The Bloody Ground. Bernard Cornwell
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Sally’s hand between his.
“Reckon I was, sir,” Sally said humbly, then sniffed.
“Right upsetting for a lady,” Holborrow agreed. “But you have to understand, ma’am, that this lunkhead prisoner struck Sergeant Case. Struck him! A serious military offense, ma’am, and your husband here had no business interfering. None at all. Ain’t that the case, Sergeant Case?”
“Sir!” Case snapped, evidently his way of articulating an affirmative to officers.
Holborrow let go of Sally’s hand to step closer to Starbuck. “Sergeant Case, boy, is from North Carolina, but he spent the last fourteen years in the British army. Ain’t that the case, Case?”
“Sir!” Case snapped.
“Which regiment, Case?” Holborrow asked, still staring into Starbuck’s eyes.
“Seventh, sir, Royal Fusiliers, sir!”
“And while you were still sucking the milk from your mother’s titties, Potter, forgive me, ma’am, Sergeant Case was fighting! Fighting, boy! Ain’t that the case, Case?”
“Battle of the Alma, sir! Siege of Sevastopol,” Case snapped, and Starbuck got the impression that he was listening to a much practiced dialogue.
“But Sergeant Case is a patriot, Potter!” Holborrow continued, “and when the Yankees broke the Union by attacking us, Sergeant Case left Her Majesty’s service to fight for Jeff Davis and liberty. He was sent here, Potter, to turn the Yellowlegs into a proper regiment instead of a bunch of schoolgirls. Ain’t that the case, Case?”
“Sir!”
“And you,” Holborrow spat at Potter, “dare to countermand a man like Sergeant Case! You should be ashamed of yourself, boy. Ashamed! Sergeant Case has forgotten more about soldiering than you ever learned or ever will learn. And if Sergeant Case says a man deserves punishment, then punished he shall be!” Holborrow stepped back and took Sally’s hand into his again. “But seeing as how you’re a ray of Georgia sunshine, ma’am, I’ll spare you from seeing any more unpleasantness this afternoon. I think your husband has learned his lesson, so thank you, Sergeant Case.” Holborrow nodded to the sergeant, who scowled at Starbuck, then marched stiffly back to the parade ground. Holborrow ordered the freed prisoner to make himself scarce, and then, his grip still enfolding Sally’s hand, he turned back to Starbuck. “So where have you been, boy? Your father wrote that you’d left Atlanta ten days back. Letter got here, but you didn’t! Ten days! It don’t take ten days from Atlanta to Richmond, boy. You been drinking again?”
“It was my fault,” Sally said in a frightened little voice. “I had the fever, sir. Real bad, sir.”
Lucifer giggled at Sally’s invention and Holborrow’s head snapped round. “You snigger once more, boy, and I’ll whip the flesh clean off your black bones. Is he your nigger?” he asked Starbuck.
“Yes,” Starbuck said, wondering how the hell he would back out of this deception.
“Yes, sir,” Holborrow said, correcting him. “You forgetting I’m a Colonel, Potter?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.”
Holborrow, still holding Sally’s hand, shook his head at Starbuck’s apparent confusion. “So how is your father?” he asked Starbuck.
Starbuck shrugged. “I guess,” he began, then shrugged again, suddenly bereft of imagination.
“He’s mending,” Sally said. She was enjoying the play-acting much more than Starbuck who, though he had started it, was now regretting the deception. “Thank the Lord,” Sally said as she finally extricated her fingers from Holborrow’s grasp, “but he is surely mending.”
“Praise the Lord,” Holborrow said. “But you’ve been a burden to him, boy, a burden,” he snarled at Starbuck, “and you’ll forgive my bluntness, Mrs. Potter, but when a man’s son is a burden it’s right he should be told plain.”
“It sure is,” Sally agreed firmly.
“We was expecting you a week ago!” Holborrow snarled at Starbuck, then gave Sally a yellow-toothed smile. “Got a room all set up for you, ma’am. Bed, washstand, clothes press. The reverend wanted you comfortable. Not to be pampered, he said, but comfortable.”
“You’re too kind, sir,” Sally said, “but I’m sleeping with my cousin Alice in the city.”
Holborrow looked disappointed, but Sally had spoken firmly and he did not contest the issue. “Your cousin’s gain is our loss, ma’am,” he said, “but you’ll stay for a lemonade and maybe partake of a peach? I’m partial to a fine peach, as all Georgians ought to be.”
“Pleasure, sir.”
Holborrow glanced at Lucifer, who was carrying Starbuck’s shabby bag. “Get to the kitchen, boy. Move your black ass! Go!” Holborrow turned to starbuck again. “Hope you’ve got a decent uniform in that bag, boy, because the one you’re wearing is a disgrace. A dis-grace. And where the hell are your lieutenant’s bars?” He gestured at Starbuck’s shoulders. “You sell your bars for liquor, boy?”
“Lost them,” Starbuck said hopelessly.
“You are a sad man, Potter, a sad man,” Holborrow said, shaking his head. “When your father wrote and asked my help he had the grace to tell me as much. He said you were a sore disappointment, a reproach to the good name of Potter, so I can’t say as how I wasn’t warned about you, but get drunk with me, boy, and I’ll kick your son of a bitch ass blue, forgive me, ma’am.”
“Forgiven, Colonel,” Sally said.
“Your father now,” Holborrow continued to lecture Starbuck, “he never drinks. Every day we had an execution the Reverend would come to the penitentiary to pray with the bastards, forgive me, ma’am, but he never touched a drop of the ardent. Not a drop! Even after the bastards, forgive me, ma’am, were strung up and kicking away and the rest of us felt the need for a restorative libation, your father would stick to lemonade, but he often said that he feared you’d end up on that same scaffold, boy, with him saying a prayer on one side of you and me ready to push the stool out from under your feet on the other. So he’s sent you here, Potter, to learn discipline!” This last word was shouted into Starbuck’s face. “Now, ma’am,” he turned his attention back to Sally, “give me your pretty little hand and we’ll divide ourselves a peach, and after that, ma’am, if you’ll permit me, I’ll give you a ride back to the city in my carriage. It’s not the best day for walking. A mite too hot and a pretty lady like you should be in a carriage, don’t that sound good?”
“You’re too kind, Colonel,” Sally said. She had thrust her left hand, which was conspicuously lacking a wedding ring, into a fold of her shawl. “I ain’t never ridden in a carriage,” she added in a pitiful voice.
“We must accustom you to luxury,” Holborrow said lasciviously, “like a pretty little Georgia girl should be.” He led her to the house and put his free arm around her waist at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve been riding in a carriage ever since a Yankee bullet took away the use of my right leg. I must tell you the tale. But for now, ma’am, allow me to assist you up the stairs. There’s a loose board or two,” Holborrow half lifted Sally up the verandah’s stairs, “and you just sit yourself down, ma’am, next to Captain Dennison.”
The four officers, all captains, had stood to greet Sally. Captain Dennison proved to be a thin clean-shaven man whose face was horribly scarred by some skin disease that had caused his cheeks and forehead to be foul with lived sores. He pulled a wicker chair forward and brushed at its cushion with his hand. Holborrow gestured at Starbuck. “This here’s Lieutenant Matthew Potter, so he ain’t a rumor after all.” The four captains laughed at Holborrow’s witticism, while the colonel ushered Sally forward with his right arm still firmly planted about her slender waist. “And this his wife. I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t have the advantage of your name.”