Honor Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Volume II)

by Jessica James

  But his smile of contentment turned to a frown of annoyance at the unwelcome sound of a bugle call floating to him on the breeze. He waited only an instant more. The thundering reverberations produced by the hooves of galloping horses reached his ears at the same time a moving dot appeared on the horizon.

  Hunter gave one swift whistle to warn Carter, and then galloped down the hill full tilt to his men. “Put the prisoners in the front,” he yelled. “Keep the horses and mules together.”

  His men unhitched the remaining horses while Hunter rode up and down the line, urging them to hurry and ordering them to leave behind the most cumbersome of their loot.

  “Sir, Gus Dorsey reporting.”

  Hunter reined to a stop beside the horseman. Gus, his foremost scout, had been ordered to watch and report on the enemy’s movements. “Yes, Gus, what do you have?”

  “Ran into one of Stuart’s men. He was looking for you. Wanted me to give you this.”

  Hunter opened the dispatch and scanned it quickly.

  Headqrts. Saddle

  Major Hunter,

  I am in receipt of your latest intelligence as well as telegraph reports from the enemy of your exploits to date. Your diversion has worked well, but Yankee patrols have been dispatched in every direction to attempt your capture. I request that you cross Gooseneck Creek, burn the bridge, and head north to an abandoned house and barn. Gen. Lee wants that piece of ground held at all costs. We are en route and will provide support.

  Your obedient servant,

  Gen. J.E.B. Stuart

  Hunter sighed deeply at the unwelcome and unexpected news, but otherwise provided no indication to those studying him whether the communication held good or bad news.

  “Let’s go, men.” Hunter ordered the men forward, intending to move at a pace that would render pursuit difficult. But any hopes of fusing speed and distance were soon dashed. The horses slipped and slogged through the greasy Virginia mud; their progress hindered by the deplorable condition of the road.

  At length the bridge came into sight, and horses, mules, and men clattered across. Hunter ordered Carter to withdraw the prisoners and the battalion to the farmhouse, but requested four volunteers to hang back and serve as rear-guard—a perilous and possibly deadly obligation considering the size of the approaching enemy.

  The call for such duty caused its usual uprising. Several men shouted and argued that it was their turn to serve; others dismounted and announced they were willing to settle the matter with their fists. It took Hunter several minutes to calm them down and choose who deserved the honor. With the choice made, the four men went about their job of trying to burn the structure.

  The attempt did not go as planned. “May as well try to burn the creek,” one of them said in frustration after fifteen minutes of trying to light the wet wood.

  “All right, let’s go,” Hunter said. The thundering sound of a heavy body of cavalry followed his words, causing his men to leap onto their mounts in haste.

  Chapter 8

  Duty is the most sublime word in our language. Do your duty in all things. You cannot do more. You should never wish to do less.

  – General Robert E. Lee

  Hunter knew he could never outrun the oncoming riders, but wanted to delay them for as long as possible to give Carter time to set up a defense in the farmhouse. He rode a short distance and then stopped long enough to arrange his four men on a rise in the road behind him. With this display of force in place, he wheeled his horse to face his foes.

  “Let your guns speak loud and clear, men,” Hunter yelled over his shoulder. “Tell them what you’re thinking. Let’s jam ’em back over the bridge.”

  The enemy, who had been rushing forward at a gallop, slowed at the sight of the single horseman standing in their path. Hunter watched their eyes simultaneously rise to the four men behind him. He knew the undulating road made ascertaining the strength of the potential force behind those four impossible. And he knew, as Yankees, they would be reluctant to find out.

  They did not charge, but drew up in line of battle and waited for the attacking force, which came without delay. Hunter spurred Dixie toward the enemy, firing six shots and emptying five saddles. Howling at the top of their lungs, the remaining four followed his lead, charging the enemy like enraged demons and firing with the rapidity of lightning.

