His men obeyed, their guns crackling in a single deadly chorus. Flames shot from the front of the house as his men gave the enemy an unpleasant reminder of the accuracy of Hunter’s guns.
The noise was loud, but Hunter’s voice rose above the clamor, fierce and commanding, encouraging his men to hold their ground. The desperate assault met a determined repulse, but only for a moment. As quickly as it began, it ended. All became silent except for the chaotic sound of the Yankees’ retreat.
Hunter, who kneeled at the front window, saw that perhaps a half-dozen Yankees had made it onto the porch, and there they remained, bloodied and unmoving.
Stumbling to his feet, Hunter moved from room to room through the smoke and haze, inquiring about casualties. It appeared that three men had been wounded by splintering wood and one was shot in the arm. None of the injuries seemed serious. He sat down to reload his own weapons and smiled. They had held their positions as he knew they would. No one would fight harder or be more ready to sacrifice all for their beliefs than this group. Hunter’s heart swelled with pride that he had the honor to lead them.
Sounds outside announced the enemy rallying for another charge. Inside, with weapons reloaded and wounds bound, all was quiet and somber and still. The smoke had cleared somewhat by the time the Yankees lined up to attack, this time from both the sides and front. Hunter’s men, determined to perform their duty, rearranged themselves and waited.
When the Union troops moved close enough, Hunter again gave the command. The house erupted, throwing flames and lead into the very faces of the men who attacked. Yet on and on the masses surged toward them, and on and on his men worked like fiends, instinctively loading and firing, loading and firing, through the smoke and suffocating air. As minutes passed, they began to fight more with the courage of desperation and frantic survival than battlefield valor.
The roar of the guns became deafening and the concussion of the weaponry jarred the eardrums until nothing was distinguishable. Hunter could see nothing through the smoke and breathe nothing but its caustic vapor. His clothes clung to him, soaked with sweat. His throat was parched. His face blackened by powder.
Time stood still. The Yankees remained defiant in their determination to overpower those inside, and those inside remained determined to repel them. All that existed was bullets and smoke and noise as the men fought amidst flying lead and splintering walls. Both sides remained unwavering, neither side willing to be the first to quit.
After what seemed like hours, the men were forced to go from carbines and shotguns to revolvers. Hunter suddenly heard a loud bang and watched the front door come crashing in. Flames from a dozen revolvers erupted around his face, and when the smoke cleared, three dead Yankees lay just inside the threshold.
Yet, again, as suddenly as it began, all grew still.
Hunter took a few moments to regain his senses. He lay on his back on the floor with two empty, smoking revolvers, his chest heaving with exertion. When he looked up, he hardly recognized his men, so blackened with powder were their faces. “Prop that door back up,” he ordered, jumping to his feet and gasping for a breath of air in the choking smoke that filled the house. The men hurried to obey, pushing the door up and propping it in place.
Hunter went from room to room, assessing the damage. Two of his men lay dead, and seven were wounded, three seriously. He called the rest together, knowing it would be impossible to contend any longer with the vastly superior and fresh force of the enemy.
Looking at his men’s expectant faces, Hunter’s gaze fell. “It is unlikely we can survive another assault, and I believe we must discard the thought of receiving reinforcements.” He took a deep breath and stared vacantly over their heads.
Without warning, a loud roar from the back of the house almost knocked him off his feet, and caused what plaster remained on the walls and ceiling to come crashing down. The men covered their ears from the deafening thunder.
Artillery!
Hunter brushed the white dust from his eyes and ran to the front of the house to gaze at the chaos. The cannon fire had come from the hill behind the house. It continued firing into the mass of blue in front of them.
“It’s Stuart!” one of his men yelled. “They’re here!”
“How in the hell did he lug those guns up there?” Carter smiled, his teeth showing brilliantly against his blackened face.
“Don’t know,” Hunter said. “But I’m sure glad he did.”
Chapter 11
We'll fight them, sir, 'til hell freezes over, and then, sir, we will fight them on the ice.
– Shelby Foote, Quoting a soldier at Gettysburg
General Stuart soon relieved Hunter and his exhausted men from their duty at the farmhouse, though, even with the use of artillery, it was hard work dispersing the enemy. Hunter’s men rounded up the captured horses and mules, then set out to deliver the ones that Stuart didn’t need to an outpost about fifteen miles away.
Well after midnight, Hunter ordered his band of weary horsemen to halt their mounts in the shadow of some trees to wait for the intense moonlight to dim behind a cloud. This cautiousness, though necessary, cost them precious time. Hunter ignored the men’s impatience and grumbling. He and Carter gazed at the moon and consulted, until at last he gave the order to mount.
Moving forward again Hunter picked up the pace, knowing both man and beast were hungry and bone weary. But while still some distance from their headquarters and with perhaps only another half-hour of darkness remaining, he hit an unexpected enemy picket post. The single sentry ambled out of the woods, scratching himself and yawning.
“Where ya headin’, boys? Need the countersign.”
