by Steve White
Then they had departed the city, riding northwestward more or less parallel to the railway tracks, through Gordonsville, Orange and Culpeper, spending their first night at a very basic inn. Then they reached Warrenton, county seat of Fauquier County, a town of twelve hundred with various amenities, including three small hotels. After a relatively comfortable night (thanks to Jason’s gold dollars), they set out along the dirt road to Rectortown, leaving what was called “Lower Fauquier” and entering “Upper Fauquier,” west of what were rather exaggeratedly called the Bull Run Mountains, with the Blue Ridge Mountains (more worthy of the name “mountains”) looming to the west.
It was a rolling countryside whose richness was obvious even in December. Miles of stone walls marked off farms whose substantial stone, brick or clapboard houses crowned the hills. Water-powered mills were a common sight. Jason wished he were seeing the land in the spring or autumn, but even now it had a wintery beauty.
At the little town of Salem, they could see a railway which Jason’s map told him they would have to follow the rest of the way to Rectortown. But he thought it prudent to continue a little further along the road, for the sake of inconspicuousness.
“The Manassas Gap Railroad,” Dabney told him. He pointed westward to what appeared to be a notch in the Blue Ridge. “It passes through the Manassas Gap, from the Shenandoah Valley, and continues east through the Thoroughfare Gap in the Bull Run Mountains. It’s strategically important in the war, because it made it possible to rapidly transfer armies from the valley to the main theater in the east. That was what enabled the Confederates to win the first battle of the war, at Bull Run. It later got torn up by the Confederates to prevent the Union forces from using it. But back in October General Phil Sheridan, the Union commander in the valley, began restoring it, using it as a supply line for an operation General Grant had in mind. The idea was for Sheridan to move southeast from the valley, take Charlottesville, and threaten Richmond from the west while Grant has Lee’s army pinned down at Petersburg on the other side.”
“Seems to make strategic sense,” said Jason, mentally expanding his map to show all of central Virginia. “Does that mean the Union is currently in control of this area?” He asked anxiously, glancing at the color of their uniforms.
“Well,” answered Dabney with a smile as they trotted around a curve in the road, with woods on both sides, “that’s always been an interesting question where Fauquier and Loudoun Counties are concerned. You see, we’re now in Mosby’s Confederacy.”
“What does that mean?” Jason wanted to know. But before Dabney could reply, they rounded the curve and came almost face to face with a string of supply wagons, under guard—extremely heavy guard, Jason thought, for the size of the caravan—by cavalry. Cavalry in blue uniforms.
After a second of startled immobility, a blue-clad officer shouted, “Take ’em!” His men whipped out their sabers and thundered forward. Almost immediately, they were upon Jason and his party before the latter could wheel their mounts around and even try to flee. Besides, the bluecoats’ horses looked better than theirs.
Resistance couldn’t even be thought of. They were too few, and their revolvers were unloaded for traveling. “We surrender!” shouted Jason. “We cry quarter!”
The Union troopers crowded around them, collecting their weapons, which they handed over with expressions ranging from Mondrago’s surliness to Nesbit’s obvious terror. The Union officer, whose shoulder insignia was the two silver bars of a captain, rode up alongside Jason, who extended his saber hilt-first.
“My sword, sir,” he began. But the captain cut him off.
“Silence, you damned horse-thief!” He snatched the saber with a cold grin. “I never thought to take any of you partisans this easily.”
“What do you mean, sir? I am Captain Jason Landrieu of the Natchez Cavalry, Jeff Davis Legion, and as an officer of your own rank I expect—”
“I said silence, you lying bastard! You’re nothing but a common highway robber dressed up in a uniform, and your kind doesn’t deserve any military courtesies. And don’t fling the so-called Partisan Ranger Act of your so-called Confederate Congress at me.” The captain’s anger was of a sort Jason recognized from experience: the kind that had long-standing fear trembling behind it. “Oh, yes, I know: ever since the chieftain of your gang sent that letter to General Sheridan last month, threatening to retaliate on his own prisoners, we’re not supposed to hang you as you deserve. But if I had my way—”
A nerve-shattering, ululating yell split the air, and gray-clad horsemen burst from the woods alongside the road, bridle reins in one hand and revolver in the other, their horses bounding like jumpers, almost like deer. At their head was a man on a magnificent gray horse that he rode like a steeplechaser, wearing a red-lined cape and with an ostrich plume in his hat, shouting, “Boys, go through ’em!” in a high-pitched but powerful voice.
