Valley of the Shadow: A Novel

by Ralph Peters

  “I’d take that kindly.”

  Shifting his stance, Gordon caught a mighty whiff of the rags he wore. Vermin were a given. Surely this day would count among the sacrifices he’d offered up to the Cause.

  “Let’s go on a ways,” he told the mapmaker.

  Careful not to appear in a hurry, they puttered down the harvested field, stopping now and again to prod the soil, as if its condition demanded close inspection. Glimpsed through gaps down in the trees, the sun glinted off the Shenandoah’s brown waters.

  Gordon halted sharply—more abruptly than he meant to.

  Feigning interest in the earth again, he asked, “See them?”

  “Two. Midstream.”

  “Right. Water’s at least a foot below their stirrups.”

  “Farmer wasn’t lying.”

  “In my experience,” Gordon said, “the sons of Ceres don’t lie. But they do prevaricate upon occasion.”

  “Don’t waste soap and water on their clothes, either,” Hotchkiss noted. “Won’t mind parting with this fancy dress.”

  “Go on back up. Get your uniform on and head back to camp, catch up with Ramseur. But start off slow, they’re watching us.”

  “What about you?”

  “Just visiting that fork over by the tree line. Tug a branch across the far trail, block it. So we don’t stray off tonight. Things do get confusing in the darkness, and I can’t risk posting a guide this close to the ford.”

  “I could do it for you,” Hotchkiss told him.

  “You go on. I need to have another look at things.”

  “Be careful, sir.”

  Gordon smiled. “I don’t intend to frequent a Yankee prison, I assure you. Fanny’s reaction, I fear, would be intemperate.” He became very much the general again. “Go on back, I’ll catch up. And if I don’t, tell Early about the trail and about this ford. Ramseur will back you now, he saw enough. Convince him, Jed.” He gave his scalp a respite from the borrowed straw hat. “We can beat Sheridan bloody, smash his army. Early just has to have faith.”

  October 18, 10:15 a.m.

  Bowman’s Ford

  “You’re a farmer,” the cavalry corporal told his companion.

  The river streamed around their horses’ legs.

  “Yup,” the cavalry private agreed.

  “And I’m a farmer,” the corporal said.

  “Yup.”

  “Ever see farmers act like those two fellers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can’t figure out what they’re doing.”

  “Ain’t farming.” The private spit into the stream. “And them two ain’t no farmers.”

  “That’s what I been trying to tell you, Amos.”

  “Didn’t need telling.”

  “Captain Heurich might need telling. Rebs might be up to something.”

  “No good telling that bullheaded Dutchman anything,” the private said.

  “We’re down here to ‘observe.’ And I’m observing.”

  “That man won’t listen, though. He don’t listen no more than a widow’s mule. Afraid to stir things up.”

  “Well, I reckon we’ll report and see what happens.”

  The private shook his head, watching the pair in the high field go their separate ways.

  “Them two ain’t no farmers,” he repeated.

  October 18, 2:00 p.m.

  Near Winchester

  Sheridan cursed Halleck. The two engineers imposed on him, the fat colonel and the lean, may have been wonders at planning fortifications for Halleck’s fantasies, but neither man could ride a horse worth a damn. He watched them bounce in their saddles as he and his retinue waited for them to catch up.

  Wary of any men on horseback, a string of darkies paused in their search for bodies. After a month, the battlefield still held secrets. And it stank.

  “You boys!” Sheridan yelled. He pointed. “Get down in that ditch there and look. That’s where soldiers would be.”

  The crew had collected a wheelbarrow-load of leathers, brass, and weapons. A decayed corpse in blue rags topped the load. Sheridan wondered briefly whether the coloreds put to such labor felt all that a white man would. He decided it didn’t matter.

  The fatter engineer beat the lean one to Sheridan.

  “This is simply marvelous!” he declared. “Seeing the battlefield like this, right at your side, sir! It’s all so complex, the defiant geometries … so different from the newspapers.”

  “I expect so,” Sheridan said through gritted teeth. “How about my winter lines? Any recommendations?”