Hunter was so tired he merely laughed, and so did his men. Almost home after three days of constant riding and fighting, a single sentry was not going to stop them now.
The picket, obviously not seeing the humor, brought his gun up to a more intimidating position and asked again. “I said I need the countersign.”
“Do you know who I am?” Hunter leaned forward, crossing his arms over the pommel of his saddle in a relaxed manner.
The picket apparently took him for the leader of an uppity cavalry unit out on a lark, because he spoke with unbridled audacity. “I don’t care if you writ the dad-blame Ten Commandments. You ain’t getting through this post till I hear the countersign.”
Hunter leaned down to talk to the man confidentially, but his voice was clearly heard by all. “I didn’t write them,” he said, placing his hand on the sentry’s shoulder, “but I’ve broken quite a few in the last couple of days.” He paused, while his men chuckled in their saddles. “As for the countersign,” Hunter cocked his gun in the man’s ear. “I am confident this will suffice.”
And suffice it did. Hunter, desperate to get back into friendly territory and exhausted beyond even his own endurance, decided to parole the sentry on the spot instead of taking him prisoner. Now only ten miles from safety, he rode forward without hesitation, assuming nothing could stop them now.
Riding about thirty yards in advance, as was his custom to protect his men from ambush, Hunter glanced up at an eminence ahead and noticed the rising sun glance off a metallic object. Drawing his revolver, he turned in his saddle to warn those behind him. Suddenly, from behind some trees, a dozen or more enemy sharpshooters appeared, their guns concentrated on him alone.
Hunter did not have time to react. A tumultuous noise arose, followed by a loud whack and a jolt that nearly threw him from the saddle. His upper body exploded in pain, and the agony and fire that surged through his veins left him dizzy. His vision blurred, though he tried to give orders through the haze and the fog.
Two men rode to his side to help keep him upright, while others dismounted and started up the hill, blazing away with their guns. He saw little else. Faces blurred. Sound became muffled. He tried to gain control of his balance, to restrain the nausea rising in his throat. But he could see nothing save an undulat
ing swirl of motion, and then not even that, as an ominous, dark cloud descended and carried him away.
Chapter 12
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.
– Heraclitus
Andrea’s arms trembled, but her determination to make it around the room one more time superseded the pain. Leaning on the crutches Hunter had sent from the field a few days earlier, she suppressed the urge to curse him. How arrogant of him to give her a gesture of kindness after his cruel treatment. And how she resented his gentlemanly generosity.
Concentrating on how to place the contraptions, Andrea looked toward the window at the sound of approaching horses, and watched a group of men dismount in unison near the house. In silence they gathered around a single rider who remained in his saddle, though barely.
Andrea realized it was Hunter at the same moment Izzie screamed from the porch below her. “He hurt! Ole Him hurt!”
“It’s not serious,” Andrea thought she heard Hunter say. But his voice sounded weak, and his shirt was covered in blood, and he was only standing now with the aid of two of his men.
“I’s can’t stand blood,” Izzie screamed, putting her hand over her eyes.
Andrea’s animosity toward the injured man was for a moment forgotten, and she made it to the top of the stairs in just a few strides on her crutches. “Bring him up here,” she yelled when the men entered the door below.
“Izzie,” she commanded, seeing she would have to take charge. “Tell Mattie to bring some water and clean linens. And you, get some whiskey.”
Opening the door to what she assumed was Hunter’s bedchamber, Andrea paused at the threshold, looking for the first time upon the large, sun-swept—and masculine—room. Her sense of intrusion lasted only a moment. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and the figures of three men appeared in the doorway. Smoke and mud masked their faces making them unrecognizable as human. Had Andrea met them on the trail she would have taken them for some frightening creatures from the depths of a swamp rather than anything of flesh and blood.
After they laid Hunter down on the bed and removed his boots, Andrea noticed he did not move. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” one young man said, his brow creased with concern. “Doc’s away in Richmond.”
“We’ll do what we can for him.” Andrea ripped away what remained of his tattered shirt, the condition of which showed he had passed through a dreadful battle or bad weather, or both. The seeping condition of the bandage placed on his shoulder in the field gave proof that he had been bleeding copiously for quite some time.
Andrea glanced around the room and recognized only one of the men gathered around the bed. The gray bandana around his neck distinguished him as the same young scout who had warned Hunter that she was in Stuart’s camp before she’d escaped on Stump. Up close like this, he appeared to be not much older than she, and was blessed with a handsome face and caring eyes.
But as compassionate and concerned as he appeared at the moment, Andrea had no doubt he would fight like the devil for the man lying wounded in the bed.
“That will be all.” She nodded to dismiss them again and pretended not to notice the looks of surprise or the nods and winks that followed as they exited the room.
When she heard the door close, Andrea paused and swallowed hard at the appearance and physique of the man lying before her. Covered in mud, his face blackened from powder, he still radiated exceptional power and strength.
By the time Mattie arrived with the water and linens, Andrea had discovered that a clipping from Hunter’s coat and shirt remained within a ragged hole near his shoulder. The lead had torn a rather large hole upon its exit, but the bullet did not appear to have hit any bones.
