by Beth Trissel
“I trust you will ferret out those occasions.” With a devilish grin, he wheeled the horse around. “Try to keep pace,” he challenged, and bounded away.
Nobody outdistanced her! Giving Polly a nudge, she sprang after him on the obliging mare. The two horses cleared the woods and pounded down the hill, Jack out in front on Buck.
Sod flew beneath their hooves as they galloped across the meadow. The wind chilled Evie’s face, tugging at her hair and clothes. If her hat hadn’t been secured with a length of gauze, it would have flown off.
Bent low in the saddle, the scent of grassy earth in her nose, she urged Polly on. The mare would tire sooner than the hardened gelding, and lag behind him. For now, her long gray legs devoured the field. She closed in on Buck’s tail.
Jack galloped his swift mount at the split rail fence bordering the meadow. The horse sailed over the wooden barrier with blue sky showing between his hooves and the top rails. Buck landed securely on the springy turf, and Jack reined in. Evie launched the mare over the divide and planted her beside him. She drew up, glowing with pride.
“Bravo.” Jack tipped his hand to her. “You ride as well as you claimed.”
“Thank you, sir.” She reveled in proving herself, and the spark of indignation faded. “I admit you may have a point. I can be a bit impulsive.”
A smile warmed his eyes. “Indeed.”
She patted the mare’s glossy neck. “There’s a saying about discretion being the better part of valor. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“A wise adage.
“But that’s all. I’m not changing drastically for you.” Especially not if she got stuck in this era.
“I would not want you to.” He dropped his voice. “Observe extreme caution from here on out. No shenanigans.”
She wasn’t sure what a shenanigan was, let alone how to get up to one. “What?”
“Check your high spirits.”
She nodded, and he motioned her forward. “Onward.”
Kicking up dust, they cantered down the lane and onto the road. Jack slowed Buck, motioning her beside him on his left. She eased Polly between the gelding and the grassy verge. He kept to the outer edge. They maintained a brisk trot, Evie still glowing from the bracing ride.
Not Jack. Her silent companion constantly swept his gaze at the fields on every side. Taking the hint from him, she said nothing. He tensed when they passed copses of trees and narrow lanes forking off.
His apprehension was contagious. What he’d said about Rebels hiding in thickets and back roads returned to her, and she scrutinized every shadow. If men were gunning for him, they’d made themselves invisible. She hoped her presence would discourage an attack, but there was no guarantee.
To those who didn’t know any differently, Jack resembled a Confederate rider. The Rebel scouts were aware of his desertion, though, and oncoming Union soldiers wouldn’t differentiate. She wished she were better equipped to be of help if trouble arose. All she could do was pray they got there and back okay.
The journey wore on. She noted the farms they wound past were situated farther apart than their modern equivalents. None of the small subdivisions lining the road or nestled among the hills existed in this day. She recognized few of the brick and white frame houses that did stand. It nagged her that she should know more of these homes, if they’d survived. Unless the structures had fallen into disrepair and been replaced, only one obvious explanation accounted for their disappearance. They must have been burned down.
A grim thought.
Now and then, they rode by farmers who paused in their labors, hay fork half way to the wagon, or crossing the barnyard toting buckets, and gaped at her. Women and children stopped digging potatoes or gathering eggs and stood, mouths ajar. One wide-eyed little girl hugged a pet duck. Their astonishment would be comical if the winds of war weren’t sweeping this way.
Jack nodded at them, and Evie waved. She would be the talk of the neighborhood. Sadly, these people would soon have far more pressing matters on their minds than her outlandish appearance. An unknown lady in high fashion riding astride would take a distant back seat to what was coming.
The pungent aroma of animals reminded her of their endangerment. She liked the hominess of livestock and didn’t mind the odors. It grieved her to think of the cows, pigs, sheep, and horses, even poultry, that would soon be herded away, or shot.
How empty the land would be without them. She prayed many animals were taken to safety before it was too late. But would they be? Should she and Jack shout warning as they passed?
