Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

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Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 5

by Jessica James


  J.J. frowned at her theatrics. “Come here. Give me a hug. How’s the ankle?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Andrea said. “And don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  J.J. sighed loudly at her futile attempt to hide her limp and the offhand way she spoke. She made the pledge to use caution with little reflection, and knowing Andrea, she would violate it with as little hesitation.

  “I’ll see you at Monroe’s Mill.” He followed her outside and watched her saddle and mount. “Remember—”

  “I’ve got it, Colonel.” Andrea sounded more than a little exasperated as she hauled on the reins to keep Justus under control. “Centreville and hence to Hopewell Gap.”

  J.J. shook his head as she rode away, feeling guilty he had to lie. He knew what the general wanted her for, and he knew he would not be at Hopewell Gap when she returned. No one would be. His regiment was heading down to Thoroughfare Gap—so was the general, and so were a lot of Rebels.

  He wanted to keep her as far away from that dangerous part of the country as he could.

  Chapter 6

  “Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”

  – Goethe

  They moved through the darkness without making a sound. So stealthy were their movements and so ominous their silent shadows, Hunter knew a legion of specters rising from their graves could not look more menacing. Even the horses appeared of another world tonight, seeming to float upon the swirling mist among trees that stood like sentinels guarding a numinous world.

  Dressed inconspicuously and mounted on his favorite steed, Hunter rode in front of his band, seeking some game to flush. His men, as was their habit, were hungry for battle. And as their leader, he felt it his manifest duty to feed them.

  Halting the group about fifty feet from a country farmhouse, Hunter listened to the strains of music coming from within while silently studying the scene. The sight of four horses tied out front, Union officers’ mounts most likely from the accoutrements they carried, brought a smile to his face. Riding forward with one other man, Hunter dismounted and banged on the door with the butt of his revolver. When a young lady answered, he positioned himself in the shadows so she could not identify the color of his uniform.

  “Pardon the interruption, miss,” he said in a smooth, low voice, tipping his hat courteously. “Any officers in the house are requested back at camp immediately.”

  Within a heartbeat of his last word, four men dressed in Union splendor pushed their way past the lady. “What do you say? What is the meaning of this?”

  By this time, Hunter had pressed himself against the wall, out of sight of the four standing in the doorway. Their focus was therefore intent on Lieutenant Carter, who leaned nonchalantly against the porch post with a well-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth.

  “Who sent you?” asked a high-ranking officer, stepping through the door with the others following close at his heels. “What is the meaning of this? Is there trouble?”

  When they were all on the porch, Carter nodded his head toward the doorway. “Ask him.”

  Hunter appeared from the shadows behind them, blocking any retreat back into the house. “Indeed there is trouble. Do you know of Hunter?”

  “Yes,” one proclaimed. “Have we caught the infernal plundering pirate?”

  “No,” Hunter replied, a satirical smile spreading across his lips, “but he has caught you.”

  He raised his gun to eye level and cocked it to reinforce his statement. The four men stood dumbstruck before raising their hands in surrender.

  “You cannot be Hunter,” one of the men finally spoke. “We heard he was in our front, being pursued by our advance guard.”

  “I believe that was this morning,” Hunter said, relieving the man of his gun and saber. “While the hounds were sleeping—or socializing—the fox was on the move.”

  “This is outrageous,” another shouted. “Why if I had known I would have—”

  Hunter did not give him the opportunity to finish. “Yes, I have discovered the world is full of Yanks with mighty hindsight.”

  “But this is an insult,” he roared. “You Rebels do not fight fair!”

  Carter cocked his gun and put it to the man’s head. “If I were in your boots, I’d be more humiliated than insulted.” He snarled the words with the cigar still clenched firmly between his teeth.

  Hunter ignored the conversation, intent instead in pulling documents from one of the officer’s pockets. “How far to your camp?” he asked without raising his eyes from the communication he held.