  Joining them, the lean colonel struggled to master his horse. He had no idea how to manage the reins except by yanking them. Sheridan decided not to offer advice.

  “Oh, we’ll have to consult the maps for that. Make calculations.”

  “You could’ve consulted maps in Washington.”

  “General Halleck thought—”

  “I know what General Halleck thought.” Sheridan cut him off.

  Sweating grandly, the portly colonel said, “These manly pursuits do tire one, do they not, sir? After a time, the eye doesn’t see so acutely.…”

  You’ll see your dinner sharp enough, Sheridan figured. Recalling the old debt he owed Henry Halleck, though, he refrained from calling the engineers “worthless bastards.”

  “You’ve got my attention,” Sheridan snapped. “I suggest you two make use of it. Tired or not. I can’t spare any more time after today, there’s an army to lead.”

  Without further comment, he spurred Rienzi off across the fields, letting the others follow as best they could. The previous afternoon had been squandered on a slow ride from Martinsburg as the two engineers fought to stay in their saddles and pestered him with questions. Now this precious day had been wasted, too: By the time all this nonsense was done, it would be too late to ride down to Belle Grove and rejoin the army.

  First thing after breakfast, though, he intended to be in the saddle.

  October 18, 2:00 p.m.

  Fisher’s Hill

  “No time to waste,” Early told the assembled generals. “You’ve got the details, so let’s review this quick and get the men ready.” He glanced toward Gordon with less than his normal distaste. “Gordon commands the right wing. Until we all join back up. Right wing consists of Ramseur’s Division and Pegram’s, along with Gordon’s mongrels under Evans.” He grimaced, unable to help himself. “For this goddamned plan to work, Gordon has to move half this army across the river at dark and pass the woods Indian file. Then cross again east of Sheridan before dawn. Tall order. But I expect everybody to make this work.” He looked around the room and repeated, “Everybody.”

  He curled toward Kershaw and Wharton, the two division commanders he’d oversee personally. “Kershaw, you’re going to sweep right over that division they got dangling, catch ’em snoring and farting. Keep the rest of the Federals looking south. While Gordon comes down on their heads like bats in the shitter.”

  He grunted, clearing his throat of phlegm and grudges. “On Kershaw’s left, Wharton advances along the Valley Pike, followed by the artillery when ordered—everything’s got to be boneyard quiet, so no wagons, not even ambulances. Not until the attack’s begun to grip.” He nodded, as if weighing a small matter, then returned to the plan. “Wharton seizes the Cedar Creek bridge, takes the high ground, then he keeps on moving.”

  With a smirk, he turned to Rosser. “Who knew the Laurel was a running vine, hah? If they don’t take off again, Rosser’s jockeys will fix the Yankee cavalry on our left, keep the bastards occupied. I want the Yankees looking every which way. All understand?”

  The assembled generals murmured what passed for agreement.

  Early turned to Gordon. “Anything else?”

  “Bears repeating,” Gordon said, “that soldiers are to leave behind their canteens, cups, bedrolls, and any bayonets without full scabbards, anything that could make the least noise or slow a man. And no talking, to include officers. As far as the
right wing goes, Jed Hotchkiss is out setting in guides at every point where the column could make a wrong turn, up to the Front Royal road, above the river. I’ll lead myself after that, I’ve walked the ground.”

  He caught himself in an oversight: “And no horses for officers, not even generals. Not until we’re all across that river. Horses can follow the last of the infantry. One obstreperous horse could ruin everything, we need silence.” He judged the gathered faces, finding bloodlust, impatience, and at least a few traces of doubt. “Any matters not resolved to your satisfaction, gentlemen?”

  “Boys are going to come out of that water cold,” Pegram said. “Nights have gone chill. And you have them crossing twice.”

  Gordon shrugged. “No choice. Don’t worry, they’ll move faster to warm up.” He scratched his head, still purging refugees from the farmer’s clothes. His answer hadn’t satisfied Pegram, but all he could add was, “Speed will be everything, catch them in their tents. Keep moving, head for Belle Grove, take their headquarters. Tear their army apart before they’re even awake.” And pray to the Lord it works, he told himself. “Other questions?”

