A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  A horrid memory flashed across Peyton’s mind as he strode to his tent. Cold Harbor. It had been a grisly disaster for the Union army. So had most of the battles this summer. However, with Phil Sheridan leading this new army, things were definitely looking up.

  By nightfall, Carrie Ann was trudging down the rutted Valley Pike toward Strasburg, wearing the deserter’s uniform beneath Margaret’s dress. She prayed each step of the way, trusting God’s hand to guide her and use her to rescue Sarah Jane. And to protect Margaret’s dress. Dear God, please do that. She promised to do Margaret’s chores for a month in exchange for borrowing it. And Carrie felt confident that her plan would work. It had to work. She wouldn’t be allowed back home if it didn’t—and Mama made good on all her threats.

  She moved closer to the side of the uneven road so she wouldn’t turn an ankle in her ill-fitting boots. Joshua had come through for her, providing the boots, and she was grateful to him.

  With only a sliver of moonlight, she easily made out the way. She’d been this way before, but always with either Joshua or Papa. Known for its tanneries and pottery, Strasburg was nicknamed “Pot Town.” Since the war, it had become a dilapidated place. The Yanks and Rebs alike usually marched right through it, so Carrie didn’t anticipate being bothered.

  Her mind came back around to Papa. If only he were home to advise her …

  But he wasn’t. She supposed the Lord was still with her, though. He had protected her from the devastating fire that destroyed the farm. He’d shielded her from drunken soldiers at the Wayfarers Inn. He was able to take care of her now and direct her path to Sarah Jane.

  But would He?

  Carrie decided to occupy her thoughts with fond memories instead of her mounting doubts. She recalled some of Papa’s tales about the area. The native Indians named the Shenandoah Valley “Daughter of the Stars,” and Carrie had always appreciated the unique topography. The land was lush and fertile, and if it weren’t nighttime, she’d see the green pastures, golden cornfields, and shimmering wheat fields that stretched out across the Valley like a patchwork quilt. The hills of Massanutten Mountain lay beyond to the east. To the west, the jagged peaks of the Alleghenies were the Valley’s backdrop. Carrie had overheard farmers talking together inside the Wayfarers Inn, saying this summer’s crops had done well. Soon the bountiful grain harvests would be taken to the Valley’s many mills. Little wonder why the Shenandoah Valley earned the nickname “The Breadbasket of the Confederacy.”

  And little wonder why Rebels and Yankees were ready to kill each other in order to control it.

  But fighting wasn’t anything new to this area of Virginia—not since this war began. General “Stonewall” Jackson had successfully defended it back in 1862. A shame old Stonewall had been accidentally shot by one of his own men and then succumbed to pneumonia later. Residents in the Valley mourned the loss to this day. Carrie wrote a number of stories about General Jackson, and the Bell Tower had sold numerous copies when she’d printed them. Another hero in these parts was General Ashby Turner, known as the Black Knight of the Confederacy because of his expert horsemanship, bravery, and dash. Sad it was when he fell in June of that year. Nowadays, Lieutenant Colonel John Mosby was the living legend around here because of his daring raids against the Union army.

  The long grass rustled beside her, and Carrie slowed her pace, listening. She shivered despite the night’s thick, oppressive heat. Was she being followed?

  She’d cut her curly tresses to her shoulders, hoping to resemble an ordinary shabby-looking soldier. Beneath her bonnet she wore the deserter’s blue forage cap that she’d pinned into place.

  Carrie inhaled deeply. The scent of an oncoming rainstorm promised to soak her within the hour. That might cool her.

  But that persistent stirring in the grass …

  Her hand curled around the butt of the gun inside the pocket of Margaret’s dress and she sent up a prayer. She couldn’t afford to waste ammunition.

  She waited, holding her breath until her lungs threatened to burst. Nothing moved except the long grass. Carrie exhaled. Her imagination had fooled her again.

