* * *
Miles away from her ill-fated encounter with the Confederate officer, Andrea’s heart had still not stopped its violent thumping. She urged Justus on through the dark, knowing every hoof beat bore her closer to the place she’d called home since the age of twelve. Her cousin Catherine lived not twenty miles away among the rolling hills and green meadows of northern Virginia. Familiar territory and friendly faces were not far away.
The pain in Andrea’s sprained ankle brought her back to the present, the swelled tissue seeming determined to burst its way out of her boot. She pulled Justus to a walk and removed her foot from the stirrup. I’m sure his head is hurting worse than my ankle. Leaning down to pat Justus’ neck, she tried to ignore the grip of fear engulfing her. Hunter was a legend here. His name alone was enough to cause terror in the Federal ranks, as much for what he didn’t do as for what he did. His tactic of forcing the enemy to watch, wait, and wonder when he would strike strained their resources and their nerves more than an outright battle.
Andrea shivered, remembering the Rebel leader’s eyes and tight grip upon her. The cat-and-mouse game she had played the past few weeks was a dangerous, and perhaps a foolish, one. But she detested the Confederates’ stubborn pride, their unmitigated arrogance at having carried the war so far.
The sound of a train whistle floated across the night breeze, halting her reveries. Urging Justus forward off the trail, she rode to a large oak that stood like a guardian to a well-concealed ford. Andrea threw her leg over the saddle and dismounted with a suppressed groan when her weight landed on her ankle. She knew she would have to walk from here, the brush being too thick and the tree limbs too low to ride any farther.
“Come on, boy,” she said to Justus, leaning on him heavily while she hopped alongside. “Your turn to take it easy.”
Andrea dreaded the short walk to the river, more so for the profusion of spider webs crisscrossing her path than the pain in her ankle. She shivered at the contact of the invisible threads. “I’d rather face an enemy battery than walk through these,” she muttered to herself as she clawed another strand from her face and fought her sense of unreasonable panic. “Make that an enemy battery at close range,” she whimpered, slapping at the sticky traps more fretfully and stifling the scream that arose in her throat from her irrational fear. “An enemy battery at close range commanded by Captain Hunter,” she sobbed, fumbling to clear the way ahead of her while smacking at biting insects that had begun to light on every pore and scratch of her skin in a feeding frenzy.
Andrea at last heard water lapping at the riverbank. Hopping on one leg to the water’s edge, she paused to take in the sight of the majestic Potomac. When the moon peeked from behind a cloud, Andrea slid down the bank to a strip of gravel and gazed at her reflection.
Memories of her early years of pampered elegance caused Andrea to suppress a laugh. If only her father could see her now. But the mere thought of Charles Monroe made her smile disappear. She threw a rock into the water and watched the image disperse in waves. Yes, the aristocratic child of the South was gone. Sometimes she wondered if that child had ever really existed.
Andrea limped back to Justus and allowed him to take a quick drink, before splashing across and up the opposite bank. They had not traveled far before Andrea smelled the unmistakable odor of the encampment, and her lips curved into a smile. She took a deep breath. She was home.
Not long after came the expected challenge. “Stop, rider! Who goes there?”
“A friend. A courier seeking Colonel Jonathan Jordan.”
“Dismount and proceed with the countersign.”
Andrea groaned at the thought of dismounting and reached into her pocket for her pass. She and Justus both jumped in surprise when a soldier, not attached to the voice up ahead, appeared from the shadows beside them.
“Boonie? Is that you, you dang fool Yankee?” She continued to fumble in her coat for the pass.
“Sinclair?” he answered, calling her by the name she used in camp. “Colonel’s been snapping at the bit waiting fer word from you. Dang gum it, where ya been?”
“Got detoured.” Andrea continued riding while the sentry walked along beside. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach when she realized her pass was gone.
“You on picket duty?” She tried not to sound distressed as she searched through other pockets in the dark.