He didn’t seem inclined even to speak to her, let alone these others. Perhaps they might call out on their return?
Still, no one emerged to threaten them, and they hadn’t yet seen any other riders. Strange to be on a road empty of the soldiers destined to charge their way, and even more peculiar to travel without the cars and trucks that normally sped over this stretch of highway, now dirt track. She didn’t miss the vehicles or the cyclist with a death wish who tore past Lavender and Lace Herb Farm daily. The absence of traffic made the pocked ground, grooved from wagon wheels, far preferable to the paved but busy road of her experience. Much was gained from progress, and an inestimable amount lost.
Safety first, was her father’s motto, and one she embraced. Odd maxim, considering they rode toward war.
It occurred to her that she’d always wondered how communities recovered from catastrophe, without realizing she lived in one with people who had done just that. The Burning had devastated much of the Shenandoah Valley, but resilient residents hung on and fought their way back. No modern-day visitor would guess that horrific event had ever taken place. But it left marks on the landscape, mostly in the missing structures, and stories passed down through families.
Sheridan was still hated and his wing man, George Armstrong Custer, wasn’t too popular either. It was generally agreed among older residents that Custer got what was coming to him when he turned his warring ways out west and double-dog dared the Lakota Sioux. Sooty, beleaguered country folk, their property in flames, must have been unspeakably grateful when the Yankee horde finally cleared out, with hundreds of pitiful refugees in tow.
Her future valley might be built up and cluttered in places, but the scenery remained among the most beautiful in the world. This was largely due to the hard-working farmers, especially the Mennonites, who had preserved the land. And, as her grandmother said, ‘The land is everything, Evie.’
Those words fully sank in. Lesson learned, Grandma G. She hoped to convey her newfound wisdom in person.
They left more farms behind, riding at least four or five miles with Jack on red alert. She was equally wary. It was difficult to tell how near they were to town.
“Closer now,” he said, as if gauging her thoughts. He turned toward her. “Are you holding up all right?”
Forcing a smile, she nodded. Scant sleep combined with more excitement in twenty-four hours than most people experienced in a lifetime was taking a toll.
He didn’t appear entirely convinced of her satisfactory state, but the thumbs up signal she offered him received a blank look. Wasn’t that the universal signal for okay?
Not in this era, apparently. He shook his head and returned his focus to their surroundings. She did the same. None of the familiar landmarks were present to lend her guidance, and she didn’t want to ask him how much farther they had to go every five minutes, or he really would think she was ready to drop.
Seriously, Evie? she chided herself. This was her stretch of the valley. She ought to have a clue where they were, but the houses were farther apart than normal.
The added outbuildings, animals, and sprawling vegetable gardens around these homes made them resemble farmettes. The most livestock a modern city dweller could argue for was a handful of hens. No roosters. Maybe they could keep a rabbit.
These large lots must have been chopped into smaller plots in later years. Now, not even the bends and curves in the road were as she rec
alled, having been altered over time. She only knew the ground was hilly and people were growing thicker than they had been in the heart of the country.
Fortunately, no one troubled them as they trotted up and down hills. Jack stopped to allow the horses a drink from the gurgling stream, while he and she took another metallic swig from his canteen and shared a granola bar. They resumed their trek and entered what must be Harrisonburg.
“We’re here,” he affirmed, gesturing ahead. “There’s the courthouse.”
“Yes.” She spotted the steeple on the two-story brick structure, more impressive than the other buildings.
When they entered the center of town, he asked, “Recognize anything?”
She strained to see beyond the immediate structures and turned her head from side-to-side. “Some. Not a lot.” One stately three-story building stretched on the corner of Court Square resembled a grand hotel, but it was foreign to her. A shame such a fine old place was gone.
