Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(62)

The Negro regarded Ridley—the crackle of the fire eating up the silence—then finally accepted, his own grip iron-firm. “Robert Green, sir. Head hostler, Belle Meade Plantation.”

“You been at Belle Meade long, Mr. Green?”

“Since I’s about two years old, sir. My folks and me, we was a present to the first Missus Harding on her and my master’s weddin’ day. Been at Belle Meade ever since.”

Ridley nodded, then stared into the fire as the man’s comment settled within him. We was a present . . . It didn’t settle well. According to a proclamation from the president eight months earlier, most of the slaves had been freed. But words on paper didn’t always match the reality of a situation. Especially when newly freed slaves attempting to exercise their freedom ended up shot in the back or hanging by a rope.

“You must’a met with some of them Rebs, Lieutenant.”

Ridley looked up to see Robert Green gesturing toward him.

“Seein’ them bruises, sir, looks like somebody got a piece of you ’fore you took ’em down.”

Ridley fingered his cheek and chin, his jaw still tender and now roughly bearded with several days’ growth. “Actually this was from a fellow officer. He and I had a . . . difference of opinion, you might say.”

Green chuckled. His laughter had a comforting sound about it. “From the size of you, Lieutenant, I be guessin’ that man looks way worse off than you do.”

Ridley shook his head. “He got a few good punches in before he went down.”

“That may be, sir. But with one good lick from you, I’m bettin’ he done stayed down. For a week!”

Ridley allowed the trace of a grin, then felt the need for sleep creeping up on him and sat straighter to keep his wits about him.

“Lawd . . .” Robert Green sighed and stretched. “I used to love me a good fight. I used to could hold my own too. Don’t you think I couldn’t just ’cause I’s built low to the ground.”

“No, sir . . .” Ridley shook his head, humored at the way Green described himself. “I wouldn’t begin to think that.”

Robert Green locked eyes with him then, and the man’s smile faded. Green blinked, as if just now seeing Ridley in his uniform again and remembering why he was here.

The brief ease of conversation between them left as quickly as it had come.

Feeling precious time slip past, Ridley rose, bringing his Winchester with him. “I thank you for dinner, Mr. Green. And now . . . I need to ask you to show me the horses.”

Robert Green rose as well, reaching for a knobby cane to steady himself. He grabbed a nearby lantern and lit it, then picked a path through the darkness. Ridley followed, still wary and more than a little watchful.

Slivers of moonlight fingered their way through the trees, lending the night a silvery glow. When they reached the top of the ridge, Ridley peered over and counted three—no, four—horses. His gaze narrowed in the pale moonlight. Their size and stature. Their build . . . Though he wasn’t an expert on horse flesh, he knew enough to realize everything his commander had said was true. Magnificent was the foremost word that came to mind.

If these horses were worth a dollar, they were worth a thousand. Each. Easy. And they flocked to Robert Green like newborn pups to their mama. All of them. The man whispered low and stroked their necks, scratched them behind their ears. The gentleness of the animals in contrast to their brute strength was something to behold.

“You open to me askin’ you somethin’, Lieutenant Cooper?” Robert Green turned back, and as if on cue, the horses lifted their heads. All seemed to look directly at Ridley.

Ridley got a spooked sort of feeling. A little like . . . if Robert Green were to give the word, those thoroughbreds would charge that hill and stomp the life right out of him. All because Robert Green wished it so.

Hearing in his mind the question Mr. Green had asked, Ridley pulled his thoughts taut again. “Yes, sir. Go ahead.”

“Where you from, Lieutenant? I know by your speakin’ you ain’t from nowhere north.”

“No, sir. I’m not. I’m from South Carolina.”

Robert Green whistled low. “I’s guessin’ what you done ain’t gone over too well with your kin.”

Ridley pushed aside the painful images of his father and younger brothers. “No, sir. It hasn’t.” He turned his thoughts to figuring how he was going to get these thoroughbreds back to camp. He was a fair rider, but he’d never been especially good with horses. Not a fact he’d been eager to share with his commanding officer. He’d handled this many horses before, but not spirited blood horses, and he certainly lacked the knack for it this man possessed.

“But still . . . you’s fightin’ for what you think is right, Lieutenant. Speaks high of a man to do that, sir. ’Specially when it costs him dear.” Robert Green paused. “Anythin’ I can do to change your mind on this, Lieutenant Cooper? These here are the general’s favorites. And he trusted ’em to me special, sir. To keep ’em safe.”

Ridley leveled a stare. “I appreciate that, Mr. Green. But no. There’s nothing to be done. I’ve got my orders.”

The older man bowed his head, nodding. “Mind if I water ’em up ’fore you take ’em?”

“No. Long as you don’t mind if I come along.”