  No one answered until Carter’s gun flashed up again. “’Bout two miles outside Chantilly, there’s a schoolhouse.” The man’s voice was solemn and low.

  “How many?” Hunter raised his eyes from the dispatch and then lowered them again.

  “I’ll wager we outnumber you. You don’t stand a chance.” The officer speaking squinted into the darkness, trying to count the shadows that remained concealed in the cloak of night.

  “You may indeed outnumber us,” Hunter said in a low, distinct voice, “but I do not intend to give your men time to count noses in the dark.” He gave the officer a cold smile as he glanced over the letter he held: “Our picket post was attacked by Hunter’s men this morning. The confounded raiders appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in the same direction.”

  Hunter stuffed the dispatch into his coat, and spoke into the darkness. “Anyone need to make any trades?” Four or five of his men bounded up to the porch and promptly swapped boots, hats, and even coats with the officers, while others grabbed saddles, bridles, and horses.

  “I hope you are proud of this thievery,” one of the Federal officers said.

  Hunter leaned against the porch post watching the procedure. “It’s called trading,” he said in a voice full of indifference.

  “Trading?” the man bellowed, looking down at the tattered boots he now wore. “What are we trading?”

  “In your case,” Hunter said, staring at the pompous Federal colonel, “your boots for your life.”

  Turning away from the prisoners, Hunter yelled into the yard. “Max and Larson, escort these gentlemen to Richmond, please.” Then he tipped his hat respectfully toward the prisoners, mounted his horse, and melted into the darkness with the remaining dauntless souls of his command.

  Twenty-two men, along with their horses, disappeared without a sound on the dust-covered road, as if they had never been there at all.

  * * *

  Although it was “full dark,” as Boonie would say, Andrea rode at no slow pace, paying little attention to any danger that lurked in the shadows. The enemy was no longer foremost on her mind. The approaching storm, rumbling like a great monster on the other side of the mountain range, controlled her thoughts. She wanted to beat the tempest before it succeeded in making it across, but she could feel Justus tiring. Dust from the road covered them both, and the air, even though heavy with the signs of rain, still crushed them with oppressive heat.

  To Andrea, plunging forward felt like playing a game with fate. She had no idea what or whom might lurk ahead. But instead of fear, she felt excitement, a pulsing pressure of blood through her veins driving her on. It did not bother her that the stakes of the game she played were life and death. Actually, it did not occur to her. She was too busy thinking about her destination, dreaming about lying down to sleep, and as she so often did, promising God she would never push herself to this extreme again.

  Her thoughts wandered to J.J., and she cringed when she thought how angry he would be she had not yet returned. She’d been delayed for hours by General Lawson, and then ordered to deliver a dispatch to an officer south of Centreville. Again, she had been delayed.

  Everyone seemed to be in a flurry about something, and no one would bother to tell her why. Another officer had insisted she carry a message to the outpost in Gainesville, where she was headed now.

  Andrea pulled Justus to a halt, trying to figure out how far she had come. From out of the blackne
ss ahead she heard a sharp click, like a hoof striking a rock hidden in the dust of the road. She held her breath and listened, but no other sound disturbed the oppressive silence. Andrea remained still, straining every nerve, seeking to penetrate the darkness in front of her. Justus, too, stood perfectly still and tense beneath her, his ears pointed forward, his muzzle twitching as if trying to interpret some message through the thick, night air.

  The impatient side of Andrea told her it was “nothing but a noise”— that she should ride on. The optimistic side reinforced that thought, assuring her it was a Union patrol returning from a scout. But in a departure from the normal, the usually-suppressed wary side caused her to react. Dismounting in a flash, she dove toward the side of the road, slipping and sliding down a large bank with her horse right behind her. At the bottom, she stood in a thick mire of mud, her feet fast sinking. Within minutes, four shadows on horseback appeared above her, a mere ten feet away. They emerged so quickly from out of the darkness that Andrea had to blink to believe they were really there.