“Just got relieved. Heard a rider come splashing across the river like there weren’t no war, and thought it might be you,” the lanky soldier said.
The woods opened up into a large, sloping meadow that lay dotted with white tents and dying campfires. Andrea frowned at his cynical comment while taking in the scene of the sprawling camp. A few men lounged around a smoking pile of coals, likely those fresh off picket duty. But for the most part, the camp appeared silent and dark.
“Colonel told me to fetch him no matter what time you got in,” Boonie said. “Probably fixing to have you arrested for desertion.”
“Tattoo has sounded?” Andrea asked incredulously, not knowing the lateness of the hour.
“Yea, about two hours ago.” Boonie shook his head in exasperation.
The realization that it was now past midnight, combined with the excitement of her hairs-breadth escape, served to increase Andrea’s exhaustion. “Is it really necessary to wake—” She turned to Boonie, but he had already disappeared into the maze of tents.
Doggone it, Boonie. Why you always gotta follow orders so exact?
Andrea waited for the Colonel, and he finally appeared, looking disheveled and a bit annoyed at being awakened so late. He wore his coat, but his suspenders hung down below as if he had dressed too quickly to bother with them.
“Sinclair. It’s late,” he barked, barely looking at her. “Come with me.”
Andrea winked at Boonie, then bravely attempted to follow the Colonel without limping. When she entered the tent behind him, he turned, threw his arms around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank goodness, Andrea, you’re safe! We heard there was trouble near Mount Gilead.” He held her by the arms and took a step back. “And from the looks of you, you were in it. Are you all right?”
“Other than a few scratches and a sore ankle, I’m fine.” Andrea smiled to reassure him. “Much better off than Captain Hunter, I’m sure.”
Colonel Jordan had turned to light a second lamp, but at the mention of the Confederate captain’s name, he stopped and whirled back to face her. “You tangled with Hunter?”
“You could say … we met.” Andrea hobbled over to the nearest chair and lowered herself into it. “Can you help me get this boot off?”
Colonel Jordan’s soft brown eyes appeared to change from concern to apprehension, and the tone of his voice became laced with alarm. “What’s wrong with your ankle?” He stared at the obvious swelling of her boot.
Andrea watched his eyes flick up to her ripped pants and scan her torn and ragged coat. She knew, even without a mirror, that if she had escaped from a den of tigers, she could look no worse.
“If it was Hunter after you,” he said, raising his gaze to meet hers, “it appears like he darn near succeeded.”
“Now, J.J.,” Andrea said, making light of her injury by calling him the pet name only she and his wife were privy to. “You know ‘darn near’ doesn’t count in time of war.”
Andrea thought her comment was cause enough for a good laugh, but “J.J.” ignored it and knelt down to examine her ankle.
“Blazes, Andrea, how long has it been like this? We’re going to have to cut your boot off.”
Andrea gripped the side of the chair, her knuckles white, and put her head back as the throbbing intensified. “It’s only a sprain,” she said through gritted teeth.
“And a ruined pair of boots.” Colonel Jordan did not bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice as the leather fell apart under his knife.
Andrea shrugged and drew in a sharp breath as she gazed at her cousin’s husband. Having lived with them for
five years, Andrea considered J.J. more like a dear brother than a commanding officer. Obviously a man of courage and conviction, she esteemed him even more for his remarkable gentleness—a trait she had never before witnessed in the male species. With striking good looks and warm, brown eyes, he had an easy-going manner that made everyone feel instantly at home.
Even his men admired and respected him, both for his calm demeanor in camp and his steady nerve under fire. If they could only see him when in the company of his wife. She took a deep, exasperated breath. Sometimes the love J.J. and Catherine shared scared her. It seemed foolish to care for someone so, to depend on someone so desperately. Her mother had married for money and power alone. The adoration and esteem Catherine bestowed upon J.J., and that he returned tenfold, confused her.