The panic that flashed through the Union troopers was almost physically palpable. Clearly this was something that, to them, meant more than an ordinary attack. They tried to line up in correct alignment as called for by standard cavalry tactics, but the headlong attack that crashed into them was more like a horse race than the trot or controlled canter of traditional Napoleonic cavalry charges. The attackers were in among them before they could form up, firing at point-blank range, emptying one revolver and pulling out a second.
Jason had no leisure to wonder how a cavalry unit could possibly have approached so closely without being heard before charging. He spurred his horse against that of the stunned Union captain, reached out, and grabbed his saber back. Whipping it out of its scabbard, he slashed at the head of the captain, who instinctively brought up his left arm. Jason’s saber almost severed it. With a scream, the Union officer went over, causing his horse to capsize and Jason’s to rear in panic, throwing him. He managed to hit the ground in a roll.
As Jason scrambled to his feet he had an instant to look around him. The fight had dissolved into a maelstrom of noise, smoke, and out-of-control riderless horses. Some of the Union horsemen were trying to ply their sabers, but ineffectually in the face of the momentum and firepower of the Confederates, who when their second revolvers were empty would gasp the heavy weapons by the barrels and use them for pistol-whipping. Most simply scattered, galloping back down the road past the wagons, whose drivers were jumping down and scrambling into the woods. Jason’s own men found themselves unguarded, and had all they could do to control their horses.
Incredibly, the Union captain had also gotten to his feet, his face a mask of agony. With his good arm, he brought up his revolver. Jason struck it from his hand with his saber and, bringing the blade around, brought the point up to the man’s throat. “Do you surrender, Captain?”
The captain nodded weakly, and sank to his knees with glazed eyes.
The fight was over. Some of the Confederate riders, including the leader, had galloped off down the road, where revolver shots could still be heard as they pursued the fleeing Federals. Others were busying themselves plundering the contents of the wagons. Jason now had the leisure to study these men. By and large, they seemed very young, superb riders, and neatly uniformed. One, who wore captain’s insignia and seemed to be the senior officer still present, trotted up and dismounted. He was a conspicuously handsome man no older than his early twenties, with a neat mustache and strikingly blue eyes in a face whose tan hadn’t entirely faded in December. He was an inch shorter than Jason (which made him fairly tall for this milieu) and strongly built. His uniform was nattier than most of his men’s.
“I see you have a prisoner, Captain,” he said to Jason. “And a wounded one. Doctor!”
A Mediterranean-looking man who had only just ridden from the woods approached. “This is our surgeon, Dr. Aristides Monteiro. He will tend to your arm.” The Union captain mumbled something as the doctor led him aside, hopefully to get him into shape for his journey to Libby Prison. From which, Jason thought, Elizabeth Van Lew may be able to
get him out.
“And who might you be, sir?” the handsome young Confederate captain asked Jason.
Jason gave his cover identity and indicated his men, who had by now gathered around. “We are in your debt, sir, for the timely arrival of you and your men. Who do I have the honor of addressing?”
“Adolphus Richards, sir. And while I am glad we were able to be of service, you mistake me. I am only second in command here. However, the colonel should be returning shortly … Ah. I see him coming now.”
The riders were returning, the man with the red-lined cloak at their head. Dismounting, he took off his plumed hat and ran his fingers through his light-brown hair as he approached with the brisk, energetic step of a man who would find it difficult to stay still for more than a few minutes.
