The War of Rebellion was just a matter of time in coming and everyone knew it.
As early as January 16, Governor Andrew, only eleven days after his inauguration, directed the Adjutant General to issue General Order No. 4, which brought the Massachusetts Militia into battle readiness. Concurrently, the legislature issued a statement that "it is the universal sentiment of the people of Massachusetts, that the President should enforce the execution of the laws of the United States, defend the Union, protect national property"; and, to this end, the State "cheerfully tenders her entire means, civil and military, to enable him to do so."
A few days later, on the 11th of February a great meeting was held in Cambridge. The City Hall was crowded. Hazard listened to John Palfrey speak briefly. "South Carolina," he said, "has marshalled herself into revolution; and six states have followed her, and abandoned our government."
Richard H. Dana, Jr., made the speech of the occasion. He said that the South was in a state of mutiny; he was against John Brown raids and uncompromisingly for the Union. He was opposed to the Crittenden compromise and held to the faith of Massachusetts. This meeting uttered the sentiments of the majority of the state.
When Sumter was fired on, Massachusetts was better prepared for war than most states. Her militia had spent the winter and spring nights drilling, recruiting, and organizing.
On the 15th of April 1861, Governor Andrew received a telegram from Washington to send forward at once 1,500 men.
Parker dashed into Hazard's room three days after Sumter, followed two steps later by Felton and Munroe. "We're joining up. You've got to 'list up' in Jennings' Company!"
"Jennings' Company?" Cornelia's husband? Not likely, Hazard thought. "No, thanks," he said. "Besides, this isn't my war."
"Don't you care about the slaves?" they all exclaimed, practically in unison.
He did, of course, and they knew it. Hazard had been quietly attending the antislavery meetings for some time, in sympathy with any human in bondage.
"Jennings has the best damn uniforms north of Richmond," Felton declared enthusiastically.
"Not a great reason to get shot at."
"The war won't be long."
"Over by fall, everyone says."
"Chance for glory, Hazard. It'll be a lark!"
Hazard had seen enough killing and death to disagree about the "lark" side of it, but he didn't argue with his bright-eyed friends. "Have a good time, then. I'm heading west as soon as classes are over. If you're ever in Montana, look me up."
"Hazard, we need you," they pleaded. "Who else can track like you and shoot like you and ride a horse like—hell, like it was part of you?" Munroe finished, the excitement high in his voice.
"Haven't ever seen a man jump on and off a gallop-ing horse like you do, Hazard," Felton quietly remarked, "not even in the circus."
"Say you'll come," Parker demanded. "You're perfect for Jennings' Cavalry Company."
"Sorry, I can't," Hazard said.
But when Major Jennings came personally the following day to ask him to join the company and offered him captain's bars, Hazard had a harder time saying no.
Jennings wasn't deterred. "Let's have a brandy," he said, "and talk about it, Mr. Black."
And when Hazard said, "Call me Jon," Jennings knew he was talking to a reasonable man.
Neither mentioned Cornelia, masculine protocol concerning "discretionary affairs" functioning smoothly. Both understood women had their place in the society they frequented, but the coming war was strictly outside that sphere and its outcome depended on rational considerations, not emotion.
Over a good brandy, they got down to business.
"I need you," Jennings said, "Very badly. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I'm putting a cavalry company together, and with you as scout I think we could operate damned effectively. Your reputation's formidable."
"Thank you, Major, but I've already told Parker and Felton how I feel. It's not my war."
"People in slavery are everyone's concern. Certainly you, more than most, must sympathize—" Hazard's cool look stopped him midsentence. "I'm sorry if I offended you," Jennings calmly went on, pleased to see he'd struck a sensitive nerve and determined to press that sensitivity to the limit, "but it might be instructional to you in other ways. An understanding of the Army's operation surely would be of use to you."
"I expect I could read that in a book somewhere and save myself being shot at by Johnny Reb," Hazard replied, equally calmly, although his dark eyes were not calm.
"Would money make a difference? I'm prepared to offer you whatever you want."
"I don't need money."
A heretical irreverence to one descended from eight generations of Boston merchant princes, but Major Jennings smoothly said, "Forgive me. As you see, I'm willing to try anything."
"I'm sure you can find someone else."
"Not with your qualifications. I'll be blunt. You and I both know, under the circumstances (and that was the closest Jennings came to mentioning Hazard's liaison with his wife), if I had any other choice, I'd take it. But my men need you and that's why I'm here personally to speak to you. Wet-behind-the-ears pups like Parker and Felton and Munroe are going to be dead the first week unless men like you with experience can teach them some rudiments of survival. Our duties will be primarily raiding, picketing, and scouting, all unorthodox in tactics. It's not something you learn in Boston drawing rooms."
"Where did you learn?" Hazard inquired, curious for the first time about the man Cornelia lived with. Jennings was as suavely polished as two hundred years of wealth allowed, but under the gentlemanly exterior was solid toughness—and a natural directness Hazard couldn't help but admire.
"Fought with Scott in Mexico in '47. I was one of those green pups myself then. Just a damned lucky one, is all. I lived long enough to learn the ropes. And that's what I'm asking you to do. Help me teach these friends of yours what it's all about."
