First, Duncan hauled in small bags of flour, meal and salt pork. Behind him, Jocko lugged in several pairs of boots, britches and tunics. Silently the two men filed out, returning immediately with more sample items. Several blankets, a jumble of tack, various pieces of metalwork, and a pair of saddles came next. Finally, Duncan and Jocko carried in a large roll of heavy canvas, which from its clean, unstained appearance, had obviously never been used.
Charlie started with the food supplies. He opened the bag of corn meal and poured it onto the table. "Gentlemen, take a look. One in four bags of meal come in with these little fellows riding along." The little pile of yellow meal was moving, alive with small white grubs. As he poured the flour on the table he added, "Of course, they are clearly additional meat for the men. I have no idea what these are, although I suspect they are rodent feces." There were small, rod shaped black specks mixed in with the flour. "However, neither of these will kill my men. It just gives them a bellyache. Of course, there is the nausea my mess crew suffers from having to deal with it. This, on the other hand," he continued as he opened the third food package, "will kill." As he spoke, he rolled a piece of salt pork on the table, green with mold and moving with maggots. The smell was sickening.
Jocko stepped over and tore the paper off, carrying the offensive materials out of the office. Both Sheridan and McCauley looked slightly green. The salt pork had been a bit overwhelming.
Charlie turned to the uniforms and blankets. "As you can see, gentlemen, the blankets are pitiful." Charlie rolled out three blankets, each of which had holes that were clearly flaws in the basic cloth, rather than from wear. The uniforms were no better. "I cannot keep my men warm with clothes and blankets like this." He nodded to Duncan, who unrolled the canvas tent. The roof of the tent was stitched together, with a seam that was not completed because the canvas was thin and could not hold the stitches well enough to even try to patch it. It was obvious the tent would leak under the lightest of rains. "Nor do we have dry tents for them."
He laid the tack on top of the woolens. "The leather they send us for the horses is no better. Sometimes it comes in green with mildew. Of the last three batches of saddles that came in, almost half had broken trees." He pointed to the obviously unusable saddles. "But the best is the boots. We got an entire shipment of cavalry boots made out of rawhide. Do you know what happens when a rawhide boot gets wet? Let me tell you. They shrink and turn rock hard. We had to cut four of our men out of these. They were desperate; they had no boots so they tried to use what we had. It was very unpleasant, to say the least."
Charlie walked over to his gun cabinet and withdrew two carbines and a pair of pistols. He walked back to the table and held one of the pistols between two fingers by the grips. He gave the pistol a brisk shake. The pistol rattled and a small metal pin fell out. It was the only thing holding the trigger in place. He laid the other pistol beside its mate and opened the breeches of the two carbines. Neither of them had firing pins. "Of course, it does make it difficult to engage the enemy when we have no weapons that will fire."
Charlie looked at his General. "Sir, I contend that if we are to engage the enemy this spring, we will have to be properly supplied. The only resources that have been of the consistent quality needed to properly supply this force have been the horses provided by Cavalry Services. General Wilson’s efforts to organize our mounts were clearly successful; why can we not have the same quality effort from the Quartermaster General’s office?"
Sheridan looked to McCauley. "What have you found, Angus? Is this typical of what our troops are getting?"
"I am afraid so, sir. No one has presented such a…… forceful case before, but we have consistent problems with our suppliers."
Sheridan thought for a while then turned back to Charlie. "Well, General, I believe that your personal plans will require that you make a visit to the capitol in the not too far distant future. I will prepare some dispatches for you to deliver and suggest you take your little demonstration with you. I am sure General Meigs will be fascinated. I have known the man for a long time and find him to be honorable and well intentioned. I cannot say the same for some of the men in his command. In the mean time, I will do what I can to see to it that you get better quality supplies in the future. McCauley, please make a note that every single batch of materials for General Redmond be manually inspected before it is shipped. In fact, see to it that everything we get from the Quartermaster General be inspected. And feel absolutely no compunction about sending back anything that is substandard. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir." The look on McCauley’s face would have been humorous if the situation had been any less grave.