He was about thirty, and a striking contrast to the stalwart Richards. Standing no more than five feet seven or eight inches tall, he was so slight—surely weighing less than a hundred and thirty pounds—that his uniform looked a couple of sizes too large. His fair-complexioned, clean-shaven face was as lean as the rest of him, with a slightly cleft chin, thin lips and a long narrow nose. He looked, in short, totally ordinary and undistinguished.
But then he drew closer, and Jason got a better look at his face.
The thin lips were a line of fierce and restless resolve. The nose was like the sharp beak of a bird of prey. And then there were the eyes: dark-blue, piercing, luminous, as though there was a fire behind them that powered the dynamic personality of a born fighter.
He may be a shrimp, thought Jason, unable to look away from those eyes, but I don’t think I would want to get on this man’s bad side.
“Who have we here, Dolly?” the colonel asked, after exchanging a casual greeting (but no salute; this was obviously a pretty informal outfit) with Richards. “Dolly” seemed an odd nickname for such a tough-looking customer, but Jason decided something of the sort had to be expected by a man whose parents had burdened him with “Adolphus.”
“Sir, this is Captain Jason Landrieu of the Natchez Cavalry in the Jeff Davis Legion, in Young’s Brigade. He personally captured the commanding officer of the Yankee escort … who had just captured him.”
The colonel laughed easily. His smile was actually quite charming, and the blue flame in his eyes died down to a twinkle as the heat of combat ebbed. His voice, high-pitched in battle, was now low and pleasant, and his speech was that of a well-educated man. “A most satisfying turnabout, I’m sure, Captain. And an impressive feat, considering that you were using that.” He indicated the saber that Jason was still holding. It occurred to Jason that he hadn’t seen a single saber among his rescuers. “Those things belong in a museum for the preservation of antiquities! I’m glad to see you also carry a Colt revolver. That’s what you want for close action!” (Especially when it has a laser target designator, Jason did not interject.) “But for the best effect, you should be carrying at least two of them, loaded, into battle. We must also see about getting you better horses, even though yours aren’t as bad as most of the wretched plugs our regular cavalry has to make do with these days.”
“Thank you, Colonel. Your men are splendidly mounted.”
“Indeed! We have the best thoroughbreds the Union army can provide.” The colonel laughed again, then the dark-blue eyes immediately grew shrewd. “But what brings you and your men up here from Petersburg?”
“Actually, sir, we came from Richmond. We are on a special assignment for General Lee, about which I am not permitted to speak.” The young colonel’s eyebrows went up, and Jason pulled out the copy of Lee’s requisition he had been careful to get. “That is why the general gave me this, which of course is how we were able to obtain fairly decent horseflesh in Richmond. We are currently enroute to Rectortown.”
“Well, that’s most fortuitous. I’m on the way there myself. I’m to attend the wedding of one of my men tomorrow, on the twenty-first, two miles north of Rectortown. You will accompany us.”
“Again, sir, thank you. And my men and I are most profoundly grateful that you showed up when you did. But you have the advantage of me. May I know the name of my rescuer?”
“Lieutenant Colonel John Singleton Mosby.” It was said in the tone of a man who expects his name to be recognized. “Commanding the 43rd Battalion Virginia Partisan Rangers. And now, Captain, I need to attend to a few things—most notably, the fair division of spoils from these sutler’s wagons. Come, Dolly.” And he and Richards walked toward the captured wagons, leaving Dabney staring after him.
“The Gray Ghost!” the historian whispered in awe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As they rode north with Mosby and his men, wearing rubber ponchos over their uniforms against a light mixture of rain and sleet, Jason noticed a couple of things.
