The Guns of the South Read online

  “Most ingenious.” Lee plucked at his beard, not wanting to go on. Southern inventors had come up with a great many clever ideas during the war, only to have them prove stillborn because of the Confederacy’s feeble manufacturing capacity. Nevertheless, the question had to be asked: “With how many of these repeaters could you supply me?”

  Rhoodie smiled broadly. “How many would you like?”

  “I would like as many as you can furnish,” Lee said. “The use to which I might put them, however, would depend on the number available. If you can provide me with, say, a hundred, I might furnish them to horse artillery batteries, so they might protect themselves against attacks by the enemy infantry. If, on the other hand, you are fortunate enough to possess five hundred or so—and the requisite ammunition—I would consider outfitting a cavalry regiment with them. It would be pleasant to have our horsemen able to match the firepower those people are able to bring to bear, rather than opposing them with pistols and shotguns.”

  Andries Rhoodie’s smile grew wider still, yet it was not the smile of someone sharing something pleasant with friends. Lee was reminded instead of the professional grimace of a stage magician about to produce two doves from inside his hat. Rhoodie said,” And suppose, General Lee, suppose I am able to get you a hundred thousand of these rifles, with their ammunition? How would you—how would the Confederacy—use them?”

  “A hundred thousand?” Lee kept his voice low and steady, but only with a distinct effort. Rather than pulling two doves out of his hat, the big stranger had turned loose a whole flock. “Sir, that is not a piker’s offer.”

  “Nor a likely one, if you will forgive my saying so,” Charles Marshall said. “That is nearly as many weapons as we have been able to realize from all of Europe in three years of war. I suppose you will deliver the first shipment by the next northbound train?” Irony flavored every word.

  Rhoodie took no notice of it. “Close enough,” he said coolly. “My comrades and I have spent some time getting ready for this day. General Lee, you will be sending General Hoke’s brigade down to North Carolina over the next couple of nights—am I right?”

  “Yes, that is so,” Lee said without much thought. Then all at once he swung the full weight of his attention to Rhoodie. “But how do you know of it, sir? I wrote those orders just today, and was in the process of informing President Davis of them when interrupted by you and your repeater. So how can you have learned of my plans for General Hoke’s movements?”

  “My comrades and I are well informed in any area we choose,” Rhoodie answered. He was easy, even amused; Lee abstractly admired that; he knew his own presence overawed most men. The stranger went on, “We do not aim to harm you or your army or the Confederacy in any way, General. Please believe me when I say that. No less than you, we aim to see the South free and independent.”

  “That all sounds very fine, but you did not answer the general’s question,” Marshall said. He ran a hand through his slick, dark blond hair as he took a step toward Rhoodie. “How did you learn of General Hoke’s movements?”

  “I knew. That’s enough.” The stranger did not back down. “If you order the northbound train’s engineer to stop at Rivington, General Lee, we’ll put aboard the first shipment of rifles and ammunition. That would be, hmm, about twenty-five-hundred weapons, with several magazines’ worth of rounds for each. We can supply as many again the night after that, until your army is fully equipped with new pieces.”

  “A hundred thousand rifles would oversupply the Army of Northern Virginia,” Lee said.

  “The Confederacy has more armies than yours. Don’t you think General Johnston will be able to use some when General Sherman brings the whole Military Division of the Mississippi down against him come spring?”

  “General Grant commands the Military Division of the Mississippi,” Walter Taylor said: “all the Federal troops between the Alleghenies and the river.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right, so he does, for now. My mistake,” Rhoodie said. He turned back to Lee, this time with a hunter’s intent expression on his face. “And don’t you think, General, that Nathan Bedford Forrest’s troopers would enjoy being able to outshoot the Federals as well as outride and outfight them?”

  “What I think, sir, is that you are building mighty castles in the air on the strength of a single rifle,” Lee answered. He did not care for the way Andries Rhoodie looked at him, did not care for the arrogant way the man spoke, did not care for anything about him…except for his rifle. If one Southern man could deliver the fire of five or ten Unionists, the odds against which Confederate armies had to fight in every engagement might all at once be set at naught.

