The middle of this here place was a great, rambling building--real huge, Tom; I guess it'd need a hundred cats, a place like that--and it was all made of wood, painted white. They call it "The White," one of the horses there was telling me--and this was where most of the folks stayed, amusing theirselves. It had big white columns and long, wide porches--a bit like Marse Robert's house here, only lots bigger. And then a little ways off there was rows of cottages, and folks living in them, too. Marse Robert and the old lady had one of 'em, with a black girl to look after them. There was whole crowds of folks came to call on them--oh, every evening, near as I could make out. Of course, Marse Robert always likes meeting different kinds of folks and talking to them. What I came to conclude after a day or two was that seeing who he is now, nearly all them folks had come there 'specially to see him and pay their respects. Well, it's only natchral, ain't it?
Marse Robert soon began enjoying hisself. I could tell that from the whole feel of him and the way he was acting and talking. Whenever he came to my stable, he'd like as not have another man with him, or maybe two, and he'd kind of introduce them to me. "This here's Traveller," he'd say, and then they'd pat me and ask him questions, and say had I really been his one horse in all those battles, and so on. Sometimes girls came, too. There was lots of sugar in it, and I ain't never been too proud to take a piece of sugar, Tom, you know, 'cause I remember all them times when there warn't none. I felt Marse Robert was more at ease with the girls than the fellas--I reckon 'cause they warn't wanting to talk 'bout soldiering and fighting all the time. He's got 'nuff of that on his mind, you know, without being made to talk 'bout it.
But I don't want you to think Marse Robert had gone all that way jest to walk round among those folks and say howdy and be treated like the commander. No, sir. He'd come to get away and be alone with me -- more'n he can be here. Those summer days are long--getting shorter already now, ain't they?--and most of the time--mornings and afternoons, too--he'd spend alone with me in the mountains. There's some real wild, high, lonely mountains there, you know--higher'n you can imagine, Tom--and in the mornings we'd ride off and get up there for hours at a stretch--maybe not see a soul, 'cepting now and then. You can't imagine the enjoyment of jest trotting easy 'long those tracks, under the sycamores and the white oaks all green and shady, and never a signal needed from either of us, 'cause each of us knows jest what t'other wants--well, we ain't separate, not really--and nary a thought of battle-smoke, and no soldiers a-sweating and a-cussing--jest living your life without having to think 'bout it none. I came to know them mountains for miles around. I got to know jest where the creeks was. I got to know the best patches of grass, and when we came to one I'd stop off and begin grazing and Marse Robert, he'd jest sit easy and look out acrost the ravines below and the valleys full of trees. Up there you could see for miles. We was both doing jest what we wanted, and we didn't want to be doing nothing else, neither. Marse Robert needs to be alone--alone with me, I mean. Well, for him that is alone. What he needs is solitude, and that's what them mountains have got. But without me he couldn't have it, you see.
He's often real sad in his thoughts, Tom, you know--and can you wonder? He's bound to be thinking of all them dead fellas. And the wounded, too--once't you've heared them cry you don't forget it, I'll tell you. I remember a horse I seed once when we was under fire. This horse had lost his lower jaw. Every breath he was blowing blood. That kind of thing you don't forget. But in the mountains--well, them mountains must 'a been there an awful long time. When I'd taken a good long breather--a gallop up one of them hill tracks--then I'd feel Marse Robert's heartsickness and bad memories all lifting like a mist and blowing away. It's important, Tom, you know, to do things without thinking 'bout 'em. That's the only way a horse and a man can really work together, but it takes a proper good man. There's too many men think horses was jest meant to be like plows or carts. Now Marse Robert, he'd really like to be a horse. "So, Traveller," he says out loud to me one day when we was in a rough place up in them mountains. "So, Traveller, what ought we to do?" 'Course, he had a pretty fair idea hisself what we ought to do: it jest happened to be the same's I had. When a horse and a man respect each other, that's the way it works out.
Another day, we was jest getting ready to start out from this White place when two girls got to telling Marse Robert that they was going to climb the mountain back of the house. Well, you could tell that Marse Robert, he didn't care for this notion. He figured it was kind of a rough hike--too rough for a couple of girls. All the same, he let them go off without saying nothing to 'em. But then, after they'd been gone a little while, we set out to go up that there mountain ourselves, and I'm here to tell you, Tom, the going was real steep. Well, pretty soon we came on the girls and 'course they was surprised to see us.