  The night grew darker as the clouds moved in. More than once since leaving Woodstock, Carrie wondered if she should have waited until dawn to set off after Sarah. But, as anticipated, Mama flew into a rage at the news of her “baby girl” running off. She wailed and blamed Carrie for neglecting her duties and allowing Sarah Jane to leave. Then Mama said Carrie shouldn’t bother returning unless she brought her youngest sister home with her.

  So, after helping Margaret serve supper at the Wayfarers Inn, Carrie took off, taking a gamble based on hearsay and Joshua’s hunch that the scoundrel-peddler ventured down the Valley Pike. The sun had just set when Carrie left, and the chances of slipping by Union troops were better in the dark.

  Weren’t they?

  A shadow crossed the road and Carrie jumped back. She lifted the weapon from her pocket, despising the way her hand shook. Her heart beat fast, but as the clouds briefly parted, Carrie saw nothing and no one except the empty rutted pike. She glanced up at the shadowy mountain ridges. Whose eyes were fixed on her? The devil Union cavalrymen?

  Don’t think about them. She reined in her thoughts. Jesus would protect her. She was, after all, on a mission of mercy to save her youngest sister from that no-account peddler.

  Would she find her baby sister before it’s too late?

  A howling in the distance caused Carrie to grip the gun more tightly. She knew how to use her weapon, and she could shoot better than some men, thanks to Joshua. He’d given her the Walker revolver in her hand after his father gifted him with a newer model when Joshua enlisted in the Confederate army. Of course, Joshua required that she prove her proficiency with the pistol before he allowed her to keep it in her possession, so she learned quickly. After all, a girl never knew when she’d need to protect herself and her family.

  A pity she hadn’t been armed at suppertime. She had a mind to shoot that philandering Confederate officer to teach him a lesson. How dare Rodingham behave so inappropriately toward Margaret—and how dare Margaret allow him to do so! Carrie had voiced her protest, only to be silenced by Mr. Veyschmidt’s threats of eviction. Apparently, Joshua’s friend had money to spend—and not Confederate currency either, which seemed rather hypocritical of him considering his message of loyalty to The Cause equaling prosperity. Mr. Veyschmidt let the rogue do as he pleased. Worse, Joshua sat by idly while it happened. Carrie begged him to stop his comrade, but he refused, citing the fact that Margaret neither protested nor asked for help. While true, Joshua should have intervened.

  He would have before the war. He had changed over the years, and not for the better. Truth was, Joshua wasn’t the only one who had changed. Carrie had been mistaken to think otherwise. This war affected everyone.

  Quickening her steps, Carrie forced herself to shift her thoughts and mulled over her plan. Once the threat of running into Confederate troops lessened, she would remove Margaret’s dress and bonnet so she could pass Union pickets. She would stuff the gown into the haversack she’d discovered along with the Yankee uniform. Then, after she found Sarah Jane, she’d put Margaret’s dress back on and return to the Wayfarers Inn with no one being the wiser and Sarah back where she belonged.

  Five hours later, and soaked to the bone by a rainstorm, Carrie reached the town of Strasburg only to find it teeming with Confederate troops. She couldn’t take a chance at being discovered—a female out at this hour. If they searched her and discovered her disguise, she’d likely get herself hanged.

  She detoured east.

  As the predawn hours wore on, she glimpsed the occasional lone, intoxicated Confederate soldier, and she hid behind rocks, trees, or shrubs until each passed. Only then did she continue her trek.

  The early morning air weighed on her, even heavier now than before the downpour. The lined jacket she wore beneath Margaret’s dress only added to her discomfort. The bonnet she wore over the forage
cap contained her body heat and furthered her exhaustion. Should she shed the jacket and hide it in the haversack? No. She couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

  She walked on and minutes later she encountered a man. Older, maybe. A farmer, she assumed, although she couldn’t see him clearly at this distance. Up ahead, he crossed the road and strode toward his barn. Carrie neared the structure, concealing her weapon, and worked up the courage to approach him.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He whirled around and Carrie could tell she’d taken him by surprise. Darkness shrouded his face.

  “I don’t mean any harm. I’m just looking for my sister.”