  With four men on jaded horses, Hunter deceived the oncoming foe into thinking his entire command attacked. Unwilling to fight a force of unknown size, they fired a few ineffective shots, then turned and clattered back across the bridge to regroup, while Hunter galloped back to his men.

  “There’s an abandoned house ahead. I’ll meet up with you there.”

  The men needed no further orders. They urged their exhausted mounts on, at times pausing long enough to wheel around and pay their respects to the now-pursuing enemy. Again and again they turned and stung the Yankees with their lead, while Hunter, riding a parallel route, took occasional pot shots as well.

  Even in the midst of the gunfire, Hunter heard the sound of a heavy engagement in front of him, and smiled grimly. Stuart had neither implied nor insinuated in his dispatch that there would be no enemy to dispute their taking the farmhouse.

  When the four men who had been with Hunter galloped up the narrow lane, the firing picked up its pace. Despite the barrage of bullets, they rode hell bent into the bloody fray, cracking away with their revolvers, showing elation at having so much action in a single day.

  Hunter covered his men from a sheltered corner of the property as they rode across the open ground, then sat with head bent over his revolver as he attempted to reload for his own trip across the yard.

  Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked up to see a man in blue step from behind a tree, his gun leveled and steady. Unable to move or fire, Hunter heard a shot, and blinked when the soldier’s life-blood—not his own—shot like a fountain to the limbs above him. Moments later, one of Hunter’s men rode by at a gallop, smiling and nodding at Hunter.

  Spurring Dixie forward, Hunter followed him to the barn.

  “Pierce!” He dismounted and grabbed the younger man by the shoulder.

  “Sir?”

  “Why are you out here? I ordered your company into the house.”

  “I wanted to be in the fight with you,” was the earnest reply. “Like you always say, when things get the hardest is when you have to push through the most.”

  Hunter stared at him, trying to decide whether to reprimand him for not following orders or thank him for saving his life. He decided to do neither. “That will be all, Pierce.”

  He turned and found his way to the back of the barn where he assessed the layout of the farm. The house and the barn lay at the base of a rather large and steep hill, from which he doubted the enemy could launch an attack. His men had corralled the captured horses in a large paddock beside the structures. The prisoners, about a dozen or so, were being held in the barn.

  The thirty-foot sprint to the house felt like a mile and a half to Hunter. He dove to the safety of the back porch and was pulled inside by a serious-faced Carter.

  “What is the situation here?” Hunter strolled through the rooms, examining where Carter had placed the men.

  “We cleaned out maybe a dozen or so,” Carter said. “There’s still a couple out there though.”

  “There will soon be more. How much ammunition do we have?”

  “Sufficient I believe. We captured enough carbines and shotguns from the wagons to give each man two—some have three.”

  “My orders are to hold the house.” Hunter stared vacantly through the window, refusing to look into Carter’s eyes. “We should be able to resist them, provided they do not resort to artillery.”

  Hunter said the words as if the use of artillery meant little to him. But he knew Carter understood that when the enemy unloaded its cannons, the house and everything in it would be turned to jelly. It was simply
a matter of when, a race of time, and a question of who would make it first—Stuart’s cavalry or the enemy’s big guns.

  “Have the men barricade every door and window with furniture or whatever they can find,” Hunter said. “And tell them not to fire unless they receive the order or have a good target.”

  Hunter went from room to room giving laconic orders, making sure no point of defense had been overlooked. He reminded everyone there would be little commanding after the firing began. As usual, it would be each man for himself.

  When done, Hunter joked with his men, giving the impression he thought the enemy was retreating instead of gathering and preparing to attack in overwhelming numbers.

  But the shouting of officers, clanking of sabers, and whinnying of horses soon made that fact undeniable. Hunter’s men watched the threatening phenomenon with grave expressions as they began to acknowledge the deadly significance of the numbers and weaponry assembling outside.

  “I wish we had some artillery to bear on them,” Carter said.