  Rhoodie still studied him. Lee felt his cheeks go hot, even on this icy winter’s day, for he knew the stranger could see he was tempted. The book of Matthew came into his mind: Again the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.

  But Rhoodie did not ask for worship, and he was no devil, only a big, tough man, who was not too tough to wear a cap with flaps to keep his ears warm. For all that Lee had not taken to him, he spoke like a reasonable man, and now said, reasonably, “General, I will stay here and guarantee with my person that what I say is true. Give the order for the train to stop and pick up the rifles and ammunition. If they do not come as I say they will, why, you can do whatever you please with me. Where is your risk in that?”

  Lee searched for one. Try as he would, he could not find it. To no one in particular, Charles Venable said, “The fellow doesn’t lack for brass, that’s certain.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Lee agreed. The major’s remark helped decide him. “Very well, Mr. Rhoodie, I will give that order, and we shall see what arrives on that northbound train. If you make good on your claims, the first rifles will go to General Stuart’s cavalry. After that, well, the divisions of General Anderson and Henry Heth are quartered closest to us here. Those men can have first call on the rifles among the infantry.”

  “If he makes good,” Charles Marshall said heavily. “What if he fails?”

  “What would you recommend, Major?” Lee asked, genuinely curious.

  “A good horsewhipping, to teach him to brag no more.”

  “How say you to that, Mr. Rhoodie?” Lee inquired.

  “I’ll take the chance,” the stranger answered. Despite himself, Lee was impressed—whether the fellow could do as he said remained to be seen, but he thought he could. Rhoodie went on, “With your permission, General, some of my comrades will ride north with the rifles. You’ll need instructors to teach your men to use them properly.”

  “They may come,” Lee said. Afterwards, he thought that moment was the one when he first truly began to believe Andries Rhoodie, began to believe a trainload of fancy repeaters and ammunition could arrive from North Carolina. Rhoodie was just too sure of himself to doubt.

  Walter Taylor asked, “Mr. Rhoodie, what do you call this rifle of yours. Is it a Rhoodie, too? Most inventors name their products for themselves, do they not?”

  “No, it’s not a Rhoodie.” The big stranger unslung the title, held it in both hands as gently as if it were a baby. “Give it its proper name, Major. It’s an AK-47.”

  Lee returned to his tent to finish the delayed letter to President Davis, then went back outside to see how his staff officers were dealing with Andries Rhoodie. Rhoodie, for his part, seemed perfectly ready to wait to be proved right. Either from that commodious haversack of his or from the pack behind his horse’s saddle, he had taken out and erected a neat little one-man tent and was now building a fire in front of it.

  Majors Taylor, Venable, and Marshall stood around watching him. Each of them kept a hand close to his side arm. It occurred to Lee, though, that with such a quick-firing repeater, Rhoodie might take advantage of a second’s inattention to take out all three men before they could shoot back�
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  The notion was unsettling. But the extraordinary repeater was inside the tent at the moment, and the big stranger showed not the slightest sign of hostility. He got his fire going on the first match, and proceeded to warm his hands over it. Lee smiled a little. Rhoodie did net have the air of a man about to attack everyone around him.

  He ducked into the tent, but emerged with nothing more lethal than a pot and a folding metal stand. He dipped up some water from a little brook that ran eventually into the Rapidan, then returned to his fire and put the pot over it to boil.

  Lee’s servant came up. “Supper be ready soon, Marse Robert.”

  “Thank you, Perry. What do we have tonight?”

  “Possum soup, all nice and thick with peanuts,” the black man answered.

  “That sounds very fine.” Lee walked over to Rhoodie. “Would you care to share supper with me, sir? Perry has not much to work with here, but one would never know it by the meals he turns out.”

  Rhoodie’s eyes flicked toward Perry. “Your slave?”

  “He’s free,” Lee answered.

