Page 66 of Christmas at Carnton

Almost back to where Ridley had tethered his gelding, he heard the horse whinny, then felt a touch of relief when he found the mount as he’d left him. The gelding was a mite high-strung. Temperamental at times too, even obstinate, and Ridley wasn’t overly fond of the animal.

The thoroughbreds tossed their heads, as though hesitant to welcome the newcomer to their ranks, but Green quieted them with soothing whispers and a touch.

“May I, sir?”

Ridley glanced up to see Robert Green gesture to the gelding. Gathering what he was asking, Ridley granted permission with a nod.

Robert Green walked to within three feet of the gelding then stopped and stared. Just stared. The gelding stared back, its withers rippling. Then with an outstretched hand, Green closed the distance between them, moving slowly, patient as sunrise in winter, never breaking the stare. The horse suddenly blew out a breath and stomped. Green halted and lowered his arm.

Ridley watched, not knowing what the man was doing but about to tell him in no uncertain terms that they didn’t have time for this foolish—

“You’s a good boy,” Green said, his voice low and soft. “Little scared sometimes, I’m guessin’. But we all is. We all got somethin’ we afraid of . . . You ever talk to him?”

Ridley blinked. It took him a second to realize Green was speaking to him now and not the horse. “Beg pardon?”

“You ever talk to this horse, sir? Tell him what a fine boy he is? How grateful you are for what he done for you?”

Ridley stared at Robert Green, wondering now if the man was a mite touched in the head. And knowing he was wasting his time with the gelding.

“Horses are like women, Lieutenant. You gotta talk to ’em, let ’em see what’s inside you ’fore they can start to trust. You kin to that understandin’?”

Ridley started to admit he wasn’t, then decided his personal experience was none of this man’s business. “Mr. Green, I’m sure you mean well, sir, but we don’t have time for—”

The gelding took a decided step toward Green. And another. Then lowered his head as if giving Green permission to touch him.

Ridley exhaled. “Well, would you look at—”

High-pitched laughter cut through the darkness and Ridley instinctively brought his rifle up. He put a finger to his lips. Robert Green nodded. The stallions tossed their heads as though sensing the tension around them, and the gelding edged closer to Green.

Ridley motioned to Green to gather the reins of the thoroughbreds, but the slave already had them in hand, as well as the gelding’s.

More cackling laughter and occasional whoops annoyed the night’s silence, the telling sound of liquored-up Confederate soldiers. Ridley crept through the trees to get a better look, betting they weren’t as drunk as they sounded. It occurred to him again that, with one hearty shout, Robert Green could use this chance to turn him in. The slave might try to work a bargain—the Rebs would get the thoroughbreds, the gelding, and one Federal lieutenant, and Robert Green might go free.

But Ridley knew the chances of Green going free were close to nil. He only hoped Robert Green knew that.

Watching through the trees, he could see the patrol passing by on horseback not twenty feet from where he stood. The rhythmic plod of their own mounts provided coverage, but if the thoroughbreds—or the gelding—spooked . . .

One of the Reb’s horses snorted and pulled up short, no doubt smelling—or at least sensing—the thoroughbreds. Ridley tensed.

The soldier swore and dug his heels mercilessly into the mount’s flanks, spewing a curse-laden tirade about “the worthless piece of horseflesh” beneath him.

Ridley didn’t dare look away but wondered how on earth Robert Green was managing to keep their horses so quiet. Then a thought occurred. He jerked his head back to make sure Green hadn’t—

The slave and the horses were just where he’d left them.

Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, Ridley slowly let it out and then filled his lungs again, willing his pulse to slow. He waited. The patrol passed. As did a full minute. Then another. But he knew better than to let relief come quite yet.

These Rebs . . . they were sly, some of them. This could be a trick.

Ridley allowed a full five minutes to pass—silently counting and glancing back on occasion to check on Green.

“I think they’s gone, sir,” Green finally said, his voice a feather on the wind.

“I think they are too,” Ridley whispered back. “But we can’t go the way I was planning.” Not when that way meant trailing the patrol party.

“What you gonna do, Lieutenant . . . with the general’s horses?”

“I’m taking them back to camp, near the capitol building.”