  “Since we cannot take them by force, we will have to take them by strategy,” Hunter said.

  “And we can do it,” Carter said in a loud voice before continuing under his breath. “God willing.”

  Hunter paused and looked over his shoulder. “You can wish for God to be on your side, but I’m going to hope for Stuart.”

  Gus, who had been walking by after distributing ammunition, asked innocently, “Sir, what exactly are we going to do?”

  “Do? Why, we’re going to shoot them.”

  “But, Major, there are hundreds of them, maybe thousands.” Gus smiled as if Hunter were joking. “That’s impossible.”

  Hunter looked him in the eye. “Then we shall do the impossible.”

  Chapter 9

  I did not come here for the purpose of surrendering my command.

  – Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest

  As night slowly closed in around Hunter’s command, sporadic gunfire continued. The Yankees seemed intent on keeping those in the barn and upstairs windows on their toes, though the wasteful use of ammunition did little to alarm Hunter’s men.

  When the night abruptly turned quiet, Hunter stepped to the window and watched a white flag move across the yard. Expecting something of the sort, he removed the coat that showed his rank and went outside to meet the two officers who bore the flag. “Gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Excuse the informality. We were not expecting callers tonight.”

  “Are you Major Hunter?”

  “I am an officer with the authority to accept your communication.”

  One of the men, a colonel, stepped forward. “I am Colonel Joshua Walters. You must know, sir,” he said, looking Hunter’s muddy uniform up and down, “that you are, for the most part, surrounded.”

  Hunter looked over the man’s shoulder with a stare of colossal calm, but decided the statement required no response since the situation was obvious.

  “In other words, you don’t have a chance of surviving,” the second spoke up. “We have an entire division within bugle call.”

  The arrogant attitude of the Yankees disturbed Hunter, but he did not allow it to show. “I am not unaware of that fact nor uncomfortable with my ability to deal with it,” he replied, leaning one shoulder against the front porch post and shoving the other hand into a pocket. “So to be fair, I must ask that you please make your men aware they will have their work cut out for them.”

  The two officers took a step back and began whispering together in council. The plump officer stepped forward again. “How do you intend to defend this house against a brigade?”

  Hunter blinked and bristled at the impudence, but then, again, calmed himself. “That is for you to find out when you come and attempt to take it.”

  The man muttered oaths, indignant at the bold effrontery as Colonel Walters stepped forward once more. “Daylight will show you the hopelessness of your situation,” he said in an insistent voice. “We are trying to diffuse a volatile situation without needless bloodshed.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for your concern.” Hunter pushed himself off the post. “But I believe I shall bring an end to this conversation. We are Virginians, and we intend to stand and fight. We hope to see another sunrise, yet we are willing to perish nobly here.”

  “That is pure foolishness. How many men have you in there?” The stout major stamped his foot as if demanding an answer from a subordinate in his own army or snapping a command at a disobedient dog.

  “Sufficient for the purpose, I believe,” Hunter answered with a calmness that emphasized his determination. “You must know, gentlemen, I would not attempt such a defense without a number I believed adequate to settle the matter conclusively in our favor. I believe it is you who have drawn a tough assignment.”

  “Sir, you do not understand,” Colonel Walters said. “We are here to demand your immediate surrender.”

  Hunter’s smile faded. He cocked his head to the side and blinked in rapid succession to ward off the sound of a word he refused to acknowledge existed. “I regret greatly to disappoint you,” he said, his voice hostile and threatening now. “But as I can still draw breath, I shall decline your generous offer. We will sell our lives dearly. And I fear many of yours will be part of the cost.”

  “But, sir,” Walters continued, his voice quaking, “If you surrender you can trust in the mercy of the government.”

  Hunter took his time and looked each man full in the eye. “As I said, the men in this house are prepared to die here, not show their backs to the enemy. And if you gentlemen are not out of range within three minutes, we shall be obliged to open fire. Good evening.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Hunter stepped inside and closed the door, giving vent to a loud expletive that startled his men. Then he turned to Carter and tried to cover the emotional display. “How many men do we have?”