  Rhoodie shrugged. Lee could see he did not approve. The stranger started to say something, then evidently thought better of it, which was just as well. When he did speak, it was about supper: “Will you let me add to the meal? I know you’re on short rations here.”

  “I wouldn’t want to deprive you. Times are hard everywhere.”

  “It’s no trouble. I have plenty.” Rhoodie peered into the pot. “Ah, good; it’s boiling.” He set it on the ground. “Excuse me.” He went back into the tent. When he came out, he was holding a couple of packages whose sides and bottoms reflected the firelight metallically. He peeled a lid off each of them. The insides of the lids looked metallic, too. He set down the packages, poured hot water into each of them. Instantly, savory steam rose.

  Lee watched—and sniffed—with interest. “Is that desiccated stew you have there? The Federals use desiccated vegetables, but I did not know anyone was preparing whole meals that way.”

  “Desiccated stew it is, General.” The tall stranger’s voice was oddly constrained, as if he’d expected Lee to be more surprised. He passed him one of the packages and a spoon. “Before you eat, stir it about a little.”

  Lee stirred, then tasted. His eyebrows rose. “This is excellent. Were they to taste it, the wits in the army wouldn’t joke so about’ desecrated’ vegetables.” He ate another couple of spoonfuls; “Very good indeed. Now I find myself embarrassed at. having nothing better than possum soup to offer in exchange.”

  “Don’t fret about it, General,” Rhoodie said. He held out his metal packet as a bowl when Perry came by a couple of minutes later with the kettle. Perry ladled the container full. He smiled. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your black is a fine cook.”

  “He does seem to work miracles, doesn’t he? He has to, these days, I fear.” Lee finished the last of his stew. Even desiccated, it had more and finer ingredients than he was used to; he could still feel their rich savor in his mouth. He said, “Mr. Rhoodie, you’ve spoken glibly of all the rifles you can furnish us. Can you also supply desiccated rations of this sort, enough to hold hunger at bay in this army until spring?”

  “Our, ah, firm, is chiefly concerned with weapons: As far as rations go, I will have to inquire before I tell you how many we can bring in.”

  “I wish you would,” Lee said. “A soldier who cannot march and fight is as much a loss to his country as one without a rifle.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Rhoodie said. “I don’t know how much that will be. We’re ready to move with the rifles now. For food, we would have to begin to make special arrangements, and they might take some time.”

  “You know your own affairs best, I’m sure. I merely say that, if practicable, rations would be of material benefit to us.” Lee got to his feet. So did the big stranger. He started over to the brook with his pot. Lee said, “Surely you aren’t still hungry, sir.”

  “I was going to boil water for coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Real coffee?” Lee asked. Rhoodie nodded. With a rueful smile, Lee said, “I almost think real coffee might be too potent for me, after so long drinking chicory and scorched grain masquerading under the name. Still, I will gladly hazard the experiment, provided you have enough for my staff as well. I would not see them deprived of what I enjoy.”

  “They’re welcome,” Rhoodie said. “They need their own mugs, though.”

  “By all means,” Lee called his aides, gave them the good news. They exclaimed in delight and hurried back to their tents. Lee went off to fetch his own mug.

  By the time everyone converged, mug in hand, on Rhoodie’s shelter, he had his pot back over the fire. With his free hand, he passed each Confederate officer a small, flat packet. Rhoodie said, “Tear it open and pour it into the bottom of your cup.”

  FOLGER’S INSTANT COFFEE, Lee read on the packet. Below that, in much smaller print, was something he could not make out. He put on his glasses. The words came clear: MADE IN U.S.A. He returned the glasses to his pocket, thinking he should have been able to guess that without reading it.

  As Rhoodie had directed, he poured the contents of the packet into his cup. The stuff did not look like ground coffee. “Is this another of your desiccations?” he asked.

  “You might say so, yes, General. Now if you’ll hold out your cup—” Rhoodie filled it to the brim with hot water. All at once, it smelled like coffee. “Stir it about to dissolve it all,” Rhoodie said as he filled the aides’ mugs in turn.