  He slowly neared. “Young lady, you ought not be out and about this time of day. It ain’t safe.”

  “As I said, I’m searching for my baby sister who took off yesterday with a peddler. She’s only fifteen—too young to understand the consequences.”

  “But old enough to know better, I reckon.” The man hiked up his drooping suspenders and slid them onto his broad shoulders.

  Odd that this fellow wasn’t off fighting for the Confederacy. Few men were left in Woodstock, and Carrie assumed it was the same throughout most of Virginia. She slipped her right hand into her dress pocket and gripped the pistol.

  “Did you see a peddler’s wagon come by here yesterday?”

  “I might have.” He cocked his head to one side.

  “If you want money, I don’t have any.”

  “Then I didn’t see a thing.”

  “All right, then. Thank you anyhow, sir.”

  Carrie resisted the urge to stomp her foot and yell. Exhaustion nipped at her every muscle, but she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t, not after what Mama said. What’s more, Carrie figured that even being a day behind that scoundrel-peddler she could cover more ground on foot than he could cover with his rattling, ostentatious wagon.

  “Does this road—” She pointed to the one running between the house and barn. “Does it go into Front Royal?”

  “Yep, but you’d best not head in that direction, missy. There’s dirty rotten Yankees camped on the other side of the Shenandoah.”

  “Well”—Carrie squared her shoulders—“Yankees are the ones with the money, so I imagine a peddler would head that way.”

  “Go on imagining then.” There was an edge to his tone, and a second later Carrie noticed the man’s light-colored trousers. Maybe butternut, but probably gray.

  A Confederate. Nervous flutters filled her insides. She’d best make a hasty departure.

  “What you got in that bag you’re carryin’?”

  “Nothing much. A few biscuits and sliced ham.” Carrie plunged her hand into the haversack and pulled out the food, wrapped in a checkered napkin. “You’re welcome to them.” She prayed he wouldn’t confiscate the rest of her belongings.

  “Nice of you. Thanks.”

  Carrie took a step backward. “I always do my part for The Cause, little as it might be.”

  “Good. Now you’d best run along home.”

  She released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Me and my men are getting ready to take on them Billy Yanks, and you don’t want to get caught in the fray.”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Incidentally”—he paused before entering the barn—“a peddler did come through here late yesterday afternoon. He had a girl with him, although she didn’t seem too unhappy. Last I heard they were headin’ for Culpeper.”

  “Culpeper?” Surprise ricocheted through her. “But that’s some fifty miles away.”

  “Listen, missy, that’s all I know.”

  “Thank you for the information.” Carrie glanced up the road. That peddler traveled with a burdensome load. Maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to catch up.

  The soldier opened the barn door. As soon as he disappeared inside, Carrie sprinted in the direction of Front Royal, a five-hour trek. Exhausted, hot, and still wet from the earlier rainfall, Carrie doubted she’d make it by dawn. Even so, she had to try. Surely Confederate troops wouldn’t attack their enemy until after the sun came up …

  CHAPTER 3

  For the next several hours Carrie stayed on the pike as much as possible. She stood little chance of achieving her goal, but perhaps that miserable peddler and Sarah Jane had stopped for the night and she’d happen upon them. Besides, there was always hope she would avoid the impending conflict—that is, if the Confederate soldier at the barn was correct.

  As her mind gnawed on the thought, the earth began to quake beneath her feet. The rumbling grew louder with each passing second. She glanced over her left shoulder and her heart jumped into her throat. Horses thundered toward her.

  Carrie scampered into a thicket of trees and crawled beneath the long branches of a fir to watch the Confederate troops ride by. After they’d passed, she scampered up a tree-studded slope. By the time she reached the top, guttural cries of agony like she’d never heard split the stillness of the morning. Had General Early’s army taken the Yanks by surprise at the north fork of the Shenandoah? Had the Yanks surprised the Rebs when they forded the river? What a story it would make. An eyewitness account! Papa would be so proud.

  Carrie found a place between the trunks of two maples from which she could watch the action, but she soon wished she hadn’t.

