Valley of the Shadow: A Novel

by Ralph Peters

  “Seems to me, dear brother-in-law, you’ve gotten off light enough. ’Far as conscience goes. Our boys haven’t had to do with the worst of it. Cavalry’s been happy to do the chore.”

  “I’ve had over a dozen reports of unauthorized pillaging. Just today. Done by men in this division. Men in my old brigade, even our old regiment.” He turned to face his relative, shunning the conflagration for a moment. “You might want to write a piece for that medical journal, that London one you read. About the epidemic breakdown of military discipline, how it spreads quicker than any plague known to man.”

  “I suspect,” the physician said, voice half good-old-Joe and half sepulchral, “that the article has been written. By some unsavory Greek, if not a Babylonian in high dudgeon.”

  Hayes didn’t answer but turned back to the horizon. He grasped the logic of the vast destruction, eliminating the Valley’s ability to feed either an army or Virginia. Barns burned by the hundreds, haystacks by the thousands. Mills, forges, depots, granaries, even root cellars met the torch, while stock was driven off or simply slaughtered. Homes were to be spared, but some burned, too. Anyway, what good was shelter? After soldiers, whether under Pharaoh’s standard or the flag of these dis-United States, robbed every ham from your smokehouse, the chickens from your yard, the last egg from your kitchen, and the final sack of flour from your pantry? When invaders made a science of denying you the food to feed yourself or nourish your children? Hayes understood the logic, and he hated it.

  He imagined the same acts perpetrated against Lucy and the boys.

  But he also knew that he would not resign. For the same reason as always: The men down in the ranks could not resign. And for a new reason now: It was more important than ever to end this war, to bring it to a conclusion, however baleful, before the torch and hunger made the breach truly irreparable.

  For all that, for all the idealism that sounded more and more like a cheap tin bell, he hoped that he had seen his final battle, that Sheridan, Crook, and all the others were right, that Early was finished and the war’s end near. And if the war had to last another winter, he hoped his men would draw an assignment guarding a railroad in some quiet corner.

  Down in the tidy rows of tents, the fiddler played “Cumberland Gap.”

  “You know,” Joe said, “you bewilder me, Rud. You and your darling Emerson. Or whichever other high-flown ink-dripper you’re reading nowadays.”

  Hayes laughed, surprising his brother-in-law. “Hardly ‘high-flown.’ I just finished a novel Lucy sent me. East Lynne, by a Mrs. Wood.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it was meant to be comical, but if a body could concoct a more impossible plot … well, I suppose I should stick to my practice of shunning novels. A man needs beefsteak, not just trimmings.” He sighed. “I’m sure Lucy was trying to ease my mind, draw me away from all this.” Again, he gestured toward the arson pinking the southward night.

  “Now that,” Joe said, “is what you and your literary friends back home might call a dichotomy, it’s just what I was getting at. Here we are, nearing—we hope—the end of a savage war. Hundreds of thousands dead, passel of whom shit themselves to death before hearing a shot. And you may not have liked it, but you didn’t reject that war and all the killing on moral or ethical grounds. But now you’re at your wits’ end, brokenhearted, because inanimate objects, barns and corncribs, suffer the torch. Have you thought about that, Rud? That you’re sitting here more outraged over a water mill or hay barn up in flames than you’ve ever been about the casualty lists? And by the way: I recall you devouring Great Expectations like a bowlful of fresh-picked cherries.” He flashed uneven teeth by the fire’s sear. “But, then, hypocrisy never disqualified a man from serving in Congress. Or the Army.”

  October 6, 5:00 p.m.

  Harrisonburg

  “Well, Rosser,” Early said, “I hear tell you’re the ‘Savior of the Valley,’ sent to put us all to rights and show the rest of the cavalry how it’s done. Wonder who spread that high-flown claim about? ‘Savior of the Valley,’ yes, sir! Wouldn’t, by any chance, have been Brigadier General Thomas Lafayette Rosser himself now, would it?” Early cackled. “Best take care the Yankees don’t crucify you, hah! I’m counting on you to perform your wonders first, turn this whole war around. God almighty, Rosser, I won’t stand in your way, that I will not.” Dripping spite, he added, “I’ll expect you to demonstrate your supernatural proficiency by moving out tomorrow morning and teaching the Yankees a proper lesson, not the pissant skirmishing you did today.”

