read online

  The problem that had made this mission necessary had begun earlier in the evening when the men of Faulconer's Brigade were making what supper they could from the scraps of food they had either plundered or discovered in ' their knapsacks. Captain Pryor, General Washington Faulconer's new aide, had come to Starbuck and requested that the captured Pennsylvanian flag be handed over. "Why?" Starbuck had asked.

  "The General wants it," Pryor answered innocently. Thomas Pryor was far too new to the Brigade to comprehend the full enmity that existed between Starbuck and Faulconer. "I'm to take it to him."

  "You mean Faulconer wants to claim that he captured it?" Starbuck demanded.

  Pryor colored at such an ignoble accusation. "I'm sure the General would do no such thing," he said.

  Starbuck laughed at the aide's naïveté. "Go and tell General Faulconer, with my compliments, that he can come here and ask for the flag himself."

  Pryor had wanted to insist, but he found Nathaniel Starbuck a somewhat daunting figure, even a frightening figure, and so he had carried the unhelpful message back to the General who, surprisingly, showed no indignation at Starbuck's insolence. Pryor ascribed the General's reaction to magnanimity, but in truth Washington Faulconer was furious and merely hiding that fury. He wanted the flag, and even felt entitled to the flag, for had it not been captured by men under his command? He thus considered the flag to be his property, and he planned to hang the trophy in the hall­way of his house just outside Faulconer Court House, which was why, at quarter past three in the morning, Captain Moxey and three men were poised just outside the area where Starbuck's men slept.

  "There," one of Moxey's men whispered and pointed to where Lieutenant Coffman lay curled under a blanket. "Are you sure he's got it?" Moxey whispered back. "Certain."

  "Stay here," Moxey said, then tiptoed across the dry grass until he reached the sleeping Lieutenant and could see the rolled-up flag lying half concealed beneath Coffman's blan­ket. Moxey stooped and put a hand on Coffman's throat. The grip woke the boy. "One word," Moxey hissed, "and I'll cut your damned throat."

  Coffman started up, but was thrust hard down by Moxey's left hand. Moxey seized the flag in his other hand and started to edge it free. "Keep quiet," he hissed at Coffman, "or I'll have your sisters given the pox."

  "Moxey?" Coffman had grown up in the same town as Moxey. "Is that you?"

  "Shut up, boy," Moxey said. The flag was at last free, and he backed away, half regretting his failure to give a sleeping Starbuck a beating, but also relieved that he would not have to risk waking the Northerner. Starbuck had a belligerent reputation, just like his company, which was considered the most reckless in the Legion, but the men of Company H had all slept through Moxey's raid. "Let's go!" Moxey told his own men, and so they slipped safely away, the trophy captured.

  Coffman shivered in the dark. He wondered if he should wake Starbuck or Truslow, but he was scared. He did not understand why Moxey should need to steal the flag, and he could not bear the thought of having let Starbuck down. It had been Captain Starbuck who had shamed General Washington Faulconer into paying his salary, and Coffman was terrified that Starbuck would now be angry with him, and so he just lay motionless and frightened as he listened to the far-off whimpers and cries that came from the taper-lit tents where the tired doctors sawed at limbs and prised mis­shapen bullets from bruised and bloodied flesh. Thaddeus Bird was in one of Doctor Danson's tents, still breathing, but with a face as pale as the canvas under which he slept.

  The plight of the men still on the battlefield was far worse. They drifted in and out of their painful sleep, some­times waking to the voices of other men calling feebly for help or to the sound of wounded horses spending a long night dying. The night's small wind blew north to where the frightened Yankees waited for another rebel attack. Every now and then a nervous artilleryman fired a shell from the Yankee lines, and the round would thump into the trampled corn and explode. Clods of earth would patter down, and a small thick cloud of bitter smoke would drift north as a chorus of frightened voices momentarily sounded loud before fading again. Here and there a lantern showed where men looked for friends or tried to rescue the wounded, but there were too many men lying in blood and not enough men to help, and so the abandoned men suffered and died in the small wicked hours.

  Colonel Griffin Swynyard neither died nor called for help. Instead the Colonel lay sleeping, and in the dawn, when the sun's first rays lanced over the crest of Cedar Mountain to gild the field where the dead lay rotting and the wounded lay whimpering, he opened his eyes to brightness.