The bare bones of what she’d known lay around her, a blink compared to the present-day city Harrisonburg had mushroomed into. Only a few of the larger houses still standing in the twenty-first century, and converted to businesses and museums, were here now. Most of these were built of stone or brick, more enduring materials, though some wood frame structures had also survived. The bulk of the historic homes and buildings she’d admired must date to a later, more affluent era, than this one.
Main Street, she assumed it was, had a row of shops along it, a millinery, and butcher shop among them. A liquor store and tavern were doing brisk trade for wartimes. The tavern would be ideal for gaining information, but she doubted Jack would allow her to enter such a dominantly male establishment.
Should she wait on her mare while he went in? She was hesitant to dismount in case they needed to make a hasty getaway, though she longed for a quiet table in a dark corner. She wanted to sit there with him and have something to eat. She’d settle for a decent drink and a nap.
Horses and riders jogged by them. Wagons jolted past, and a carriage skirted them on the dusty street. The whole scene was like a movie set. Surreal. She had no idea where people were going, but some seemed in a tearing hurry.
“There.” Jack grabbed her arm.
He slowed Buck to a walk and she did the same with Polly. “What do you see?” she whispered.
“Confederates.”
She looked past the riders and wagons to where he indicated. Ahead of them, were three ragtag men on foot, their pace more of a limp than a walk. They leaned on each other for support as they labored along in uniforms that were more rags than cloth. Haversacks were slung over thin shoulders and they bore muskets and side arms, but their crushed demeanor indicated no use for the weapons. They had no fight left in them. Bloody bandages swathed several limbs and one man’s head beneath his gray slouch hat.
Pity swelled in Evie. “Poor boys.”
“Yeah,” Jack grunted. “They came down the Valley Pike.”
“Meaning?” she pressed.
“From the northern end of the valley, where Jubal Early would be battling.”
“The Confederate general?” She double-checked.
“Afraid so.”
She tried to wrap her weary brain around his insight while a middle-aged woman in brown skirts and a matching bonnet hurried over to the wounded men. She withdrew chunks of bread from a wicker basket and pressed the food into their grimy outstretched hands. “What happened, boys?”
“Sheridan,” they croaked in unison.
“We got beat bad. Twice,” the bloodiest of the three added hoarsely. None of them looked any older than their early twenties.
The horrified female clapped fingers to her open mouth. “Dear God in heaven.”
Jack inhaled sharply. “I reckon Jubal Early got whipped.”
“Hasten home and hide all you can, ma’am,” one of the three advised between mouthfuls. “We can’t do no more for you. We’re heading to the hospital.”
“Where’s the Army of the Valley?” the woman pressed, as a small gathering collected around them.
“Hightailing south, what’s left of it.”
Dismay engulfed the bystanders. “As bad as that?” asked an older whiskered gentleman in a gray frockcoat and bowler.
“Every bit, and worse,” the beaten spokesman assured him. “Get ready, you hear? Sheridan’s coming. Ain’t no one can stop him now.”
The well-dressed man bent toward them. “How many soldiers are with him?”
“Thousands. Like crows covering the sky, blotting out the sun. Be here afore sunset tomorrow.”
Evie sagged in the saddle. It had begun.
Jack didn’t wait to hear anymore. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eleven
What in blazes was Jack to do? Seething with fury and frustration, he wheeled Buck around. The anxious assembly circling the wounded soldiers parted to allow him and Evie through. There was nothing here for these people but despair. Their county seat was about to be overrun. Sheridan would likely make his headquarters in Harrisonburg, blast him.
Jack hadn’t expected to be engulfed by anger at the trio’s confirmation of Evie’s warning, but he was. She somberly followed him on the mare as they navigated streets filling with loaded wagons and hurried civilians. Some folk were getting away while they still could. If they had a carriage and horses, all the better. Those who remained in town would barricade themselves in their homes, and secret food and possessions. Good luck to them, poor wretches.
Damn it all. He had to exert the utmost control not to swear the vilest oaths he could concoct. Not fit for a lady’s ears.