"Good afternoon," says Marse Robert, raising his hat. "I jest had an idea you might be finding the going a little hard," he says. "If you'll allow me, I'll come some of the way with you." He invited first one of them and then t'other to ride on me, but seem' as how they declined, he jest led me by the bridle and we-all walked up to the top and back down. 'Fore we was done they was glad we had, too.
There was one other thing happened while we was staying at The White. We was out riding one morning, jest the two of us, through some of the hills down lower. I remember a tree sparrow singing in the brush, and a whole flock of killdeer a little way off, feeding in an open field. Then, in the distance, I seed a horseman riding towards us, and I reckoned I knowed the horse without being able to recall 'zackly who he was. And then suddenly, as they came closer, I knowed who it was-- it was Ruffian, the horse who'd been my friend at Andy's, when we was colts together! I recognized that sorrel coloring and then, 'soon as we came close, I remembered the smell of him--and where I'd seed him last.
He looked well cared for now. The man riding him stopped for a chat with Marse Robert. When he realized who it was, he began speaking real respectful, but Marse Robert soon made him easy. He said they warn't soldiers no more, and 'sides he was taking a holiday. We-all rode along together and Ruffian told me 'bout the bad time he'd had, serving with the guns. I asked him whether he could remember me that time on the night road--well, I ain't told you 'bout that yet, Tom, though I--but he couldn't recollect nothing 'bout it. I warn't altogether surprised. To tell you the truth, I'd thought he was dying. But now here he was on this dirt track, coat sleek and all ashining, and him jest as bobbish as a chipmunk in spring! "You owe that to Marse Robert, you know," I said to him.
"Who's Marse Robert, Jeff?" he asked me. I hadn't been called Jeff for years. It made me realize what a long time had passed since them days in Andy's meadow. There was jest too much to explain; I left it.
Oh, he's my man," I said. "A good 'un, too. How's yours?"
"Fine!" said Ruffian. "He bought me out of the artillery depot at the end of the war and looked after me real well, till I was back to what I used to be. It's funny, ain't it, that we should both come back to these here parts? Do you live round here?"
"No," I answered. "I don't know how long we'll be here, but our home's over a long way east."
"You don't know, then, that Andy's place ain't more'n twenty, twenty-five mile from here?" he asks.
I'd never thought of it, Tom, you know, but now he said that, I knowed it must be right. It felt that way. I almost imagined I could smell the big meadow with the pond at the bottom.
"I've been back there two-three times," said Ruffian, "when my man's had business there. Old Andy recognized me straightaway. He never forgets a horse."
We talked on 'bout old times until we went our separate ways. I was hoping we'd meet again on some ride or other later on, and I believe we would have, too, if'n it hadn't 'a been for the way things turned out.
The very next day after that, Marse Robert was took sick. 'Course, you know, Tom, he was taken sick more'n once when we was on campaign, and I could tell that this was another go of the same thing. I was left fretting in stables for quite
a while, though one of the black grooms took me out for a few miles' exercise every afternoon. I don't reckon he much 'preciated my buck-trot, though.
As soon as Marse Robert was on the mend, we-all shifted from this here White and went maybe ten mile to another place--pretty much the same sort. I guess he hoped the move would make him feel better but what happened was that though he'd felt well 'nuff to ride me over there, he took a deal worse right away. "Oh, Traveller," he said to me jest as we was arriving, "I'm afraid I'm going to be took real bad this time." I could tell from the feel of him that he was right, too.
I didn't see him for days--half a month or more. I guess he was laid up in bed. 'Course, I knowed that one way or another he'd manage to see me again soon's he could. And that was what happened, as I've got good reason to recall.