  Thirty miles north, where train after train steamed into Manassas Junction to fill the night with the clash of cars, the hiss of valves, and the stench of smoke, Adam Faulconer watched the horses purchased with the Reverend Elial Starbuck's money come down from the boxcars. The beasts were frightened by the noises and the pungent smells of this strange place, and so they pricked their ears, rolled their eyes white, and whinnied pitifully as they were driven between two lines of men into a makeshift corral formed from empty army wagons. Captain Billy Blythe, who had purchased the horses and shipped them to Manassas, sat long-legged on a wagon driver's high box and watched to see how Adam liked his animals. "Real special horses, Faulconer," Blythe called. "Picked 'em myself. I know they don't look much, but there ain't nothing wrong that a few days in a feedlot won't set straight." Blythe lit a cigar and waited for Adam's judgment. Adam hardly dared say a word in case that word provoked a fight with Blythe. The horses were dreadful beasts. Adam had seen better animals penned at slaughter yards.

  Tom Huxtable was Adam's troop sergeant. He came from Louisiana but had chosen to fight for the North rather than strain the loyalty of his New York wife. Huxtable spat in derision of the newly arrived horses. "These ain't horses, sir," he said to Adam. "Hell, these ain't no horses. Broken-down mules is all they is." He spat again. "Swaybacked, spavined, and wormy. I reckon Blythe just pocketed half the money."

  "You say something, Tom Huxtable?" a grinning Billy Blythe called from his perch.

  For answer Sergeant Huxtable just spat again. Adam curbed his own anger as he inspected the twenty frightened horses and tried to find some redeeming feature among them, but in the lanterns' meager light the animals did indeed look a sorry bunch. They had capped hocks and sloping pasterns, swaybacks and, most troubling of all, too many running noses. A horse with bad lungs was a horse that needed to be butchered, yet these were the horses being given to the men under Adam's command. Adam cursed himself for not buying the horses himself, but Major Galloway had insisted that Blythe's experience in horse dealing was one of the regiment's valuable assets.

  "So what do you think, Faulconer?" Blythe asked mockingly.

  "What did you pay for them?"

  Blythe waved the cigar insouciantly. "I paid plenty, boy, just plenty."

  "Then you were cheated." Adam could not hide his bitterness.

  "There just ain't that many horses available, boy." Blythe deliberately taunted Adam with the word "boy" in hopes of provoking a show of temper. Blythe had been content to be Galloway's second-in-command and saw no need for the Major to have fetched a third officer into the regiment. "The army's already bought all the decent horses, so we late­comers have to make do with the leavings. Are you telling me you can't manage with those there horses?"

  "I reckon this gray has distemper," Corporal Kemp said. Harlan Kemp, like Adam, was a Virginian who could not shake his loyalty to the United States. He and his whole family had abandoned their farm to come north. "Better shoot the beast, then," Blythe said happily. "Not with one of your guns," Adam snapped back. "Not if they're as good as your horses."

  Blythe laughed, pleased at having goaded the display of temper out of Adam. "I got you some right proper guns, Faulconer. Colt repeaters, brand-new, still in their Connecticut packing cases." The Colt repeater was little more than a revolver elongated into a long-arm, but its revolving cylinder gave a man the chance to fire six shots in the sa
me time an enemy rifleman needed to fire just one. The weapon was not famed for its accuracy, but Major Galloway reckoned a small group of horsemen needed volume of fire rather than accuracy and claimed that forty horsemen firing six shots were worth over two hundred men with single-shot rifles.

  "It ain't a reliable gun," Sergeant Huxtable murmured to Adam. "I've seen the whole cylinder explode and take off a man's hand."

  "And it's too long in the barrel," Harlan Kemp added. "Real hard to carry on horseback."

  "You spoke, Harlan Kemp?" Blythe challenged.

  "I'm saying the Colt ain't a horse soldier's weapon," Kemp responded. "We should have carbines."

  Blythe chuckled. "You're lucky to have any guns at all. So far as guns and horses go, we're on the hindmost teat. So you'll just have to clamp down and suck hard."

  Huxtable ignored Blythe's crudity. "What do you reckon, sir?" he asked Adam. "These horses can't be ridden. They ain't nothing but worm meat." Adam did not answer, and Tom Huxtable shook his head. "Major Galloway won't let us ride on nags like these, sir."