  As the fighting intensified, the river ran red with the blood from men clad in both blue and gray. A shell exploded. Carrie felt a wave of the blast. Below, horses and their riders flew into the air like wooden toys. Cavalrymen clashed. A Confederate lost his head to his enemy’s saber. Carrie sucked in a breath, horrified. The soldier’s lifeless body remained on its mount for several seconds before slumping to one side and dropping to the ground.

  Carrie tore her gaze away and fought the rising nausea. War was a despicable waste of human life. Still, if she wanted to be a respected journalist she ought to force herself to observe. Shouldn’t she?

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze in time to see another shell blow a Yankee’s arm clear off his body. The man’s high-pitched shriek reached her ears and melded with the guttural cries of other wounded soldiers. Carrie covered her ears.

  Gradually the Union army reclaimed its ground. Steel blades glinted in the rising sunshine. Gunfire cracked and a smoky fog developed around the warring men. A heart-wrenching scene, and yet Carrie couldn’t work up the gumption to run away. How did the illustrators of Frank Leslie’s newspapers abide viewing such devastation? Did they become numb to it?

  Carrie’s heart broke for the wounded and fallen men on the battlefield. She wiped away the moisture off her cheeks, although it did nothing to ebb the flow of tears. How infantile. Certainly Papa wouldn’t weep. He’d report the action in an objective manner. She needed to follow in his footsteps.

  She sniffed and focused on the battle still unfolding before her eyes. A portion of the Yankee army chased some Rebels toward the pike. Meanwhile combat continued on foot and on horseback. She could see the Confederates were outnumbered and outgunned. Plumes of sulfury smoke wafted her way, forcing her to cough every now and again. Oh! If she could only help the wounded somehow. The color of their bloody uniforms mattered little to her. That they lay writhing on the muddy banks of the Shenandoah, helpless and dying, tore at her heart. Carrie had read of the battles and heard accounts from soldiers who stopped at the Wayfarers Inn, but she’d never witnessed the brutality of war firsthand. What a shame the United States and Confederate States couldn’t solve their differences without killing each other.

  Union troops came and went, and after some time, those Southern soldiers who were still alive were rounded up like cattle. Bodies were fished from the water and lined up on the riverbank. Several Yankees on horseback, cavalrymen, she figured, crossed the Shenandoah and thrashed their sabers through leafy shrubbery. However, the Confederates weren’t finished. Like lightning and thunder, artillery boomed and exploded from what had to be Guard Hill. Men’s bodies flew in the air like rag dolls as shells struck their targets. Ho
rses lay dead, their massive bodies quickly multiplying in the meadow across the river.

  Union men rode along the bank and scanned the hillside. Carrie sat unmoving. Had they seen her? When finally their gazes landed elsewhere, she removed her bonnet, unbuttoned Margaret’s dress, and hurriedly pulled it over her head. She stuffed the gown into the haversack. She now wore the blue trousers, coat, and forage cap, but she still felt exposed and vulnerable. She couldn’t let insecurities hinder her, however. She’d come this far, and she had to find Sarah Jane.

  Cannon fire in the distance shook Carrie to her core. She shifted her focus to the present. Disguised, or at least she hoped so, she eased down the hill on her backside, readying herself for a fast run. She prayed the Yanks wouldn’t pay her any attention. Her only hope was to hightail it across the covered bridge and then keep running until she was safely beyond the fight.

  Troops galloped past. Once clear, Carrie crossed the road. Reaching the bridge, she looked over her shoulder only to see Confederates on horseback engaging the Union horsemen. Bullets whizzed dangerously close to her head, and fear momentarily rooted Carrie in place.

  But then she realized it was either move or die.

  Carrie swung one leg and then the other over the side of the bridge and shinnied down a wooden support until she couldn’t go any farther. Her feet brushed a thick beam, so she climbed over and stood on it. Looking down, she guessed it was a twenty-foot drop to the riverbank, so a safe jump was out of the question. Besides, she’d land in the middle of warring troops.