  “Twenty-four. But four are in the barn guarding the prisoners and two are out watching the horses and the hill behind.”

  Hunter nodded and drew a deep breath. “Parole the prisoners and hope for the best with the horses. We’re going to need every man in here.”

  He didn’t bother to say it, but it seemed doubtful any of them would be getting out alive to need a horse.

  “It can be held, sir, under favorable conditions,” Carter said. “And the good Lord might be able to provide us with that.”

  “If it is your custom to make requests to a higher authority,” Hunter responded, “tell Him we need only two things: enough ammunition and adequate time.”

  Hunter knew his successes over the past two days had dealt the enemy a severe blow, and their thirst for revenge was strong. Getting his entire command out under cover of darkness while the Yankees sat planning their attack would be no hard matter. But Stuart had ordered they remain until he arrived. It was an order that could not be questioned, though its result might be one of great regret.

  Hunter went through the house and assigned two men to stand guard for two hours while allowing the others to sleep. Within five minutes of the order to rest, a line of corpses would not have been more motionless than the bodies strewn helter-skelter throughout that house.

  “You better get some rest too, sir,” Carter told Hunter. “You’ll be no good to us otherwise.”

  Hunter felt drugged by weariness, but his strength of will and resolve were more potent. He looked at the tired men who seemed oblivious to what the morning would bring, and listened to the ominous noises of the enemy making preparations for slaughter.

  Sliding down the wall and putting his head on his knees, Hunter dozed fitfully for a few moments. Rising to gaze through the darkness, he remained vigilant for any movement or sound, half-fearing to see the view the gray light of dawn would bring—for he knew full well it would contain far too much blue for his liking.

  Chapter 10

  They’ve got us surrounded again—the poor bastards.

 
– Attributed to General Creighton Abrams, Battle of the Bulge

  The rising sun had not even begun to affect the darkness when Hunter told Carter to awaken the men. Gathering them in one room, he spoke in a tone of mingled gloom and tenderness. “Men, we have been asked by General Stuart to defend this house,” he said, swallowing hard, “and this we must do, at any price.”

  None made a comment. Rather, they stared back at him with supreme confidence, ignoring the growing evidence that the forthcoming match would not be an equal one.

  “I knew well when I chose to fight for Virginia, the difficulties and dangers I would face. I yet resolved to live or die in the cause of my country, the honor which I owe to her.” Hunter’s gaze roamed from man to man in the room, and when he spoke, it was with the cool, quiet dignity that signifies command. “Men, we must hold this house, or sacrifice all in the attempt. This is Virginia soil, men. And we are Virginians. Shall we not defend it? Who is with me?”

  Contagious enthusiasm rippled through the ranks as the men nodded and whistled to signal their agreement. But before Hunter could provide any further guidance on what to expect, one of the men shouted from near a window. “Son of thunder, get ready. Here they come!”

  “Remember, men,” Hunter reminded them as they settled into place. “Upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.”

  The final preparations for defense were established in a moment, and then they waited impatiently for the carnage to commence. Despite being aware that extensive bloodshed was unavoidable and inevitable, Hunter’s men did not show it. Rather, they smiled and winked at one another from their posts. This was the material Hunter used to wring triumph from defeat. This was the material of victors.

  Hunter strode from room to room making his final and fatal plans while the enemy gathered with a collection of men and guns it seemed no mortal power could withstand. “Hold your fire until you hear the word,” Hunter said, his voice soft as thunder.

  Desultory gunfire erupted from outside, but it evoked no reply from within. Hunter’s ranks remained silent, waiting for a shot that would make firing worthwhile. Hunter held his breath. The living wave of blue came closer, halted and poured a volley into the house. Moisture ran down his temples and into his eyes, making it even harder to see. When they were almost to the porch, he yelled, “Fire!”