Duty Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Book 1)

by Jessica James

  Delaney took the letter from the rider’s hand and scanned it, then lifted his gaze to watch the black horse occupy itself by doing pivots, first one way and then the other. He flicked his eyes up to the rider. “You—are—Sinclair?” Long and lean, the figure before him resembled a farm boy, the oversized clothes giving no sign of the femininity that, according to the letter, lay beneath.

  “I am,” came the loud, somewhat defiant response.

  Delaney blinked in obvious surprise but quickly erased all emotion from his face. “Pleased to meet you. You come highly recommended by a well-respected friend.”

  “I bring some news as well.” The rider waited to get her horse under control before continuing. “I ran into some of Hunter’s men.” She nodded in the direction of the nearby train depot. “They seem to be planning some mischief with the locomotive.”

  Delaney motioned over her shoulder for his bugler to signal the men, then turned his attention back to her. “You’re sure it was Hunter’s men?”

  He watched an expression he could not quite read pass over her face, before she nodded. “Yes. I am sure.”

  “Then we need to hurry.” Clucking to his horse to move forward, Delaney grasped the rider’s hand. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Can I impose on you to deliver a communication for me?”

  He pulled a pad out of his coat and scribbled with a pencil. “I’ve spread myself rather thin.” He talked while writing. “I need to get word to General Mathis. He’s in Wheatland, not far from here.”

  “That is south of here—”

  “Yes.” Delaney glanced up at the tinge of fear he heard in her voice. “But not far. And he’s north of it.” He handed her the piece of paper.

  “Sir, my pass … I’m afraid I—”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Delaney started scribbling again to provide Colonel Jordan’s young courier with the credentials to get through his lines. “Sinclair, right? Perhaps we can meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” The rider glanced at the pass he’d written out with an expression that resembled relief, then gave the massive horse a light jab with her spurs and galloped away.

  Chapter 10

  Believe that you can whip the enemy, and you have won half the battle.

  – Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart

  Not far away sat Captain Hunter, holding his steel-gray mare in check with one hand while she pranced and strained at the bit like an over-anxious racehorse.

  Hunter smiled out of the corner of his mouth as he surveyed the damage his men had wreaked. Even he could not have envisioned a more thorough job of devastation in such a short amount of time by so few.

  The railroad ties had been removed from a twenty-foot stretch, and the rails themselves had been crossed and bent around nearby trees after being heated over a fire. His gaze shifted to the curve in the tracks that would give the engineer little time to react when he noticed the destruction, and then to the downhill grade that would prevent the train from stopping even when he did. Hunter expected a bountiful yield from the harvest they were about to reap in rations, supplies—and greenbacks.

  Hunter’s mare tossed her head and pawed the ground in obvious revolt at being restrained. Even without its daunting rider, the large-boned warhorse was an imposing animal. Appropriately named “Dixie,” she had a reputation for lunging and baring her teeth at the slightest provocation.

  “Looks like we’re about ready, Captain.” A lieutenant with a cigar clasped between his teeth kept his distance from the unruly horse while talking to his superior. “Nothing to do but wait for the train.”

  Hunter nodded but did not reply. The jovial group he gazed upon appeared more like a band of gleeful schoolboys than a force of ruthless warriors. They milled around the burning ties, laughing and slapping each other on the back as if attending a celebratory bonfire.

  Yet Hunter knew, as did the enemy, they could fight as fearlessly as any set of men on earth. Though not one of them was a trained soldier, none had needed much schooling. A high sense of honor and love of country served as the driving principle for their service to the Confederacy, while the adventure and romance of serving with Hunter compelled them to fight like demons.

  Hunter gave a silent signal and the group and their horses disappeared into a small grove of trees by the tracks. The men made themselves comfortable on the carpet of pine needles with reins looped over their arms, ready for action. Some laid down to grab a few minutes of sleep, while others sat around in groups talking in low tones. Hunter sank down under a tree at the edge of the gathering to nurse his aching head, but his eyes remained vigilant, scrutinizing everyone and everything.

  What he saw before him was a gathering of some of his best, strange collection though it was. Ranging in maturity from boys of but fifteen summers to those well silvered over with the frost of age, the conglomeration proved he robbed proportionately from cradle to grave for his recruits—as well as from every segment of Virginia society and culture. Sprawled around him were store clerks and farmers, wealthy landowners and millers, a mingling of traits and lineage and social status that bore out equally on the battlefield. Dissimilar, yet united, Hunter mused. They all possess a common bond: the desire to defend their native soil.

  And young or old, rich or poor, his followers had something else in common—they were too reckless and too wild for the discipline and monotony of the regular army. Hunter’s perilous style of warfare suited this group of men perfectly. The detached nature of his command and the mystical reputation of its commander added to the appeal of this outlaw band.

  Truth be told, Hunter thought, these men would not know how to pitch a tent if they were handed one or how to execute a lateral oblique if they were ordered to. The only strategic movement they understood was “split up,” a command rarely ever ordered with more than a wave of his hand, because each man knew instinctively when to initiate the action. Their camp was the saddle, and the battlefield was their homeland. They had channeled their unrest into a common purpose, and that purpose was to defend the sacred soil on which they were born.