Gnashing his teeth would do nothing to remedy the abominable situation, and only cause Evie further distress. But oh, how it goaded him to hear of Sheridan’s imminent arrival from the mouths of those who had battled to keep the monster out. How many men had fallen in the attempt he shuddered to think. Guilt stung him for not having fought by their side, while part of him regretted ever having served in the Confederacy in the first place.
He defined torn. This only increased his vexation.
They left the dismayed townsfolk behind and Evie drew her mare alongside him and Buck. Together, they trotted the horses up and down the hilly road back the way they had come. The creak of saddles and tread of hooves accompanied their strained journey.
Should he take up arms? His valley was coming under furious attack, and defenders were few. The agonizing quandary raked his troubled mind with each rise and fall of his mount. He had choices, none of them good.
She slid anxious glances at him, as if trying to gauge his mood: black as a moonless sky with no stars. He didn’t trust himself to speak and kept his mouth clamped shut.
Finally, she turned toward him, the green feather on her black hat ruffling in the wind, her face drawn with worry. “I can’t bear to think of the soldiers burning our home.”
Pain ricocheted through him. “It’s not ours,” he reminded her and himself, annoyed that she had him thinking of the farm in such intimate terms.
The corners of her mouth turned down. “You know what I mean.”
He did. Acutely. “I have a cabin, out of the reach of the coming flames. The sensible thing would be to go there.”
Shock widened her blue-gray eyes, smudged with fatigue. “We can’t abandon the Wengers, or the house. It’s our portal to the future.”
He forced himself to reply with restraint. “I agree with giving them every support, but you must forgive my difficulty in grasping your assertion. Tell me again what phenomenon you are anticipating?”
“Grandma G. calls it a warble, when the future and past shift back and forth, opening a door between the two. I know it sounds bizarre.” Her eyes creased in apology.
“Indeed. Fantastical. Call it what you will, the future you speak of holds no reality for me.”
“It will, once you’re there.” Pleading underlay her insistence.
He strongly doubted he would walk through any pecul
iar looking ripple if one presented itself and had no intention of letting her go either. Assuming what she spoke of existed. He wasn’t convinced. “I cannot contemplate that distant place. The here and now consumes me. I was never more bedeviled.”
“No.” Strands of hair whipped across her pensive gaze. “Seeing for myself is very different from hearing about it. Jack, I’m scared.”
“A tempest brews over our heads. Only a fool would feel no alarm at what’s coming.”
Sheaves of grain rustled in the wind, and he shifted his brooding focus to the nearby field neatly dotted with stooks. Soft scents floated on the stiff breeze. Milkweed fluff, like tiny parasols, sailed to the four corners. Great white clouds patterned the earth in light and shadows, passing over cows grazing in a green pasture, the image of contentment. Sheep baaed, their wooly forms visible on a distant hill. Children ran, laughing, down a lane toward a white frame house, a small dog yipping at their heels. The beauty of this place stabbed him through the heart.
He gestured at their surroundings. “Everything looks as it did when we first rode this way. And yet it’s ominously different. Deep down, I had hoped you were mistaken in your dire prophecy.”
“So did I, though I didn’t see how it could be otherwise,” she said, waving kindly at the children. “The wounded soldiers didn’t speak of fire, but they gave warning enough. I fear the rest will follow.”
Certainty weighed his gut like heavy lead. “An army of the size those three described doesn’t come without awful purpose. Sheridan is not on a jaunt, just passing through.”
“No.” She had the sorrowful demeanor of one poised before a grave. “He’s coming to win the war by destroying us.”
“Does it work?” Jack flashed back, waving her off before she replied. “Never mind. You told me. We lose.”
“Big time.” A frown furrowed her smooth brow. “It’s as if the valley is punished for the collective sins of the South.”
“That hardly seems fair, and with war made against women and children? How brave,” he scorned. “Only older men remain here openly, unless they have an exemption. The others are wounded, in hiding, or dead.”