“How does that feel?” He looked up, tearing Andrea from her thoughts.
“Much better.” She leaned back in the chair, resting her gaze on the ankle that had swelled to more than twice its normal size.
“Hopefully the swelling won’t get any worse,” he said as he wrapped a bandage around it. “I should have someone take a look at it in the morning—and this.” J.J. grabbed her arm and narrowed his eyes at one of the deeper gashes. “Now, tell me what happened.”
Andrea chewed the inside of her cheek, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. J.J. must have seen how fatigued she was.
“Never mind. You must be famished and exhausted. Hunter is no doubt long gone by now. You can tell me in the morning.”
Andrea smiled. “More tired than hungry—or too tired to eat. I’m not sure which.”
“You can sleep here.” J.J. nodded toward his cot. “I’ll find quarters elsewhere.”
“No. I’ll sleep in my tent.” Andrea stood to leave, but her eyes never left the cot. Though small, it appeared considerably more comfortable than the ground.
“That’s an order.” J.J. blew out the lamp to end the conversation. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter 3
“That man will fight us every day and every hour till the end of the war.”
– General James Longstreet, speaking of General U.S. Grant
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” J.J. opened the tent flap, allowing a stream of sunlight to gush in and fill every corner. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with one boot on,” he said, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of shiny boots in the other.
Andrea blinked at the sudden brightness. “I guess I was more tired than I realized. It’s been awhile since I slept in a bed.”
J.J. winced. “I would hardly call that a bed.” He stared at his wife’s cousin sitting on the edge of his cot, elbows on her knees and face in her hands, trying to wipe away the sleep that remained. Her blonde hair lay tangled with twigs and leaves like the mane of an unbroken horse. Her pants were torn and muddy. The picture she presented was one of determination and a strong will, two traits equally at fault for leading her into frequent trouble.
“You must stop this.” He handed her the cup of coffee. “It’s getting too dangerous.”
“Now is hardly the time for ease and comfort.” Andrea gave him a look that indicated she did not think he was being rational. “The Union is at stake—”
J.J. shook his head and put his hands up to stop her. She pushed his patience, and his nerves, to the limit. The decision to allow her into camp had been a source of much regret from the start. But in his defense, he had been given little choice. She had enlisted the aid of his wife to stand against him, and between them, they had worn him down. With much reluctance he had allowed her to carry messages back and forth to Catherine, a distance of some fifteen miles. At the beginning of the war, the idea seemed harmless enough. He rather enjoyed the frequent communications from his wife. But that was back when everyone assumed the Confederacy would be defeated in a single battle, when the conflict’s duration was prophesied to be short, and the Union’s success was considered to be certain.
Although he could not recall the exact circumstances, somewhere along the line she had been asked to deliver a message to an outpost close by—then another and another. And now here she was, entrenched in a war that had no end in sight, her heart and soul enlisted in such a way it seemed impossible to remove her. Every officer in this part of the state knew of the kid called “Sinclair.” They knew of his familiarity with the countryside and the swiftness of his horse. And though they assumed he was too young to enlist, they heard he was fearless.
What they don’t know is that “he” is a “she” who has more courage than sense. And that it’s entirely up to me to keep her out of trouble.
“You were supposed to be back two days ago,” J.J. said, shaking his head. “I cannot allow this to continue.”
“I came close to finding the headquarters.” Andrea took a sip of coffee and did not bother to specify whose headquarters. “I could not just leave.”
“You see?” J.J.’s voice grew loud. “I sent you to deliver dispatches to General Nelson. There was no mention of finding any headquarters in those orders.”
Andrea let out her breath in rude exasperation. “We must not stop now. We need only to match his cleverness and cunning.”
“You disobeyed my orders. I cannot allow insubordination in my ranks.”
“J.J.—”
“Don’t J.J. me. I’m your commanding officer.”