  When not on active duty, this gallant band of men protected themselves by disappearing into the homes of Virginian families equally devoted to the cause of Southern independence. It was on the generosity of these families the cavaliers relied for meals, and as a result, kings were neither better fed nor more reverentially treated.

  Those in the regular service grumbled about the life of Hunter’s independents, who they claimed were far more familiar with picnicking than picketing and, who, when not within the enemy’s lines, had the ease of sleeping more often in the folds of a feather bed than in the cold embrace of Mother Earth.

  That was indeed true. But in spite of the many victories and privileges enjoyed by the Command, no man could deny that riding with Hunter was a dangerous and perilous sport, his expeditions often ending with substantial loss and seldom concluding without serious injury.

  Still, the attractions far outweighed the hardships and risks, because the social life of the men belonging to Hunter was anything but inactive and mundane. In fact, as the Command’s reputation grew, so did the romance and mystique of those who were privileged enough to belong to it.

  Hunter’s men were, by all accounts, the very aristocracy of the Confederate army, and the honors lavished upon them by the inhabitants of the Commonwealth were anything but disagreeable. To join Hunter, to be one of his men, was a duty to which all aspired.

  It was because of this familiar, social relationship between citizens and soldiers that a unique bond developed in the territory. Hunter relied heavily on the citizens for information about the invaders, and they, in turn, relied on his men to protect them from the brutality and often-cruel behavior of the Union forces.

  No other commander could equal the respect or rapport that Hunter had built with the people in his region, and no man exercised a more influential and beneficial authority in the Commonwealth. He was the p
ower of the land… admired, adored and idolized. And no amount of bribery, coercion, destruction of property or intimidation by Federal troops could compel the citizens to turn against him.

  As for the men who were gathered before Hunter today, they were some of his most fearless veterans, tested, tried and true. These were the type of men who would fight each other to be the first to shed their blood on behalf of Virginia—and Hunter knew them all. Knew their names, and where they stayed; knew the names of their wives and the names of the women they wished to be their wives. And though he would never go so far as to say it, they knew it without the words that he was as honored to be their commander as they were to serve under him.

  Though only twenty-nine, Hunter was particularly adept at leading an independent battalion of this nature. Truth be told, he was no more fit for regular service than his men. It was from Stuart and Lee alone that he received instruction, and they, for the most part, gave him free rein. His mission was to report the movements of the enemy when he could, and mystify, mislead and aggravate them whenever he couldn’t, all of which he performed with enthusiastic and expert enterprise.

  But still, even among his own comrades, Hunter was not a person whom anyone would care to provoke. Those that knew him well, knew he was a solitary man, reserved and cautious, most at ease alone. He could ride for miles without speaking a word, and no man, save his second in command, Lieutenant Carter, knew him well enough to guess with any precision what he was thinking or planning, or what he would do or say next. New recruits were often warned of his rather quick temper and private, brooding demeanor—and if they weren’t—they soon found out on their own.

  Even other officers, including those who outranked him in the regular army, would never dare dream of tampering with Hunter’s hair-trigger disposition. And though he mingled with his men on and off the battlefield, even treating them with genuine affection at times, he was not considered as being one who was overly kind. Primarily engrossed in how best to harass his foes, he would not hesitate to push his cavaliers to bodily extremes or chastise them into fighting like demons.

  This he could do with nothing more than a look from his conspicuous, piercing eyes. Almost blue when in repose, they were more likely to be the color of steel when in action, turning dark as gunpowder when his temper flared, and darker still when his full fury was unleashed.

  Perhaps that is why when Hunter was described by any of his followers, it was always as two men. Off the battlefield he was a gentleman, courteous, gallant, somewhat sociable—to the extent that he would occasionally crack a smile over a good joke. But when thrust into the presence of the enemy, he became as diplomatic and merciful as a man-eating tiger. In the heat of conflict he no longer resembled that Southern aristocrat, or even a human. He became a warrior.

  The group soon had occasion to witness the warrior side of the man, when the unwelcome bugle call of Union cavalry fell upon their ears. In fact, the sound of the approaching train and the sound of the approaching enemy reached the group at the same instant.

  All eyes fell upon Hunter. After a loud curse, he gave the order to mount up. “Meet at Ebenezer,” he yelled as his men began to scatter.

  Blazes, how did they know? The image of a young, skinny kid skirted across his mind as he turned his mare south. Urging her faster, he damned the Yankees for stealing his chance to provide the ailing Confederate army with needed supplies, and for robbing his men of their just reward for service.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Hunter leaned his shoulder into the door-jam of Ebenezer Church and studied his men. Some were occupied with writing letters to sweethearts while others were engaged with playing cards. All of them displayed in their glum expressions a deep disappointment over the failed raid. The result of the disrupted foray was more serious than just the loss of spoils. The effect on morale could not be tolerated.

  Turning over the day’s events in his mind, Hunter remembered something one of his scouts had reported to Lieutenant Carter. He walked around the side of the church with deadly purpose, scouring the yard until he found the face for which he searched.