Sheridan’s voice was silken as he went on. "And McCauley?" His adjutant looked up. "I will hold you personally responsible should any more shipments to the 13th or any other regiment under my command contain any substandard products." McCauley looked rather like a startled deer. Perhaps his lucrative case of selective blindness was now a thing of the past.
There was a long silence in the office, and then Sheridan slapped his hands on his thighs. "Gentlemen, I believe there is a contest about to start. Shall we go cheer the men on?"
--*--
A
s the officers arrived at the main paddock, Major Swallow was posting the official rules and scoring standards for the gymkhana. Each event would have individual winners; the judges for the event, drawn from the officers’ ranks, were also tallying the overall placement of each company. As Charlie had announced, the company with the most total points at the end of the two-day event would take the vanguard; the individual with the most points would be the color bearer. Within the regiment, these positions were the highest honor to which any trooper could aspire. There were also personal rewards for the winners of each event, all designed to help make the life of the winning trooper and his friends a little more pleasant. Hams, small kegs of brandy, fine coffee, tobacco, and a handful of passes to visit home for a week were assembled, ready to reward the winners.
The men had already assembled their teams in the big pasture. They had set the fences and brush jumps for a variety of cross-country races. These first events of the gymkhana were traditional races, each covering between two and three and a half miles, over rolling terrain. There were water hazards for some of the races, created by crossing shallow sections of the stream that ran through the pasture, wood jumps and brush jumps designed to look like the hedges that were common separators between fields.
The men had built some small stands, somewhat protected from the weather and the chill breeze from the north. Each had a few chairs, tables, and a small brazier to provide some warmth. These stands were for the officers and guests. Most of the residents of Culpeper had turned out in their best finery, such as it was, to watch the events. In addition, Sergeant Jamison and his mess crew had put together a small feast, with hot soup, ham and biscuits, coffee, tea, and a small mountain of apples for the men and guests to sample.
The races started with the shorter, easier stretches. The first was two miles, over wooden fences, with no water hazards or blind jumps. The best of the younger horses were being tested, with a fairly large number being fielded. Each company was represented by at least one rider, and in a couple of cases, two. The race went without incident, and the rider from Company A just nosed out one of Company D’s men for first place. A brief hiatus allowed the judges to clear the field and reset the course flags.
The next race was also short –– again only two miles, but over brush jumps designed to look like hedges. This race was also well represented. When jumping over wooden fences, the horses had to clear the fence completely; but when jumping over hedges, the smart horse and rider actually went through the top of the hedge, keeping as low to the ground as possible while still clearing the obstacle. It was always an exciting race, and one with more than a little risk from misjudging the jump. Too high, and you lost ground. Too low and you ran the risk of the horse stumbling and throwing the rider. The young horses being used for this shorter distance were just learning that fine line.
The race was running cleanly until one of the riders from Company C misjudged the second jump. The horse’s back foot dragged through the brush, and he stumbled as he landed, sending his rider directly over the horse’s head. The trooper tucked and rolled, as he had been taught. His mount gathered himself and managed to jump over the fallen rider, then continued to run the race. Several of the race judges ran to check on the fallen rider, who rose, bruised but otherwise unharmed, having only had the breath knocked out of him. Others raced to catch the riderless horse.
The mount was having none of that. He was running with his herd, a young, dominant stallion. Winning the race was as important for the horse as it had been for his rider. He took each jump with ease, gaining on the lead horse steadily. By the time the race was over, the young stallion had outrun every mounted animal in the race and eluded the judges’ attempts to remove him. Riderless, he crossed the finish line first then pranced and kicked his heals in pleasure at his accomplishment. The crowd laughed and cheered at his antics. Unfortunately, without a rider, he was not qualified to win. However, all of the young gallants within the troopers ranks made a mental note to try and claim this fine young fellow as their own regular mount.