“I’m just going to clean this up a little.” Andrea did not know if he was conscious. He had not moved.
“Keep the hot water coming,” she said over her shoulder to Mattie. “He’s a mess.”
Wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth, Andrea frowned at the situation and sudden turn of events. I never could turn away from an injured animal, she thought to herself.
Chapter 13
Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.
– Taming of the Shrew, Shakespeare
Hunter heard a voice and felt fingers probing his shoulder. Although his arm throbbed with pain, the touch felt tender and soothing upon his bare flesh. He tried to force the cobwebs from his brain, to clear his blurred vision and mind.
Blinking through the fog, he stared at the face leaning over him. He thought he recognized the countenance—but no, that could not be. He saw no sign of the hatred and anger that blazed so fervently when last they’d quarreled, nor any sign of the customary sullen frown.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. Tired. So tired.
After being hit, he had fallen. Perhaps he had hit his head and was hallucinating now. Or perhaps he was just so exhausted he was having a strange dream. Strange indeed, because the woman he had left in the next room would be more inclined to strangle him than bend over him in aid.
Forcing his eyes open again, Hunter blinked at the intensity of light flooding through the window, and tried to focus on the worried face above him. Though fairly certain he was dreaming, he decided to talk to the apparition. “What do you think, Doc?” He hoped he had actually spoken the words aloud, because it was only with supreme effort that he retained consciousness.
The figure did not respond right away, seeming intent on cleaning the wound. Or maybe, she really is just a figment of my exhausted imagination.
“It appears a bullet has pierced your celestial armor, Major,” she answered at last. “Unfortunately, it does not appear to be fatal.”
She did not lift her eyes at first, but when she did bring them up to meet his, they brimmed with amusement. Hunter thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, so exquisite, as those two dazzling green eyes filled with mirth. He contrasted the image to the raving, maddened woman he left, but could find no comparison. Where did this person come from or where had the other gone? He hoped they had switched places for good.
“I’m not the first to baptize the soil of the Old Dominion with my patriotic blood,” Hunter said weakly. His words made her frown, and her eyes reflected a look so somber and wise it made his bones ache.
“Nor will you be the last, I fear.” She bent down low to examine his wound. Her breath was now so near, Hunter could feel it on his skin; her hair so close, he could smell its sweet fragrance. Her touch was divine. He felt strangely out of breath.
Hunter raised his gaze to her, but she seemed not to notice. Lost in silent observation, she bit the inside of her cheek as she concentrated on her work. When a tendril of hair fell and brushed his neck, a shock surged through his body that made him shudder.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” She looked up anxiously, her eyes filled with unconcealed alarm.
“No. Go on.” Hunter transferred his gaze to the ceiling and bit the inside of his cheek as well, forcing himself to focus on something else. Although worn with fatigue, he could no longer think of sleep.
“I appreciate your confidence in me, Major. I am an honorable woman, and despite the fact you are my enemy, your treatment will be just.” She sounded innocent enough as she repeated the exact words he had said to her, but Hunter saw a smile twitch along the corners of her mouth. Then, like a mass of storm clouds parting to expose the rays of the sun, she revealed a smile.
Hunter was thankful he was lying down. A face that had heretofore only frowned, glared, and grimaced at him now glowed with a teasing grin. He gazed upon lips that were not merely turned upward but lit her countenance with a lovely sparkle of enchantment. He thought the smile the sweetest that had ever illuminated a mortal face. The throbbing in his shoulder mysteriously disappeared.
“Then I will attempt to put on as brave a front as my houseguest and endure the fate that has befallen me.” Feelin
g slightly out of control, Hunter took a shaky breath and wondered if she had dosed him with laudanum when he was unaware.
She suddenly possessed some power that made him feel light-headed and dizzy. He glanced again into her eyes and felt a dull ache in his chest begin to spread throughout his body. He forced himself to look at the ceiling again and concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
He tried not to think about the soft hands gently probing his arm, tried not to think about how they would feel— His breath became ragged. His nerves throbbed and jumped involuntarily.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m hurting you. I’m almost done.”
Her voice jolted him back. He attempted to ignore the roaring in his ears and the wound that had started to ache in the back of his teeth. “Tell me, Miss Evans,” he said, trying to regain the self-control he prided himself on. “Are you trying to get on my good side?”
Andrea gave him a puzzled look. “That is quite impossible, Major,” she replied, tilting her head innocently. “As I was not even aware you possessed one. But I thank you for letting me in on your well-kept secret.” She smiled then, her eyes twinkling mischievously, and went back to work, her jaw set firmly as she attacked her task with renewed fervor.
Hunter smiled too, a cockeyed schoolboy grin, which he quickly suppressed. “Perhaps it’s like yours, merely hidden most of the time,” he said huskily.
“Perhaps,” she responded. But Hunter could tell she was more engrossed in her grim work than the conversation. Maybe she was letting him know she had no intention of discussing her good side, which she evidently preferred to keep to herself.
Honor Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Volume II) Page 5