  “I assure you I’ll do my best, sir,” Rosser replied, “and the Laurel Brigade will consider it an honor to lead your cavalry to victory.”

  Early kicked a charred board and glared at the Texan who claimed a Virginia birth. “‘Laurel Brigade,’ hah! I want you on your warhorse, not your high horse, so get on down and don’t you back-talk me, son.” He knew all about Rosser’s exploits at West Point and his departure to serve the Confederacy right before graduation. But the high jinks and gestures of 1861 didn’t draw cards in 1864, and Early was unimpressed by Rosser’s war record. On top of all, Rosser was just the sort of big, handsome, pomaded pet that Early detested.

  Savior of the Valley, indeed. They’d soon see.

  “Look around you, Rosser, look around you. Think ‘gentlemen’ burned that house and barn, that goddamned corncrib? And threw a cow down the well just to piss in the soup? Those were your West Point friends—Merritt, Custer, the pack of ’em.” Early spit a brown gob and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “You just forget about being a high-flown gentleman and give them a whipping like they’ve never had. And not just one whipping, either. Take those nag-kickers of yours and get revenge for … for all this.” He waved an arm almost madly. “You go out there and forget what the Lord has to say about vengeance, Rosser, because it ain’t his business this time. You take the Devil’s vengeance on those bastards.”

  “I reckon we can handle Custer and Merritt,” Rosser assured him.

  October 8, 8:30 p.m.

  Strasburg

  Sheridan didn’t just enter the house: He exploded through the door like a burst of canister. The gathered cavalry generals and colonels looked up from their plates in bewilderment followed by dread. No man among them had ever seen the army’s commander in such a rage.

  Taking in the bones of the turkey and the near-empty plates, Sheridan threw down his riding gloves and bellowed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! If you ain’t sitting here stuffing yourselves! You, Torbert—and you, Merritt—generals, staff, and all. While the Rebs are riding right into our camp.” He glared at Torbert. “Having a party, ain’t we? While Rosser’s carrying off your guns—next thing, he’ll have Merritt’s drawers off his dainty ass.” Sheridan gave them a wordless growl and continued: “Oh, and you even got on your nice clothes and your clean shirts, ain’t that a sweet picture! What is this, the king of Prussia throwing himself a ball? With all the fixings but Champagne and hoors?”

  He lunged toward the table, as if barely restraining himself from striking out with his fists. “Torbert, mount quicker than Hell will scorch a feather. Follow me to headquarters.” He growled again. “Leaving Custer out there to lose wagons and runaway darkies and his blacksmith train. Under your orders not to counterattack.” He raised a hand as if to wipe the leavings from the table, then lowered it in disgust, eyeing Torbert again. “I should cashier you and have you horsewhipped besides.” Heated past words, he glowered.

  “Sir…,” Torbert stammered, “you … you said not to—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think I said. I want you to go out there in the morning and whip that Rebel cavalry. Or get whipped yourself. Put every sonofabitch you can collar in the saddle. I’ll be watching you—all of you—closer than a priest watching the poor box.”

  Sheridan turned and stamped out, leaving his gloves on the floor, unwilling to lower himself before any man.

  Custer had been all but crying in his livi
d rage, harassed by Rosser for two days and restrained by orders not to turn on his antagonist and fight him. Sheridan had ordered a withdrawal, all right, but he hadn’t expected his men to bend over for buggery.

  What was Torbert thinking? Like a … what was the goddamned fancy word? A goddamned epicure. Gobbling a goddamned banquet when he should have been out taking scalps. The Rebs were whipped, finished. And here his cavalry, men he’d favored, were letting themselves be shamed by scarecrows on nags.

  Sheridan galloped down the Valley Pike, trailing sparks from his horse’s shoes and curses from his mouth.

  October 9, 7:00 a.m.

  Back Road, Tom’s Brook

  Custer was in such glorious spirits, he couldn’t subdue his grin. The air was clean and crackling crisp, the sky was clear, and Pennington’s boys, led by the 5th New York Cavalry, had just driven Tom Rosser’s skirmishers all the way from Mt. Olive, down across the creek, and back against the main Rebel position.