  "I guess not," Adam said. Tonight Major Galloway was fetching orders from General Pope, and those orders were supposed to initiate the first offensive patrols of Galloway's Horse, but Adam knew he could do nothing on these broken-backed animals.

  "So what will we do?" Harlan Kemp asked, and the other men of Adam's troop gathered round to hear their Captain's answer.

  Adam looked at the sorry, shivering, diseased horses. Their ribs showed and their pelts were mangy. For a moment he felt a temptation to give way to despair, and he wondered why every human endeavor had to be soured by jealousy and spite, but then he glanced up into Billy Blythe's grinning face, and Adam's incipient despair was overtaken by a surge of resolution. "We'll exchange the horses," Adam told his anxious men. "We'll take these nags south and we'll exchange them for the best horses in Virginia. We'll change them for horses swift as the wind and strong as the hills." He laughed as he saw the incomprehension on Blythe's face. Adam would not be beaten, for he knew just where to find those horses, the best horses, and once he had found his horses, he would sow havoc among his enemies. Billy Blythe or no, Adam Faulconer would fight.

  Chapter 4

  SATURDAY MORNING, the day after battle, again dawned hot and humid. Leaden clouds covered the sky and added to the air's oppression, which was made even fouler by a miasmic smell that clung to the folds of the battlefield like the morning mist. At first light, when the troops were stirring reluctantly from their makeshift beds, Major Hinton sought out Starbuck. "I'm sorry about last night, Nate," Hinton said.

  Starbuck offered the Legion's new commanding officer a curt and dismissive judgment of Washington Faulconer's raid to snatch the captured flag. The Bostonian was stripped to the waist and had his chin and cheeks lathered with shaving soap plundered from a captured artillery limber. Starbuck stropped his razor on his belt, leaned close to his scrap of mirror, then stroked the long blade down his cheek.

  "So what will you do?" Hinton asked, plainly nervous that Starbuck would be provoked into some rash act.

  "The bastard can keep the rag," Starbuck said. He had not really known what to do with the captured standard; he had thought that perhaps he might give it to Thaddeus Bird or else send it to Sally Truslow in Richmond. "What I really wanted was the Stars and Stripes," he confessed to Hinton, "and that eagle flag was only ever second-best, so I reckon that son of a bitch Faulconer can keep it."

  "It was a stupid thing for Moxey to do, all the same," Hinton said, unable to conceal his relief that Starbuck did not intend to inflate the night's stupidity into an excuse for revenge. He watched as Starbuck squinted into a broken fragment of shaving mirror. "Why don't you grow a beard?" he asked.

  "Because everyone else does," Starbuck said, although in truth it was because a girl had once told him he looked better clean-shaven. He scraped at his upper lip. "I'm going to murder goddamn Medlicott." "No, you're not." "Slowly. So it hurts."

  Major Hinton sighed. "He panicked, Nate. It can happen to anyone. Next time it might be me."

  "Son of a bitch damn nearly had me killed by panicking." Major Hinton picked up the plundered jar of Roussel's Shaving Cream, fidgeted with its lid, then watched Starbuck clean the razor blade. "For my sake," he finally pleaded, "will you just forget about it? The boys are unhappy enough because of Pecker and they don't need their captains fight­ing among themselves. Please, Nate? For me?"

  Starbuck mopped his face clean on a strip of sacking. "Give me a cigar, Paul, and I'll forget that bald-headed lily-livered gutless shadbelly bastard even exists."

  Hinton surrendered the cigar. "Pecker's doing well," he said, his tone brightening as he changed the subject, "or as well as can be expected. Doc Billy even reckons he might survive a wagon ride to the rail depot." Hinton was deeply worried about replacing the popular Colonel even though he was a popular enough officer himself. He was an easy­going, heavyset man who had been a farmer by trade, a churchman by conviction, and a soldier by accident of history. Hinton had hoped to live out his years in the easy, rich countryside of Faulconer County, enjoying his family, his acres, and his foxhunting, but the war had threatened Virginia, and so Paul Hinton had shouldered his weapons out of patriotic duty. Yet he did not much enjoy soldiering and reckoned his main duty was to bring safely home as many of the Faulconer Legion as he possibly could, and the men in the Legion recognized that ambition and liked Hinton for it. "We're to stay where we are today," Hinton now told Starbuck. "I've got to detach a company to collect small arms off the battlefield and another to bring in the wounded. And talking of the wounded," he added after a second's hesitation, "did you see Swynyard yesterday? He's missing."