It was like this. One morning I was led out of stables and round into the main courtyard of this big house. It was all fenced round, you know, with gates opposite the main doors. The first person I seed was Marse Robert, in his shirt and pants, looking pretty poorly and standing on what they call the piazza--the long porch with steps up to it. He gives me our whistle and calls, "Good boy, Traveller!" Jest at that moment, into the courtyard come quite a little crowd of country folk-- mostly men--carrying baskets of plums and berries and so on. Well, do you know, Tom, I recognized one of them fellas right off? The last time I'd seed him, he was sighting a gun 'long a track in the wilderness. But they was jest about all of 'em old soldiers from our Army, and I reckon they was near'bouts as ragged without uniforms as they had been with 'em. Fact was, two of 'em was wearing old uniforms, with the buttons cut off.
They all laid down their baskets and began cheering Marse Robert, right where they stood in the courtyard, and of course most of the ladies and gentlemen came out to see what all the noise was about. I'll tell you, the sound of that cheering took me back, Tom. Only had to blink my eyes to see the Blue men running and hear the muskets! Marse Robert, he come down the steps into the courtyard, sick as he was, and shook hands with each one of 'em. There was plenty wanted a word with me, too; they crowded round me, stroked my neck and said all sorts o' fine things. When they left, they insisted on giving all their fruit to Marse Robert. Goodness knows what he did with it all. I guess he must 'a told the folks who ran the place to make their own best use of it, 'cause there was 'nuff for near'bouts two companies of infantry.
What finally happened, when Marse Robert had recovered, was that Mr. Custis took the ladies home by coach, and us two followed in our own time. We took it easy, only going a short ways every day, 'cause Marse Robert was still pretty weak in hisself. Nor he ain't right yet, Tom, you know. The first day we did 'bout thirty mile, but that left him so bad that we had to stop off for four days. After that we went-- well, I'd guess 'bout ten mile a day for three days. The last night, we stopped at that there Rockbridge place we ride out to in the afternoons.
That should have been a real nice holiday altogether; and so 'twas, the first part. But you know, the truth is that Marse Robert's come back weaker'n he was when he set out with Captain White. I can tell, if'n nobody else can. When we arrived this afternoon, he had to be holpen up the steps to the door. Maybe a quiet fall at home'll be better for him than all that socializing at The White.
Me? Oh, I'm fine, Tom. Go forever! Come in tomorrow and I'll go on telling you what happened after that great victory in the woods, when we chased the enemy back acrost the river.
June, 1863: the third summer of the war. Whoever else in the South may have been dazzled, the splendor of his victory at Chancellorsville has not blinded General Lee to the true situation of the Confederacy and its increasingly desperate plight. In that battle, the Union lost fewer than 17,000 men, the Army of Northern Virginia over 13,000--a considerably higher proportion and more than it can afford of its total effectives. In particular, the death of Stonewall Jackson is a grave and irreparable loss, as well as a severe blow to General Lee's personal confidence and morale. The Confederacy is running out of every necessary resource--men, horses, food, clothes, boots, ammunition. The longer the war continues against so well-supplied an enemy, the surer becomes ultimate defeat. General Lee has, in effect, so advised the President in a formal letter, and recommended that every effort should be made to encourage the peace party in the North and to achieve a negotiated settlement, which may even now prove consistent with independence.
Meanwhile, what is the best use to be made of the declining though still formidable strength of the Army of Northern Virginia? The morale of the troops has never been higher, but the reorganization consequent upon the death of Jackson has inevitably resulted in a general lack of experience at corps, divisional and brigade command levels. "Our army would be invincible," Lee writes to General Hood of the Texan division, "if it could be properly organized and officered. There is the difficulty--proper commanders." He has to make the best selections he can from the officers available, and there is no time in which to train them. Action is imperative.
The one course that must not be taken is to wait passively south of the Rappahannock for General Hooker to recover and renew the offensive. Even his further defeat on that river would be of no substantial value, for the cost would be more lives and, as before, he would be able to escape behind it. Like McClellan in 1862, he must be induced by maneuver to move northward to some theatre of war nearer to Washington and further from Richmond. Bearing in mind the demoralized state of the Federals after their defeats at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, Lee is prepared, as the first step in a fresh campaign, to take the risk of moving his army westward up the Rappahannock. It is probable that Hooker will conform to the Confederate movement, with the result that his own offensive--if he is projecting one--will be forestalled.