Hazard didn't reply. He looked out the window at the cherry tree blooming across the street from Young's Coffee House, thought of the wild plum trees in bloom in the low valleys back home, remembered Douglass' fiery speech last week and the far more poignant narrative of the woman who'd lost her husband and son on their escape north. It didn't seem right that a young child and his father should be hunted down with bloodhounds. Turning his gaze from the sunlit landscape outside, Hazard said, "I may go home from time to time."
Jennings face broke into a wide smile and his hand shot out to vigorously take Hazard's. "Anytime. Anytime at all," he agreed, gripping Hazard's hand like a sincerely pleased man. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. How much the company appreciates it. We're unof-ficially attached to the First Regiment, but we'll be moving out before them. When can you be ready?" he asked in the next breath.
Sliding his hand free, always slightly uneasy with the American practice of touching strangers in public, Hazard replied, "Two weeks. I've a last paper to prepare."
"Could I find you help with that?"
"I prefer doing it myself."
"Of course," the major quickly assented, having been warned of Hazard's peculiar notions about scholarship. "Two weeks it is. All your friends will be pleased. They were going to be the second assault wave if mine failed."
"You're persuasive, Major," Hazard politely answered, his smile gracious.
But Tyler Jennings hadn't tripled his father's fortune without a keen intelligence and he knew it hadn't been any of his arguments that had won the day. He had a strange feeling Hazard's mind had been made up prior to their discussion. "I'm damned lucky you're riding with us, Jon," he said, rising and holding out his hand once again. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Hazard replied, courteously relinquishing his hand to the American ritual once again. "Do you think we'll really free the slaves, Major, or do you think it's simply another money war?"
So that was why he was doing it. A genuine idealism under that practical exterior. "We'll free 'em, all right. Damned if we won't. Starting in two weeks."
Hazard smiled at the ready assurance. "Good night, Major."
"Evening, Jon," Jennings said and started for the door. He turned back after three steps. "Send your measurements to my tailor—Walton."
"He has them."
"Ah… I thought that coat was his cut. Good. I'll have him start on your uniform tomorrow. Any preferences?"
Hazard shook his head, then reconsidered. "A patch on the left shoulder; a black cougar."
Jennings eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Your name?"
"Yes."
"Done."
FROM the 13th of April when Fort Sumter fell to the 20th of May, one hundred fifty-nine applications were granted to responsible parties for leave to raise companies in Massachusetts and they all left Boston with cheers and wishes of Godspeed from the enthusiastic multitudes.
After sending a note to his parents via Ramsay Kent, Hazard set off for what the politicians and northern papers considered a "brief summer war." The Sixth Cavalry Corps arrived at Annapolis on the morning of May third and landed in the afternoon. A week later they were camped in Virginia. The rout at Bull Run in July, where nearly 18,000 men in blue fled for their lives, put illusionary dreams of a three-month war to rest.
Jennings' was one of only seven companies of cavalry taking part in the Battle of Bull Run, but the firm front they displayed while covering the precipitate retreat probably saved a large proportion of the army from annihilation by Stuart's cavalry. The North had confidently expected to crush the Rebellion at once. Cavalry was an expensive arm and federal authorities had not encouraged volunteer cavalry. Owing to the broken and wooded character of the field of operations and the improvements in rifled firearm, veteran opinion had decided the role of the cavalry would be unimportant and secondary.
Bull Run changed that opinion. It also ignomini-ously altered northern assumptions of a speedy crushing of the Rebellion.
Jennings' Light was well suited to operate as a raiding expedition, depending on the country for sustenance, destroying railway lines, bridges, depots, provisions, and telegraph lines. Raiding was a way of life for Hazard, honed to perfection by years of training. Soon their company was unofficially known as the Cougars and their reputation preceded them.
As a moral factor and an engine of destruction, the cavalry raids were a great success. They destroyed mil-lions of dollars' worth of Confederate supplies (increasingly difficult to replace as the war progressed) and cut communications, and often, due to their extreme mobility, the complete surprise of their attacks deep within enemy territory resulted in demoralizing and panic-stricken retreats.
Hazard met Custer early on when Custer rode into Abbottstown to take over his first command as brigadier general. The youngest general in the U.S. Army wore a black velvet uniform trimmed in gold lace and his blond mustache and mass of blond curling hair attracted instant attention. Hazard was one of the numerous field officers introduced to the new general.
The fantastic clothes didn't disturb Hazard. The Ab-sarokee were far more resplendent in their dress. And unlike many of the other officers who resented Custer's promotion and romantic style, Hazard knew in the long run it was victories that made generals, not clothes. He had seen more than his share of fine dressers fired for poor fighting, and Custer's reputation for success was growing.
So when they met, they took note of each other, for Hazard's hybrid uniform of fringed buckskin and Walton-tailored tunic caught the interest of George Armstrong Custer. Their hair, too, shared a common length, and they had their youth in common.
"You're with Jennings' Cougars," Custer said, but there was curiosity in his glance and inquiry in his voice.