  She studied them. They looked to be the extreme advance of some body of cavalry, but their uniforms were so dust covered that even if it had been light enough to see, she doubted she could have discerned the color. They did not speak, but in ghostlike silence, simply moved away. She now saw the main body, about two dozen men, advancing behind them. They too moved in a quiet column that seemed almost unearthly in appearance.

  Andrea wanted to lift her feet from out of the bog and climb to higher ground, but instinct told her a rearguard might be coming. Within the blink of an eye, two horsemen stopped on the road above her, appearing out of nowhere just like the others had done. One had his hand in the air signaling a halt, and Andrea’s heart suddenly tumbled into her boots. She needed to see no uniform now. His athletic form upon the horse was unmistakable. And the familiar gray beast he rode stood out like a beacon in the night.

  Andrea’s legs took on the characteristics of a toddler, wobbling and on the verge of collapse. Hunter turned to look at the dark road behind them, his saddle creaking loudly against the stillness of the night. It seemed as if he had heard something, or perhaps just instinctively sensed danger was near. Turning back, he sat in silence for another moment, his head raised at a slight angle, appearing to sniff the air for signs of the enemy. She had often witnessed him take such precautions. Even when not in the heat of battle, he was ever mindful of the need to protect his men. It was not unusual to see him riding ahead of the battalion in daylight hours, exposing himself to any ambush. Likewise, he often served as rearguard at night when there was reasonable expectation for pursuit.

  Suddenly his horse put her head down, snorted, and pawed the ground.

  “Looks like Dixie smells a Yankee,” the man with the cigar said, a hint of scorn in his tone.

  “Yea, so do I.” Hunter turned again in his saddle. “We should be heading south soon, then on to Gainesville.” His voice was so low Andrea could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart.

  “Yup,” the man beside him answered, not even bothering to take the cigar from his mouth. “Got Yanks behind us and Yanks in front of us. Just the way you like it, Cap’n.”

  “I don’t much like taking this main road.” Hunter stood in his stirrups to stretch his legs. “I guess Dodge knows what he’s doing.”

  “Been dodging Yanks for quite a while now.” The other man laughed softly, scratching his ribs as he spoke. “We’ll no doubt be striking the rails soon—get off the road.”

  The captain nodded. “And ride right over whatever gets in our path.”

  The men urged their horses forward and Andrea strained to hear. “You hear back from—”

  Andrea held her breath, trying to hear the words that evaporated before they reached her. The last thing she made out was, “Thoroughfare Gap.” Then their voices and their images faded completely away.

  Andrea held onto Justus for support another moment to catch her breath. She must hurry to get to Gainesville. They were taking the tracks. She would take the road.

  In the past few minutes, the air had grown even heavier with the signs of a coming storm. But Andrea no longer thought about the one that brings rain.

  * * *

  Hunter and his men moved forward with some caution, yet they were unaware of any imminent danger. Hunter knew from captured dispatches that some outposts had been alerted of his presence, but he planned to accomplish his objective and be gone before they had time to organize any major assault. In the meantime, he would not pass by any opportunity favorable for harassing and distressing the enemy.

  “Might be getting a bit dangerous to git all the way over to Gainesville,” Carter said.

  “We cannot turn back now. They have some horses well suited for us.”

  Hunter relied on the Yankees to supply his men with quality horseflesh, and with good reason. Each man needed at least two mounts, and most had three due to the lively chases that often commenced on their excursions. He deemed no effort too large relative to the collection and welfare of horses. His men could fight on empty stomachs; in fact, he had come to learn they fought better that way. But horses must be acquired, fed, and rested at any cost and at any sacrifice.

  The report of gunfire suddenly shot through the midnight air.

  “Looks like we’re outgunned, outmanned and outnumbered, Captain,” one of his point riders reported as he came galloping back. “Appears to be an entire regiment of cavalry.”