  As Peirce’s guns rolled up to a forward position, Reb batteries tried to stop them, but the Regulars of the 2nd U.S. Artillery never faltered. Booms and blasts and splashing dirt soon quickened the morning, promising all the delicious splendors of battle.

  This was it, his first real chance to show what he could do with his new division. And there was poor Tex Rosser across the creek, waiting to be played upon like the splintering piano at Benny Havens. Custer meant to hammer Rosser’s keys, in fair return for the sport his West Point friend had enjoyed during the withdrawal.

  God bless Sheridan, though! That little fellow showed more fight than a rally of rabid wildcats. Bless him, bless Little Phil!

  With a breeze chill against his cheeks and autumn flaming, Custer trotted up to Pennington, who was assessing Rosser’s position on the opposite ridge. Pennington’s brigade had done its merry work since dawn, but Custer could feel the impetus weakening now, faced with a bristling defense and the naked glen before it. The stream at the bottom wasn’t much, but any charge would plunge down one steep slope, then climb another. Rosser hadn’t done badly when choosing his ground.

  Custer rather wished he still had his Wolverines at hand, men whose qualities and quirks he knew. But taking over the Third Division had been too great a prize for him to resist.

  “Isn’t this grand?” Custer called to his subordinate. “Handsome day for a fight, it couldn’t be better.”

  Pennington nodded toward the opposite ridge. “Rosser’s no fool.”

  Delighted, Custer laughed. “Oh, but he is! Tom’s a magnificent fool. Just wait and see!”

  A fine Reb shot struck just in front of one of Peirce’s twelve-pounders, splintering wheels and cutting down half the crew. The other cannoneers went about their business as if nothing at all had happened.

  “Bully boys,” Custer said. “Count on the Regulars.”

  Down a sharp slope to their front, blue-coated horsemen skirmished with dismounted Johnnies. The Rebs had stiffened and the lads from the 5th New York were no longer getting the best of it.

  “Sound recall,” Custer ordered, relishing the authority of his second star.

  Pennington gaped, bewildered.

  “Do it,” Custer told him. “Now.”

  As the colonel turned to his bugler, Custer listened for battle noise off to the east, where Merritt’s division and his old brigade were going at the rest of the Rebel cavalry on the Pike. It was vital to outdo Merritt, who had the advantage of numbers and Torbert’s favor.

  The bugler sounded the recall: sharp metal notes that fit the morning’s snap.

  Pennington eyed him, still showing surprise. “I give you that we appear to be outnumbered, sir. But we could hold here, keep the Johnnies busy, while General Merritt—”

  “Nonsense,” Custer told him. As the skirmishers filtered back, the firing quieted. “Watch this.”

  Spurring his mount down the forward slope, he tore off his hat and waved it, letting his hair flow and his grin expand. A few yards below the military crest, he reined in and made his stallion prance. Swinging his floppy hat like a tiny flag, he sought Tom Rosser’s attention, offering up a display to all on the scene, in gray or blue.

  “Let’s have a fair fight!” he called cheerily to the Rebs. “No malice, boys!”

  He made his horse dance a bit longer, letting the world admire him, convinced the Rebs would be too amused to shoot. All the while he inspected Rosser’s lines, scouting the weak points.

  When Custer had seen all he needed to see, he gave a last wave and spurred his horse back to the ridgetop.

  Major Krom of the 5th New York had joined Pennington. Custer reined up and told him, “Neat work this morning, Krom. Well done!”

  Krom nodded. Pennington said, “I make it three to two. Against us.”

  Custer’s grin reappeared yet again. “But didn’t I tell you, poor old Tom’s a fool? Oh, the position’s strong in itself, but he’s dismounted all his men. That’s all well and good against infantry, but not against us, gentlemen, not against us. He’s given up his ability to maneuver.”

  Grasping that Custer meant to fight despite the odds, his subordinates hardened their faces. They, too, wanted revenge for their recent embarrassments. And with excellent timing, Colonel Wells, his other brigade commander, trotted up.

  “Their left flank’s dangling in thin air,” Custer continued. “Just begging to be rolled up. Can’t see it from here for that screen of trees, but I spotted it from down there.” He looked at Wells and Krom, then back to Pennington. “Here’s what we’re going to do.…”

  7:30 a.m.