The first took him a while to put his finger on … something that seemed not quite right. Then it came to him, for he had encountered other cavalry in various ages, and those cavalry could always be heard hundreds of yards away, with the clanking, clattering and jingling of their swords and scabbards and canteens. These men were quiet. Their march didn’t seem particularly orderly, but with no sabers or drinking equipment the only sound they made was that of hoofbeats. On soft ground, Jason thought, they must have been practically inaudible. He began to understand how they had seemed to appear out of thin air … especially if, as he suspected, Mosby gave commands by hand signals up to the moment of battle. He tried to imagine what it must be like for the Federals, never knowing when an attack would burst upon them without warning. And he recalled the undercurrent of fear he had discerned beneath the Union captain’s bluster, and the panic that the attack had ignited.
The second thing Jason noticed, as they passed various farms (at each of which men fell out of the column by twos and remained), was that more and more often the barns and grist mills were burned-out shells. He mentioned it to Mosby.
“Yes,” the colonel said grimly. “At the end of November, Sheridan sent Merritt’s cavalry division through Ashby’s Gap to do the kind of destruction they had already done in the Valley. Oh, they had orders not to burn people’s dwelling houses—perhaps Sheridan remembered my standing order that no quarter should be given to house-burners. But they wiped out families’ livelihood … took away the milk cows of mothers with infants … left them hungry, all through Upper Fauquier, and Loudoun County to the north.”
“So they punished the innocent families of Confederate sympathizers?” Nesbit asked, aghast in a way Jason (who had seen so much of history) could not feel.
“Not just those.” Mosby waved toward the north. “Being from Mississippi, you wouldn’t know this, but while Fauquier County has always been solidly pro-secession, there are quite a few Unionists in Loudoun County, especially among the Quakers and Germans there, who as a matter of principle don’t own slaves. It didn’t matter. The Yankee cavalry burned the barns and stole the livestock of people who greeted them cheering and waving the Stars and Stripes. Thus the United States rewards loyalty!”
“Why?” Nesbit was clearly bewildered.
Mosby gave him an odd look and replied as though the answer should be obvious. “To try to make it impossible for me to operate.”
“You mean by depriving you of supplies?” Dabney prompted.
“Yes, but beyond that Sheridan sought to turn the local people against me. He thought they would blame me for bringing these hardships on them, and cease giving aid and shelter to my men for fear of further depredations.” Mosby laughed grimly. “He was wrong, even though on the eighth of this month he went a step further and closed all trade across the Potomac under the permits that had previously been issued to Unionists on the Virginia side so they could purchase necessities. In the end, all he did was unite the people here even more firmly behind me. They’re not the fools he took them for; they know he is the one to blame for their sufferings. They also know I’m able to give them protection, either directly or by keeping the Yankees busy skirmishing. And a
s you’ve seen, they’re still boarding my men.”
Jason recalled the pairs of men Mosby had left at the various farms. He was thinking about it when Nesbit spoke up again—through chattering teeth, for dusk was coming on and the rubber ponchos, while effective against the wetness, provided little warmth. “Ah, Colonel, if I may ask, do we plan to make camp soon?”
“Make camp?” Mosby laughed. “If we made camps for the Yankees to find, I would have been killed or captured a year or two ago! I don’t have a tent to my name—none of us do. No: after a raid the Rangers don’t make camp. They vanish.”
“Vanish?” Nesbit repeated. “Where?” Dabney looked like he knew the answer but was eagerly waiting to hear it anyway.
“Into the countryside.” Mosby gave an expansive gesture. “The people hide my men in their homes until I call a rendezvous for the next raid. Usually two per family, although sometimes as many as eight.”
“So as far as the Yankees are concerned, the Partisan Rangers as a unit don’t exist except when they’re raiding,” said Jason. “They can’t be found.” I’m beginning to understand why Dabney said this man is called the “Gray Ghost.”
“They almost become part of their hosts’ families,” continued Mosby, obviously in a discursive mood. “They share their booty following raids, and enjoy many of the comforts of home in between. I know some call them ‘featherbed cavalry,’ but good food and sound sleep give them an advantage over men who’re exhausted and fed only on army rations. And the families who board them provide other services as well, taking care of horses, mending uniforms, and giving us warning by passing the word of approaching Yankees.”