  Starbuck also hesitated, then told the truth. "Truslow and I saw him last night." He gestured with the cigar toward the woods where his company had fought against the Pennsylvanians. "He was lying just this side of the trees. Truslow and I didn't reckon there was anything to be done for him, so we just left him."

  Hinton was shrewd enough to guess that Starbuck had abandoned Swynyard to die. "I'll send someone to look for him," he said. "He ought to be given a burial."

  "Why?" Starbuck demanded belligerently.

  "To cheer the Brigade up, of course," Hinton said, then blushed for having uttered such a thing. He turned to look at the great smear of smoke that rose from the Northern cooking fires beyond the woods. "Keep a good eye on the Yankees, Nate. They ain't beaten yet."

  But the Yankees made little hostile movement that morning. Their pickets probed forward but stopped obedi­ently when the rebel outposts opened fire, and so the two armies settled into an uneasy proximity. Then it began to rain, slowly at first, but with an increasing vehemence after midday. Starbuck's company made shelters at the edge of the woods with frameworks of branches covered in sod. Then they lay under cover and just watched the gray, rain-lashed landscape.

  In midafternoon, when the rain eased to a drizzle, Corporal Waggoner sought Hinton's permission for a prayer meeting. There had been no chance for such a service since the battle's ending, and many soldiers in the Legion wanted to give thanks. Hinton gladly gave his permission, and fifty or more Legionnaires gathered beneath some gun-battered cedars. Other men from the Brigade soon joined them, so that by the time the drizzle stopped, there were almost a hundred men sitting beneath the trees and listening as Corporal Waggoner read from the Book of Job. Waggoner's twin brother had died in the battles on the far side of Richmond, and ever since that death Peter Waggoner had become more and more fatalist. Starbuck was not sure that Waggoner's gloomy piety was good for the Legion's morale, but many of the men seemed to like the Corporal's sponta­neous sessions of prayer and Bible study. Starbuck did not join the circle, but rested nearby, watching northward to where the Yankee defense line showed between the distant woodlands as a newly dug strip of earthworks broken by hastily erected cannon emplacements. Starbuck would have been hard put to admit it, but the familiar sounds of prayer and Bible reading
were oddly comforting.

  That comfort was broken by a blasphemous oath from Sergeant Truslow. "Christ Almighty!" the Sergeant swore.

  "What is it?" Starbuck asked. He had been half dozing but now sat up fully awake. Then he saw what had provoked Truslow to blasphemy. "Oh, Jesus," he said, and spat.

  For Colonel Swynyard was not dead. Indeed, the Colonel hardly appeared to be wounded. His face was bruised, but the bruise was covered and shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat that Swynyard must have plucked from among the battle­field litter, and now the Colonel was walking through the Brigade's lines with his familiar wolfish smile. "He's drunk," Truslow said. "We should have shot the bastard yesterday."

  Peter Waggoner's voice faltered as the Colonel walked up to the makeshift prayer meeting. Swynyard stopped at the edge of the meeting, saying nothing, just staring at the men with their open Bibles and bare heads, and every single man seemed cowed by the baleful eyes. The Colonel had always been a mocker of these homespun devotions, though until now he had kept his scorn at a distance. Now his malevo­lence killed the prayerful atmosphere stone dead. Waggoner made one or two brave efforts to keep reading, but then stopped altogether.

  "Go on," Swynyard said in his hoarse voice.

  Waggoner closed his Bible instead. Sergeant Phillips, who was one of Major Haxall's shrinking Arkansas battalion, stood to head off any trouble. "Maybe you'd like to join us at prayer, Colonel?" the Sergeant suggested nervously.

  The tic in Swynyard's cheek twitched as he considered his answer. Sergeant Phillips licked his lips while others of the men closed their eyes in silent prayer. Then, to the amazement of everyone who watched, Colonel Swynyard pulled off his hat and nodded to Phillips. "I would like that, Sergeant, I would indeed." Sergeant Phillips was so taken aback by the Colonel's agreement that he said nothing. A murmur went through the Bible study group, but no one spoke aloud. Swynyard, the bruise on his face visible now, was embarrassed by the silence. "If you'll have me, that is," he added in an unnaturally humble voice.