Back, then, for a start--though warily and corps by corps-- to Culpeper County. But then whither? Not again to northern Virginia, not to the plains of Manassas. Northern Virginia is stripped and bare, and besides, the enemy, if again defeated there, will--as Pope did--simply retire behind the prepared defenses near Washington. Yet there is a still stronger reason--the most compelling of all--for choosing to march elsewhere. The army is almost starving; and their own commissariat cannot feed them. To remain in existence at all, they must go where they can commandeer food and horse fodder. If the Potomac, then, is to be crossed a second time, it must be towards the plains of Pennsylvania, with the objects of maintaining the troops, drawing the enemy northwestward and thwarting his plans for the summer. And there, on those plains, perhaps, will recur the opportunity to win a great victory, to march to the Susquehanna and, by bringing home to the North the power and valor of the Army of Northern Virginia, to effect the peace that will confer independence upon the South.
The 2nd Corps, under the newly promoted Lieutenant General Ewell, is the first to move northward, followed by Longstreet and then by A. P. Hill. Such opposition as the Federals offer en route is successfully overcome. Ewell crosses the Potomac and presses on into Pennsylvania. On June 25th, General Lee, riding with Longstreet's corps, himself fords the river at William sport.
'Twarn't very long after our great victory in the woods, Tom, as I was telling you 'bout, that Marse Robert went back to our old headquarters downriver of the little town. We stayed on there more'n half a month. Lucy and me had the same old shed--the one the snow had blowed into so bad the night Sorrel was brought in late--but they'd patched it up and repaired it, and anyways now summer had come we often didn't spend nights in it. We was picketed in the open. A horse always prefers to be in the open, you know, even in the rain. If I'm out to grass and it starts blowing or raining, I'd always rather get behind a wall or a good thick hedge than go into a shed. Leaves you free to run if'n you have to, don't it? Marse Robert's always knowed this, of course, but it's surprising how many men don't. They shut us up all the time and then wonder why we get nervy. I don't really care for a shed, 'ceptin' to get away from the flies in hot weather. I've knowed horses their men thought was bad-tempered or stu
pid by nature, but it was really on 'count of all the time they made them spend cooped up inside. A good horse needs to get out plenty, like we do here. We spent a lot of time in the open down by that railroad track.
'Course, the generals kept a-coming to see Marse Robert all the time. He didn't ride me a great deal during that month. He mostly took Lucy, the way he generally did when there warn't no fighting and he was jest out looking round. I was happy 'nuff to go for exercise with Dave along the hills. There was still lots of Blue men over t'other side of the river, but they evidently warn't aiming on coming acrost. They'd had 'nuff of that.
Little by little I come to realize that Cap-in-His-Eyes must be dead. He never came to the generals' meetings with Marse Robert. At first I reckoned this must be on 'count of the wound Dancer had told me about. He'd need time to get better, I thought. But what really brung it home to me, in the end, was Marse Robert hisself. He was a changed man, and I could feel it surer'n anyone else. Even his way of talking to me sounded different. For a time I thought it was 'cause he was wore out after the battle, but after a while I knowed it was more'n that. I remember one afternoon--he'd taken me out hisself for a ride round the gun positions---when he'd got off to fix my girth. There was no one around, and suddenly he gave a kind of sob and laid his head agin my neck. "Oh, Traveller," he said, "what's to become of us? I've lost my right arm!" All I knowed at the time was that something had made him wretched. I didn't know jest what--there was 'nuff things, after all-- and I can't remember jest when I understood that it was Cap-in-His-Eyes he meant he'd lost. But by the time we broke up that headquarters by the railroad and Marse Robert finally said "Strike the tent!" I felt like I'd knowed it ever since the night I'd heared the news from Dancer in the firelight. Our best general was gone for good.
All the time we was marching upcountry--long beside the mountains--I could feel Marse Robert was out of spirits, though whenever he was talking to the other generals he pretended he warn't. I remember, the day before we crossed the big river again, he rode right up the column from rear to front, stopping off whenever we came to anyone he wanted to speak with. We rode beside General Ringlets for a while, and he was full of high spirits and fight. He was always one for show, was Ringlets. There was a man with him, an officer he called "Eppa," and Marse Robert and this here Eppa was riding 'long and talking together for a goodish while. His horse, Sovereign, seemed in a sort of a gloomy mood, and after a while I asked him whether he was finding the flies troublesome or what.