  “John,” Ramseur spoke up, “earlier, you said Payne’s cavalry would meet us up along the Front Royal road. To clear the vedettes at the river and cover our flank. I’m assuming they’ll have their horses? Which means there’ll be noise, no matter what we do.”

  “Payne’s taking a roundabout route, something of a feint. I’ve warned him to keep things quiet near the river.” Gordon forced a smile. “Not sure those nags of his have the grit left to make much fuss.”

  There were no more questions. With orders to step off the moment darkness fell, every general wished to rejoin his troops, to set things in motion, and not to be the delinquent blamed for disaster. If disaster there was to be. And several men doubted the plan, that much was evident.

  Plenty of fight in them, though. Gordon could feel it. They only needed a taste of winning again.

  October 18, 9:30 p.m.

  Belle Grove

  “Only a few more, sir,” the aide commiserated.

  Horatio Wright yawned. He had expected Sheridan back, but word had just come that the army commander would remain in Winchester overnight.

  Unlike Sheridan. Had something gone wrong in Washington?

  Well, there was always something wrong in Washington. And Sheridan was welcome to this job, he couldn’t come back soon enough for Wright. For all his experience as a corps commander, he hadn’t realized the full extent of an army commander’s less inspiring duties. The paperwork never ended, nor did the irksome demands on a fellow’s time.

  Fighting a corps was a far better proposition.

  He caressed his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger. “All right,” he told the aide, “go on. I’ll stop you if I want to read anything through.”

  The aide bent close to the candles sheathed in glass. “Cavalry vedettes report a pair of men dressed as farmers acting queer. Across the river, near the Front Royal road.”

  “Never knew a farmer who wasn’t odd,” Wright said. “Go on to the next report.”

  October 18, 11:00 p.m.

  Base of Three Top (Massanutten) Mountain

  Ripping leaves from a screen of trees, the wind needled wet soldiers. After a maddening scare stirred up by Pegram, the right wing had made its first crossing of the river and thousands of men filed along the mountainside trail in careful silence. As if each of them grasped what was at stake.

  This was a last chance, the last good chance.

  Gordon tried to pay attention to each step and every crushed leaf, but he found his thoughts returning to Jubal Early. The old man had not resisted his final plan, not for a moment. It was as if Early had run out of spleen. And Gordon had truly seen Early, really seen him, for the first time in weeks, if not months. He had found a sharply aged man, with beleaguered eyes retreating under the barricades of his eyebrows. The skin around those eyes was tense and ruined, and Early’s hair had grayed markedly. Only his beard remained unchanged, as crusted and foul as ever.

  Seeing the man so clearly had startled Gordon. It was as if he saw not flesh and blood, but a specter, a shade, of the nemesis with whom he had quarreled so bitterly. He’d never seen a being so worn through. Not with the mundane weariness of men marched or fought to exhaustion, but with a depletion of the very soul.

  Gordon stumbled over a root. And as he regained his balance he came to his senses: Pity was an emotion for women and fools.

  EIGHTEEN

  October 19, 3:00 a.m.

  Bowman’s Ford

  Gordon stopped. It just looked wrong. He was certain he’d drawn that branch across the right fork, not the left.

  Behind him, three divisions lurched to a halt. Cold air prickled.

  He looked again, rubbed his eyes, tried to remember. He had slept little for days and used his body hard. He feared his mind had slipped.

  Mist spooked up from the river and gathered into a fog, evoking that desperate morning at Spotsylvania. No spitting rain this day, though, only stillness. He remembered, too, his mammy’s tales of bottomland hants in the haze, her nigger belief in the mischievousness of the dead. Well, if the Lord granted, this mist would be a friend to living men, concealing them from murderous Yankee eyes.

  He shuddered nonetheless. The cold, he told himself. Although he was not wet through like the men, at least not yet. He had ridden across the first ford as they set out, only thereafter surrendering his horse. He had permitted himself that indulgence.

  He thought of the six thousand men and more shivering behind him, gripped by the mist.