  Rosser said, “Yes, indeed, that was Old Curly. That’s Custer through and through. He’ll prance for Lucifer on the Day of Judgment, Georgie will.” He smirked. “I intend to give him the best whipping today that he ever got. See if I don’t.”

  7:45 a.m.

  With his preparations nearly complete, Custer joined the 5th New York.

  “Mind if I ride with your boys this morning, Krom?”

  “Honored, sir.” Abruptly, the major looked past him, eastward. Finding his hat’s brim inadequate, Krom lifted a gloved hand to shield his eyes. “Who the devil…?”

  Custer turned.

  A mile off, across rolling fields, blue-clad horsemen advanced in a column of fours, headed for Custer’s position.

  “Your glasses,” Custer said. “Quick.”

  Krom unsnapped the case protecting his field glasses and tossed them over to Custer.

  As soon as he found the focus, Custer blasphemed to himself. The riders were his Wolverines, instantly recognizable by their red scarves. Coming to his assistance. Or worse, sent. By Merritt.

  He wouldn’t have minded commanding them this day, but he damned well wouldn’t borrow them from Merritt. As if Tex Rosser had thwarted him already, leaving him in need of his rival’s help.

  Worse, the column’s approach suggested that Merritt had already dealt with his Rebs on the Pike. Wes had gotten a jump on him. It galled.

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful?” Custer declared for all around to hear. “Those are my old Wolverines, seems they can’t stay away! Loyalty, boys, that’s loyalty! Shall we show them how it’s done, though?”

  He didn’t ride back to make certain that Pennington was ready. Nor did he pause to send orders to his band; the music could wait. He turned to his bugler and snapped, “Sound the advance!”

  Wesley Merritt was not going to claim one shred of Custer’s victory.

  7:45 a.m.

  Jim Breathed rode behind his guns in a barely contained rage. Rosser’s overconfidence, his bravado, was a match and more for that devil Custer’s theatrics. No wonder they were said to be fast friends.

  His guns let loose in sequence, jarring the air around him, smoke thinning into a perfect October sky, gunners and officers adjusting elevations with cold precision. Beside and below the guns, the intermittent crackle of rifle fire seemed almost trivial.

  As he reached the second battery, Breathed called encou
ragement to the cannoneers, determined to accomplish all that artillery could to stymie the Yankees this day. But experience told him two things. First, Rosser, a newcomer to this strain of Valley fighting, didn’t grasp how the Federal horse had changed, what a formidable weapon their cavalry had become. Rosser had mistaken a few successful raids on wagon trains and inconsequential skirmishes over fords for telling victories. Now it looked like the Yankees had come out to fight.

  Trouble a dog a time too many and he’d turn.

  The second problem was the position Rosser had chosen. It looked just grand to a novice. High up on a ridge above a creek. And it might have done for an infantry division. But the guns could not be depressed enough to cover the low ground, not even for oblique fires. Worse, Rosser’s flanks hung open, especially the left. And the Yankees had just demonstrated, twice, at Winchester and Fisher’s Hill, that they had developed a taste for biting flanks.

  What he wouldn’t have given to have Fitz Lee back in command!

  Peering across the little valley at Custer’s force, Breathed didn’t think the Yanks had the numbers to take the heights, at least not yet. But the one thing the Yankees did seem able to do was to prestidigitate a near-endless supply of timely reinforcements. No, time wasn’t on Tom Rosser’s side, nor was this dull-witted waiting, this queer chest-pounding passivity, that handed the initiative to that yellow-haired, primping dandy.

  Waiting for the Federals to come on, all Breathed could do was to champion his batteries and be grateful that, this single time, the Yankees were the ones caught out with defective ammunition in their caissons, half of their shells just burrowing into the earth. Even so, he recognized the handiwork of the 2nd U.S. Artillery and Charlie Peirce, his old nemesis. Breathed had managed to knock out one of Peirce’s guns early in the action, but—bad shells or not—the Yankee Regulars had done the same to one of his own pieces, tit for tat.

  He’d tried to talk to Rosser, but there was no reasoning with the man, who seemed downright entranced by his opponent. Full of bluster, Rosser was empty of sense. Now all Breathed could do was to hope that Custer—the worst of the Yankee barn-burners and thieves—would be fool enough to mount a frontal attack.