  “Then it appears this is our lucky night,” Hunter said with his characteristic coolness. “Let’s teach the Yanks a lesson in loyalty they shall never forget.” He paused and looked into the eyes of the men gathered around him. He knew he could count on these unflinching veterans. They had been in tight spots before, and each knew how to react accordingly.

  “If each man here fights like ten,” Hunter said, “I am confident our odds will be almost even. Are you with me, men?” He did not wait for an answer before issuing the necessary orders as calmly as if discussing the weather, and then offered one last piece of advice.

  “Men, they do not know how many we are.” He kept his voice low but distinct. “Make them think we are many.”

  Despite not knowing what lay before them, Hunter’s men followed him through the darkness. In a maneuver that was certainly more bold than wise, they rushed toward the sound of gunfire, a small band of men making enough noise for a hundred.

  But it did not take long for Hunter to discover that what lay before him was more than a regiment of cavalry. Expecting Stuart and fearing Hunter, the Federal outposts had been strengthened to prepare for the worst. Hunter faced a unit of cavalry positioned only as bait. A regiment of infantry sat waiting to ambush them from the secure walls of an old warehouse not a hundred rods distant.

  As fate would have it, the Yankees opened fire at a point when only the sound of the fearsome rebel yell was in range, providing Hunter with ample warning of the danger.

  Ultimately, seeing the unevenness of the numbers and the unfairness in their positions, Hunter found a way to extricate his men from their perilous situation. With characteristic courage and coolness, he yelled four words in a loud, booming voice. “Bring up the artillery!”

  Yankees poured out of the building like so many ants spilling from an agitated anthill, while God Almighty seemed to simultaneously heed his call. For at that moment, the brewing storm hit like a hurricane, shaking the ground with claps of thunder and lashing the sky with brilliant bursts of lightning. To the Yankees, the very heavens appeared to be in league with Hunter. The artillery hurled from the sky that night was evidence to them of yet another weapon in the Confederate wizard’s arsenal.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Carter watched Hunter pace sullenly while he and the rest of the men waited out the storm in a thicket of cedars. He knew they were not done yet. With one plan thwarted, Hunter would feel obligated to try another. And indeed, it wasn’t long until Hunter ordered Carter to take charge of the group and m
eet up with a regiment already in place at Thoroughfare Gap.

  “Keep an eye out, Carter,” Hunter said before he galloped away. “I can feel it in my bones. There’s a battle near and soon.”

  Carter put his head down against the wind-driven rain and reflected on his commander. Had he met Hunter anywhere but on the battlefield, he would have thought him a gentleman of quality and breeding. He had a noble air about him, a manner and tone of voice that instantly riveted attention. Whether giving orders on the field of battle or merely conversing with his men, there was something in his voice that was irrefutably authoritative, a quality that instantly riveted attention. He appeared to exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all he met.

  Yet, in battle Hunter had no equal. The admiration he inspired in his comrades and the fear he aroused in his foes caused him to be adored or despised in legendary proportions. The gallant Hunter or the devil Hunter—it was all a matter of geography. But in Virginia, where he was considered the epitome of Southern honor and chivalry, it was just plain “Hunter,” a name itself equated to divine royalty.

  The veneration bestowed upon him was well deserved. Carter knew no heart burned more brightly with the fire of patriotism nor with more intrepid resolve than Hunter’s. It was obvious in the way he fought, aggressively, fearlessly, exposing himself to the enemy’s fire, never regarding his own personal peril. He led by example, his invincible form forever seen where the carnage was greatest, ever ready to risk his own life on behalf of the sacred soil he cherished.

  Even without a military background, Carter mused, Hunter had quickly taught the Yankee high-ups an important lesson. A captured dispatch said it best: “… trying to use a large, well-armed force to catch a small band of horsemen on their native soil is a bit like trying to catch a field mouse with a bear trap.”

  He’s taught me a lesson, too, Carter thought pensively. There’s not a man alive who knows more about what to do and where, nor when and how to do it, than Alexander Hunter.

 

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