The next four races proceeded with minimal incidents and no disastrous injuries. One horse pulled a hock, another bruised her knee from a bad landing, but there were no broken bones. The riders were not quite so lucky, as one rider managed to dislocate his shoulder and another broke a collarbone. Dr. Walker and Samuelson tended to the human casualties, while Tarent and McFarlane managed the equine patients.
A late lunch was enjoyed by all, with a bit of strained socializing between the Culpeper citizens and the officers from both Charlie’s and Sheridan’s commands. Mayor Frazier and General Sheridan retired to a quiet corner where they were seen having a very intense discussion on the condition of the county. Words like "seed stock" and "winter supplies" were heard drifting from their impromptu conference.
Finally, Mayor Frazier stood, the veins in his forehead standing out. "General, how do you expect us to recover? We were a thriving town with over fifteen hundred citizens. Now we are less than one hundred and fifty old men, women, and children with no resources and no hope for the future. Where do you think we will find the means to do anything other than starve, freeze, or rot away this winter?"
Sheridan looked startled. Frazier rejoined Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, who were chatting with Elizabeth and Rebecca. Charlie, dressed in britches, boots, and short tunic because he had been serving as a mounted race judge and was also to ride soon, was quietly tending to the ladies, bringing cups of hot tea for them. Sheridan had started towards what he hoped would be a more accepting group when the next race was announced. He sighed, and made a mental note to discuss the situation with Charlie later.
The seventh race of the day was exciting. Only one entrant from each company was allowed. Each team had put forward their best rider and horse for this demanding course. It had both brush and wood jumps, a water jump, several combination jumps and a blind drop in the three and a half mile span. Because of the difficulty of the course, the company that won would receive double points in the cumulative total and the individual winner would receive a two week pass –– long enough to catch the supply train for a visit back home.
Every rider was keyed up for this critical race. The first start was called back, as one horse had broken early. After some milling around to calm the horses, the flag dropped again.
Nine horses and riders broke cleanly this time. For the first mile, they ran in a tight cluster, with two and three horses running side by side, almost in formation, over the first jumps. As the horses moved through the water jump, one rider’s stirrup leather snapped, startling the horse and nearly dropping the rider. But he hung on manfully, righting himself in the saddle and continuing on.
The blind jump forced the riders to spread out a bit, since controlling the horses as they dropped the four feet of the jump presented more risk than a regular jump. As the riders started to spread, young Duncan, riding for Company H, moved into second place. Through the combination jump, he held his position then let his rawboned buckskin have his head for the dead run to the finish line. After more than three miles of hard riding, this last spurt to the finish line was a measure both of the endurance of the horse and the skill of the rider in husbanding his mount’s energy. The final sprint was close; the rider from Company D was determined to prove his mettle as well. Montgomery’s men had something special to prove. They were determined to show they were just as good or even better soldiers as any in the regiment, regardless of the problems Monty and his cronies like Davison had created. Riding neck and neck with Duncan, Raiford from Company D kept repeating to his horse "We gotta win. We gotta. Go, boy." Subtly, gently, so the judges could not see, Duncan eased back on his mount, giving Raiford the lead. More than most, Duncan understood.
As the winners from the seventh race were being recognized, Charlie stepped behind Duncan. "Pulled him a bit, did you?"
"No, sir. He just did not have as much left as I thought."
"Right. Well, you are a good man, Duncan. A good man. I would be proud to have you carry the colors for me."
"Well, sir, you never know. There are still tomorrow’s contests."
Charlie smiled and moved away. It was time for the officers’ race; he was riding although if he and Jack won, the rewards and points would go to the line officer that placed first. The officers’ circuit was a complex double figure eight around the course, followed by a long straight on the outside track. The race was a little over three and a half miles, a test of both the rider’s skill and the horse’s endurance. The field was limited to one officer from each company plus one officer from the general staff. As the riders assembled, Charlie noted that the same young lieutenant who had brought word of Montgomery’s injuries was riding for Company D. He nudged Jack over to stand beside the young man and wished him luck.