  Major Jones of his staff eased up beside him. “Something wrong, sir?” he whispered.

  “Maybe. Go on back up to that cabin, last one we passed. Roust the farmer. Ask him whether the left fork here leads down to the ford, or if it’s the right one. I swear that branch moved.”

  The imprecision of weariness marked Gordon’s mouthing. He consoled himself that it would be all right, once they went forward. The excitement would revive him. It always did.

  The wind had fled, but its rear guard troubled the leaves. He was glad of that: The autumnal rasp covered the sound of the men, their rustling and sharp breathing.

  Gordon waited. No point explaining the halt. Just make a fuss, spark worries. They’d go forward when they went forward.

  Still, time pressed. He longed to strike a match, to check his watch, but dared not do so. His wing of the army had to be across the river and up on the high ground, a mile past the ford, and ready to advance at five a.m.

  Around him, officers waited in silence, unasked questions heavy in the air.

  Mist wet Gordon’s cheeks, his brow.

  A shadow approached, pushed along by a gust. Ramseur, recognizable by his shoulders. That old familiarity.

  “Yankees?” Ramseur whispered. His division would cross here, led on by Gordon, with Pegram trailing. Clem Evans would take another ford a few hundred yards upstream, guided by a soldier of local blood.

  “No Yankees yet,” Gordon assured him. He smiled, wryly, in the haunted darkness. There had been an embarrassing incident back a stretch, when scouts reported two Yankee pickets just ahead, far from where the Federals should have been. The column had halted and Jones had led a party forward to capture them, only to surround two cedar bushes.

  They were all tired. Worn. Seeing things.

  And hungry, the men were hungry. He knew that, too.

  But they would fight.

  Gordon tapped the ground with the toe of his boot. What was delaying Jones? Had he managed to get himself lost? Were things already awry?

  “This fork here,” Gordon explained to Ramseur, his voice a conspirator’s whisper. “Seems I’ve confounded myself. Thought I’d laid that branch the other way.” He yawned, sighed, shivered. “I sent Jones back to inquire.”

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  Ramseur stepped breath-smell close. “I’ve got an ugly feeli
ng. I know it’s foolish…”

  “About the attack?”

  Gordon felt more than saw the morbid shake of Ramseur’s head. “I have never given credence to presentiments,” the new father said. “They’re un-Christian. Unless a man’s a prophet, a claim I’d stay shy of. I have this feeling, though…”

  “Come on, Dod. We’re all tired.”

  “I believe I’m going to die today.”

  Gordon almost raised his voice, but hushed himself severely. “That’s nonsense. And you know it.” He wished he could deploy his jovial laugh, the studied tone that warmed men. “Tonight, we’ll be drinking up Phil Sheridan’s brandy, reclining like Roman dandies at Belle Grove. Toasting our victory. And the newest member of the Ramseur clan.”

  The young division commander was not to be jollied. “Lord have mercy on me, I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t doubt it.” He gripped Ramseur’s shoulder. “Hardly like you to be melancholy, Dod. But, then, I’ve been standing here wondering if I’m in my right mind myself.” He let go of the wool cloaking muscle and bone. “Been a long night. With a long day ahead.”

  “Surely.”

  “I’m going to tease you unmercifully tonight.” Gordon smiled, though it would not be seen. “All this gloom and glumness … while our dear, embattled Confederacy, couchant, demands the cool perspicacity and martial gifts of Stephen Dodson Ramseur.”

  A better tone colored Ramseur’s soft reply: “Remember when Beauregard called your bluff and spoke to you in French?”

  “I recall the laughter. But that Creole patter is hardly the tongue of Napoleon. Hugo himself would have begged for a translation.”

  “John, were you ever properly spanked as a child?”

  Jones returned, almost colliding with Gordon. The fog had grown heavy, wetting the leaves underfoot.

  “It’s the left fork, sir. It’s the left one, all right. Farmer moved that branch himself, fetching a load of firewood.”

  Gordon dragged the branch clear with his own hands.

  “On such twists of fortune,” he whispered to his companions, “the fate of kingdoms turns. Dod, get your boys moving.”