“Colonel Jordan,” she began again. “You cannot expect me to ride into enemy territory with my eyes closed. Hunter’s men cause chaos in our ranks, and every unit sent after him is destroyed.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” he snapped.
“But, sir, I ride alone. I have been able to move around his command unnoticed. I have given you valuable information about his movements, have I not?”
J.J. stared at her unblinking, knowing she was right. “That is not the question.”
“But if we found his headquarters we could stop—”
“You are a courier, at best. Not a spy. Not a scout. Do you understand? You are to deliver dispatches, not gather intelligence on the enemy’s strength and movements.”
Andrea nodded, but defiance remained in her eyes when she turned away, making it obvious the furtive headquarters of Captain Hunter had become an obsession.
“Andrea, the man is satanically clever,” J.J. said, trying to reason with her. “He knows what we are doing—and even what we intend to do—yet no one can tell where he’ll be, when he’ll be there, or what he’ll do—”
“I can play his game.” She swung around to face him. “He operates unmolested, robbing with impunity, picking up supplies from our troops as he desires, and greeting and accepting invitations from citizens with the popularity of a king. If you would authorize it, I could find his headquarters.”
“Yes, that would work splendidly,” J.J. said sarcastically. “That is if Hunter didn’t capture you, which he probably would, and then decided to spare your life, which he probably wouldn’t.”
“You worry overly much.”
J.J. studied the uncompromising look on her face and decided to change the subject. “How’s the ankle?”
“Much better.” Andrea sounded none too sincere as she limped over to the chair.
J.J. knelt down, took off the bandage, and checked the swelling. “It’s still swollen. You should try to stay off it. Why don’t you head back to our place and rest for a few days?”
Andrea nodded somewhat willingly in response to the invitation, then sank deeper into the chair.
“Now, tell me about last night.” J.J. stood and crossed his arms.
After propping her foot on a chest, Andrea wrapped and re-wrapped the bandage in an obvious effort to stall for time. J.J. surmised she had planned to think her story through before being questioned. That plan, he concluded, had not been implemented and was now too late to enact.
When he began tapping his foot, she gazed up with a forced smile. “On my way to deliver
your dispatch, I noticed a couple of Hunter’s men hanging around on the outskirts of town.” She stared out over her toes. “So I found one of our patrols and told them they might want to take a look.” Andrea paused for a moment to catch her breath . . . or figure out how she was going to continue her account. “I guess they pretty much scattered the riders.”
“You’re sure it was Hunter’s men you saw?”
Andrea shrugged and focused her attention on a single button on J.J.’s coat rather than his eyes. “Pretty sure.”
“But that’s not everything. How did you sprain your ankle?”
Andrea gulped. “Oh yes, my ankle. I, uh, sprained my ankle when . . .”
“Come on, Andrea, the truth.” J.J. continued to stare at her, focusing on every word and concentrating on any possible slip-ups.
“All right, that’s not quite the end of the story. Justus needed a drink and so did I, so we stopped along Swift Run. Unfortunately, Captain Hunter had the same idea.”
“You were that close when the Union patrol attacked?” His eyes grilled her, letting her know he had deduced the part of the story she had neglected to tell—that she had acted as a decoy to divert Hunter’s attention from the alerted patrol. “What did you do then?”
“Well, the good thing is, he was on one side of the stream and I was on the other. You know how Swift Run is … it’s kind of … well … swift …”
“Yes, I know how it is,” J.J. snapped, agitated at her ramblings. “What happened next?”
Andrea sighed. “Unluckily for him, but happily for me, his horse fell and he fell, and I was able to get away.” Finishing the sentence, Andrea clapped her hands together and stood.
J.J. stared at her back, knowing he could probably find a shade of truth in her story. Yet he knew Andrea well enough to recognize she had a way of taking an acorn of fact and turning it into a great oak of fable. “You still have not told me how you sprained your ankle, Andrea. What are you hiding?”
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 2