  “Twiggy, can I talk to you?” Hunter paused to light his pipe.

  “Why sure, Cap’n. What’s on yer mind?”

  “That boy you saw today and reported to Carter,” he paused, searching for the right words. “What’d he look like?”

  “Like I told Lieutenant Carter, just looked like some farm boy,” he replied in a slow Southern drawl. “Figgered he was one of yer new recruits scouting the area. He told me as much.”

  “Well, did you notice anything at all unusual about him?”

  “Naw, not really.” Twiggy rubbed his whiskers, pondering the question.

  Hunter let out a sigh. “Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Well, of course, there was that haws.”

  Hunter froze and felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. “That horse?” He did not turn around. He did not need to. He knew what Twiggy was going to say next, and his hands clenched into tight fists before the words were even uttered.

  “Yeah.” The rebel scout spit and wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty coat sleeve. “Big black thing, it was. Prettiest doggone piece of haws flesh I’ve seen fer quite awhile.”

  Hunter let out an oath with the breath he did not even realize he’d been holding, then stomped away, not uttering another word until he reached Dixie. “Mount up!”

  From all around the churchyard, loafing—and startled—rebels leaped from where they rested. Spurs, belts and pistols clattered as they were hurriedly gathered. Bridles and saddles flew from tree limbs, bushes, and fence rails, as a few dozen men scrambled to follow the order without delay.

  Chapter 11

  I do not think much of a man who is not wiser today than he was yesterday.

  – Abraham Lincoln

  After delivering the dispatch, Andrea rode a short distance before coming to two conclusions: Justus needed a rest, and Catherine would have to wait a little while longer for her message from J.J.

  Pulling her canteen from her saddle, she plopped down on a sun-warmed rock and mulled over the day’s events. She pushed from her thoughts the image of the Confederate scout she had encountered, and dwelled instead on the handsome figure of Colonel Delaney. Then she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of that vision as well. She did not have the time or the inclination to deliberate upon the officer’s good looks…or how she felt about it.

  Laying her head back on the rock, Andrea realized how physically exhausted she was. The few hours of sleep the night before had done little good, especially with the excitement and danger she had undergone today. The heat of the rock soaked into her like a warm embrace, and the low sun made her drowsy.

  Maybe I’ll just close my eyes a few minutes, she thought. She was on a small knoll, with a few trees shielding her from the vision of anyone coming across the fields below. If she needed cover, she had only to ride up the hill behind her where larger boulders offered protection. Who would find me here anyway?

  Feeling safe and secure, Andrea allowed her eyes to close and her body to rest. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept before she awoke with a start. The sun sat lower in the sky and long shadows stretched toward her. Seeing Justus snoozing in the warm sun nearby, she limped over to tighten the girth.

  When she had just about reached him, she heard a loud crack—like a horse kicking a stall door. The peculiar sound was followed instantaneously by an unearthly thwack of something striking a rock nearby.

  Staring drowsily at the granite stone a moment, Andrea shifted her gaze to a cloud of dust traveling like a fast-moving thunderhead down below. She continued to watch, too stunned to move. The approaching horsemen appeared to be riding in distinct columns of four. It cannot be Hunter, she thought. His men ride in a come-as-you-may order.

  Barely awake, she began contemplating the possibility that it was indeed Hunter’s men
attempting to appear like a Union scouting party to confuse her. Another bullet whizzed by her head, convincing her that that possibility was, in all probability, a certainty.

  Stay calm, she told herself as she scrambled and clawed her way over the rocks, dragging Justus behind her. With the help of a boulder she jumped on her horse’s back without bothering to tighten the saddle and headed up the hill full tilt. War is no game, Andrea. Those words replayed in her mind again as the image of J.J. appeared before her eyes.

  Her saddle began to slip, her heart to pound. Not knowing where she was heading, Andrea slowed Justus down as the terrain became more difficult. Glancing back over her shoulder once, she saw the riders had started up the incline and were gaining on her. She tried to choke back her fear, but the litany of what she had done and should not have done continued to run through her mind. Had she not delivered that last dispatch she would be at Catherine’s by now. Had she not rested . . . Had she kept riding . . . Had she . . . Oh, darn it!

  A bugle blaring in front of her caused Andrea to lift her head in surprise. About twenty yards up the hill sat Colonel Delaney wearing a careless smile. Turning in his stirrups, he yelled a command to a small detachment of men before heading straight down the hill at a reckless gallop. “Careful, boys. It’s Alex again. And I think he’s mad.”

  A few of Delaney’s men dismounted and saluted the approaching force with a crackle of carbines. Andrea slid from Justus and slumped to the ground behind a protective rock, her legs trembling too much to bear weight.

  With her head between her knees, she listened to the fury down below, knowing without a doubt the skirmish would not last long. Hunter would scatter his men, recognizing it was useless to fight on such ground; and Delaney would pull back, understanding the obvious danger of pursuing rebels skilled in the art of ambush. The notes of the Union bugle recalling the cavalry troopers soon confirmed her belief.