  Lee raised the cup to his lips. It was not the best coffee he’d ever had. But coffee it unmistakably was. He took a long, slow sip, closed his eyes with pleasure. “That is most welcome,” he said. One after another, the staff officers echoed him.

  “I’m glad you enjoy it,” Rhoodie said. Charles Venable had been examining his packet, too. “Instant coffee,” he said musingly.” An apt description, though not one I’ve heard before. Is this little envelope made of tinfoil, Mr. Rhoodie?”

  “I think so,” the big stranger answered after a slight hesitation, which Lee believed he recognized; it sounded like the pause of a man who was not telling everything he knew. Andries Rhoodie seemed to know a fair number of things he wasn’t telling. The things he had already spoken of and shown were quite remarkable enough. Lee wondered what secrets he still kept.

  Walter Taylor pointed to Rhoodie’s coffee mug. “What is that emblem your cup bears, sir, if I may ask? At first, seeing the red background and the white, I took it for a Confederate symbol, but now I see it is not.”

  Rhoodie held the mug close to the fire to give Taylor a better view of it. Lee looked, too. Inside a white circle on the red background was a spiky, black emblem that reminded him of a caltrop:

  Under the emblem stood three letters: AWB. Rhoodie said, “It is the sign of my organization.” He was good at appearing to answer while actually saying little.

  Lee asked, “What do the initials signify?”

  “Our motto,” Rhoodie replied with a smile: “America Will Break.”

  Taylor raised his mug in salute. “I’ll drink to that, by God!” The other aides followed suit. So did Lee. He had stayed in the Federal army as long as he could, but when Virginia left the Union, he went with his state. It counted for more with him than did the idea of the United States.

  “Another cup, gentlemen?” Rhoodie asked. “I have more coffee.”

  The staff officers said yes in a chorus. Coffee won them over where even Rhoodie’s repeater had left suspicion in its wake. Lee declined: “After so long without, a second cup would surely leave me wakeful. At my age, I find I must be careful of my sleep, for I need it more but have more trouble winning it.”

  Nodding to Rhoodie, he turned to go. His aides saluted. He returned the courtesy and walked slowly back to his tent. He took off his boots and jacket, lay down on the cot, and pulled several blankets over himself. Even with them, the night would be cold. Most of hi
s men had but a single cover, many had none. The surgeons would see frostbite and catarrh come morning sick call. That happened every day.

  The coffee did not keep him from falling asleep. It woke him a couple of hours later, though. He stood up to use the chamber pot. The ground chilled his toes through his socks.

  Before he went back to bed, he glanced out through the tent flap. Andries Rhoodie had kept his fire large and bright. He was sitting in front of it in a folding chair of gaudy canvas webbing and wood. He did not notice Lee, being intent on the book in his lap.

  “What are you reading, sir, at this late hour?” Lee called softly.

  Rhoodie looked up and peered into the night. With his eyes full of firelight, he needed a few seconds to catch sight of Lee. When he did, he stuck a thumb in the book to keep his place, then shut it and held it up. A golden cross gleamed on the black cover.

  “Ah,” Lee said, all at once feeling easier about Rhoodie than he had since the moment he’d met him. “You could find no better companion, by day or night. May I ask which verses you have chosen?”

  “The story of Gideon,” the big ‘stranger answered. “I read it often. It seems to fit.”

  “It does indeed,” Lee said. “It does indeed. Good night, sir. I hope you sleep well when you do seek your bedroll.”

  “Thank you, General. A good night to you, too.”

  Lee went back to bed. As he’d told Rhoodie, he often had trouble sleeping. Not tonight, though—he dropped off as smoothly and easily as a child. Just before he stopped thinking altogether, he wondered why. Maybe it was hope, something that had been in short supply since Gettysburg. He slept.

  The next couple of days went by in something close to a state of anticlimax. General Samuel Jones of the Department of Western Virginia sent a letter promising cattle and beef for the Army of Northern Virginia. Lee wrote effusive thanks, but the promised animals were slower arriving than Jones‘s letter had been. As he’d feared, he had to reduce the army’s rations.